Redaction: Dark Hope Part III

by Linda Andrews

  Mavis swallowed the bile in her throat. He was right, damn him. “I’m going to get checked out while I’m here.”

  His lips twitched. “About time.”

  The fathead thought he’d won. He had another think coming. “Then you’ll brief me on whatever covert op you’re running.”

  Easing her to the side, he slipped passed her. “Excuse me, Doc. I gotta see a man about a chicken.”

  “I see a chicken right here,” she muttered to his back.

  Without a backward glance, he pushed open the vestibule doors.

  Jerk. Taking a deep breath, she scanned the room. First, she’d make the rounds then she’d get the nurse off to herself and arrange a physical. Planting a smile on her face, she walked to the nearest patient.

  *

  Mavis helped Mrs. Bancroft from the bed. “No, ma’am I didn’t know that about pigs. Makes me glad I don’t have to deal with them.”

  Mrs. Bancroft cradled her arm against her body. “Ah, they’re all right. Stop by and see us. I’ll introduce you to Cocoa. She’s a real sweetie.”

  “I’ll do that,” Mavis promised, walking Mrs. Bancroft to the door. In front of her, Eddie held the door open for the nurse and Audra. Crap. The nurse was leaving and she hadn’t had a chance to arrange a checkup. Folding her arms across her chest, she watched the doors close behind them.

  Now she was stuck with Johnson.

  As former military, he wouldn’t hesitate to tattle on her to Lister. She finger-combed her hair out of her face. Of course, there wouldn’t be anything to tell since she was perfectly healthy. Right. And Cocoa the shoe-eating pig just sprouted wings and was soaring around the caves.

  Johnson smoothed the fresh sheets over the hospital bed. “You ready?”

  “Is it that obvious?”

  “Lister’s been after me for days to make a house call.” Johnson patted the bed. “Let’s take a look.”

  Bracing her hands on the bed, she hoisted herself up. The sheet bunched as she slid back. “I’ve been feeling tired lately.”

  Cool fingers checked the glands under her neck. “Not sleeping well?”

  “I’ve been sleeping like the dead but it’s not productive. I still wake up tired.” And cold, especially since David had left.

  “Hmmm.” He unwound the stethoscope from his neck. “Any coughing, runny nose, fever?”

  “Fever.” She inhaled then held her breath as directed. “But that’s normal when I’m not getting enough sleep. I don’t have the other symptoms.”

  “Lungs and heart sound clear.” He shuffled back and recorded the results on his tablet computer.

  She knew that. “Can you do a blood work up with a tox screen?”

  Straightening, he glanced at her. “You think you’re being drugged?”

  “The drugs are locked up tight and no one has reported any missing.” At least, not that Lister had said. They definitely had to work on their communication skills. “I want you to look for poison.”

  The tablet clattered onto the table. “Poison?”

  “It’s a possibility.” Not a pleasant one, but one she needed to consider and it would explain her symptoms. “Arsenic, lead and other heavy metals are in the water dripping around us. I could be absorbing some of them through my skin.”

  And that was only the accidental mode of entry.

  Johnson swayed on his feet. “Holy mother of God. Then everyone—”

  “Yes. And children are especially vulnerable.” Which made her delaying diagnosis a bit selfish. What kind of person put protecting the job above the needs of the people?

  He popped open cabinets and raked out syringes and sterile baggies. “Does Lister know?”

  “I don’t want to mention it unless it’s a sure thing.” It was the man’s own fault. If he’d talked to her in private instead of avoiding her, she would have told him. Eventually. Definitely a communication problem.

  “O—kay.”

  Apparently, the general would learn about it the minute she left the infirmary. Leaning forward, she picked up the tablet and scanned her medical files. Pages and pages of her injuries. Links to the investigations into her shooting and stabbings at the hands of despots. Jack’s face appeared—bruised, beaten, parts of his skull missing. Her late husband had traded his life for hers. Her breath lodged in her throat.

  Johnson glanced at her. “You okay?”

  She swiped at the tears and flipped to another page. “You do know this falls under doctor-patient confidentiality, don’t you?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” His ears turned bright red. He focused on writing out labels.

  “And while you’re not a doctor, I’m holding you to it.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  She scanned her procedure record. Her finger hovered above the tablet. Oh, no. Nonononono. Her implant had been removed when she’d been admitted to the hospital for her injuries. Had she known? She vaguely remembered something. Damn.

  “Ma’am?” Wheels squeaked. Johnson stood before her, a syringe in hand. “You’ve gone pale. Are you feeling ill?”

  “Yes.” She dropped the tablet on the bed next to her and swallowed hard. This could not be happening to her. Not now. But dammit, it explained everything too. She jumped off the bed. The world tilted for a moment.

  Johnson rested his hand on her arm, steadied her. “Perhaps—”

  “Bathroom.” She scanned the cabinets, looking for one in particular. There, third on the left. She moved toward it.

  “Through the double doors.”

  Right. She knew that. Mavis stopped in front of the cabinet and threw open the door. She grabbed the self-test off the shelf.

  Johnson’s eyes widened.

  “This will not be reported or I will shoot you myself, do you understand?”

  He grinned. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “I’m serious, Mr. Johnson. I will torture you before I kill you.”

  The oaf laughed and tossed her a sterile cup. “Since you’re going, I’ll need a specimen.”

  She caught the pee-cup with her free hand and stomped to the facilities. How flipping embarrassing. She should have grabbed the nurse and hauled her back here. A woman would be more understanding.

  “Wipes are on the tank.”

  She flipped him the flightless bird and slammed the door. This was not happening to her. She was forty-two for Christ’s sake. Two minutes later, the plus sign appeared in the little window.

  She was pregnant.

  Chapter Fifteen

  The sky was cracked. David stared through the brown pine needles at the white cloud with a giant fissure running through it. Black lines appeared in the gunmetal gray covered conveyor on his right. Not the stupid sky, his visor was cracked. Damn, the fall had knocked the sense right out of him. Time to stop seeing shapes in the clouds and get back to work. He rolled to his side and pain lanced his skull. Fuckin’ A. Move your ass, Sergeant-Major. This isn’t a day at the beach.

  A beaver decayed inches from his nose.

  More would die if he didn’t shut that hatch.

  Manny. Robertson. Mavis. He ordered his left arm to push him up. It refused. What the hell? He tried to wiggle his fingers. Nothing doing. He shunted the pain to the side and did a mental inventory. His left shoulder was wet, drenched with liquid.

  It also hurt like hell.

  Apparently, the fall had given him more than a broken visor. Show the idiot what else he’s won with his klutzy dismount, Bob. David pushed with his right hand and levered into a sitting position. Something flat and smooth rolled down his chest to land on his thigh. He groped the object. Rectangular with a neck.

  Lister’s brandy.

  Wetness spread into David’s crotch. He snorted. He’d take a broken bottle over a bloodied shoulder any day. He pushed it up his chest, but couldn’t quite get it in his pocket through the suit and gloves.

  He tried his left fingers again. Still uncooperative. His damn shoulder was probably dislocated. Again. It seemed to be its favori
te injury. He let go of the bottle, felt it slide down.

  Making a fist of his left hand, he used his right to hold his forearm at a ninety degree angle across his stomach. Gritting his teeth, he slowly rotated his arm out. His vision dimmed from the pain. Oh, yeah. He remembered this bit. What had he promised God the last time? His right testicle? Damn. He couldn’t give up the left.

  When his forearm was almost perpendicular to his side, the joint slid back in.

  Relief flooded him and he cradled his arm against his gut. Thank God. He checked his testicles. Yep, both present and accounted for. Bracing his hand on a boulder, he pushed to his feet.

  The bottle thunked against the top of his boot.

  “Stay.” Moisture dripped into his sock. “Good bottle.”

  Turning his head, he scoped out his surroundings. Snow. Dead trees. Barely visible through the skeletal branches, the greenhouses farther down the mountainside. And the boxy covered conveyor snaking up the mountain. He had to secure that hatch.

  Shuffling over the rocky ground, he reached the belt and yanked on the lever. The door opened further. Obviously pressure was required.

  Taking a deep breath, he rested his bruised shoulder against the hatch and pushed. Goddamnfuckingshit. He gagged on his lunch. His day just kept getting better. Of course, this was the apocalypse.

  Holding his breath, he wrenched the lever home.

  Too bad he didn’t have a welding torch handy. He ducked under the conveyor, heading for the entrance. Brown pine needles splintered the snow. His footfalls punched holes in the pristine white blanket. There would be no hiding his tracks. The entrance came into view. He stopped in the shadows of the tree line and scanned the area. No one in sight, just the trampled path. Holding his arm, he sprinted for the opening.

  Soon, he could start hunting the bad guys.

  Adrenalin warmed him. Twenty feet. At fifteen, he reached the trail of slush. Mud splashed up his legs and sucked at his shoes. At ten feet, he veered to the left, aiming for the spot of wall to the left of the door. Gravel slid under his boots. He stopped inches short of slamming into the building.

  Damn it felt good to be out. The light above the double glass and lead doors shone green. Flattening against the corrugated steel, he inched closer to the embedded window then peeked inside.

  Empty.

  Good. He opened the door. The seal broke with a hiss and red light painted the white walls. Backing into the decontamination vestibule, he scanned the treeline. No sign of the farmers.

  When the door shut, water sprayed from the nozzles on the ceiling. He scrubbed at the mud on his gloves and suits. Pine needles and curled leaves swirled down the two-inch drains.

  First, he’d report in to Lister.

  Then he’d find Quartermain.

  The showers tapered off to a slow dribble. His leg twitched. Come on. Come on. He clamped down on his impatience. Given how bat-shit crazy the Geiger counter had gone in the storeroom, the precautions were necessary. The air handlers kicked on, pressing the helmet against his head and shoving the moisture into fat droplets down his suit.

  After a couple minutes, the locks opened onto the next room. Shaking his fingers to remove any stray drops, he opened the next door. White paint peeled off the rock walls of the closet-sized space. He quickly stripped out of his suit, set his used oxygen tank on the empties rack and hung the hood and suit on pegs.

  The scent of soap competed with the stench of brandy. He carefully placed the cracked bottle on the floor then shucked off the rest of his clothes and added them to the hamper. Grabbing the brandy, he stalked into the showers. Pink curtains circled four compartments. He stepped into the first one and twisted on the hot taps.

  Cold water hit his naked skin. Son of a bitch! What happened to the heater? He danced in and out of the spray while soaping his body and the liquor bottle. The curtain plastered against his wet skin whenever he touched it. God, he hated this part of decon. Instead of a two-minute shower, he’d gotten the scrub down to one minute.

  He slapped off the taps, shook off the excess water and reached for a towel. Bare chrome brushed his fingers. Setting his hands on his hips, he stared at the ceiling. Of course, a towel would be too much to ask for. Scraping the water from his skin, he retrieved his cameras from the extra tank pouch and marched into the changing room.

  A wall made of welded hoods of several cannibalized Army trucks divided the twelve-foot wide space in half. Rosie the Riveter smiled at him from the curtain on the right. Tropical fish swam across the other. He moved through the fish into the men’s side. Frayed, worn jeans and shirts hung on freestanding coat racks scattered throughout the narrow room. Two folding chairs rusted near the wall. He grabbed his pants off the rack, dumped the cameras into a pocket and stepped inside. Once zipped, he stuffed the bottle into his waistband and tightened the drawstring.

  A soft whine whispered past his ears. Scratching followed.

  David stilled. That had better not be who he thought.

  “Shep?” Balancing on one bare foot, he slipped on a sock and boot.

  The dog woofed.

  Of course, it would be the German shepherd. He quickly stomped into the rest of his footgear and tied the laces. Grabbing his shirt and jacket, he strode toward the door, dressing as he went. “You’re going to give me away.”

  Another whine.

  He tossed open the door.

  Sprawled across the exit, the dog thumped his tail.

  He could swear Shep grinned. Hell, the dog probably considered David avoiding him was some sort of game. Too bad the consequences were too high. “We talked about this. You can’t keep following me.”

  Shep stretched, flashed his claws before rising and ducking his head under David’s hand.

  He sunk his fingers into the thick fur then scratched behind the dog’s ears. “I’m serious. You have to guard Mavis.”

  Shep’s ears twitched. A second later, muscle and sinew bunched under David’s palm and the German shepherd growled.

  His hand fell to his side. Damn, he’d left his knife in his room. He hooked the bottleneck and yanked it out of his pants. Shifting to the side, he waited for the threat to appear before he broke the bottle and attacked.

  Lister strolled around the corner. Anger glittered in his blue eyes. “Where the fuck have you been?”

  Guess he wasn’t the only one having a shitty day. David straightened, let his hand fall to his side. Too bad it wasn’t going to get better soon. “Our targets have another way inside base camp, Sir.”

  “Repeat that.” Lister’s lips peeled back, showing an impressive amount of molars.

  Shep pressed against David’s leg.

  “Our targets are using an access panel in the covered conveyor to enter through the main dining hall. Radiation spiked at dangerous levels from the melted snow they left behind.”

  Lister let loose a string of swearwords that doubled Robertson’s record. The red light above the dressing-room door blinked on. Company was coming. Pivoting on his boot heel, he marched down the hall.

  Clasping his hands behind his back, David followed his superior. “It’s currently sealed, but not secure.”

  Shep’s nails clicked on the stone as he trotted behind them.

  “I’ll get Michaelson on it.”

  He nodded. Michaelson was an ace mechanic. If anyone could find a way to make sure access was severely limited, the private from his former unit could. “The targets also raided the gardens. No one will be having French fries or tomatoes tonight.”

  They turned down a tunnel, heading toward the storerooms. Colors and numbers indicated the level, but no one provided a ‘you are here’ map. Strings of fluorescent bulbs dotted the passageway. Here and there, plywood and metal secured dead-ends of the mine system.

  “How many bastards are there?”

  “Three were in the greenhouse.”

  “Identities?”

  “Just one positive.”

  Lister’s nostrils flared. “One?”


  Fishing the cameras out of his pants’ pocket, David squared his shoulders. “They wore their hoods into the greenhouse, preventing me from seeing their faces.” But he would remember their voices. He held out the cameras for his superior. “Sally might be able to ID the others from these.”

  Voice recognition was just as good as facial identification.

  Grunting, Lister took the cameras. “Who is the positive?”

  “Justin Quartermain.”

  Lister’s eyebrows disappeared in his hairline. “Another reason to keep this from the Doc. She’d thought she’d finally got through to the boy.”

  David swallowed the rebuttal. Keeping things from Mavis was wrong. Technically, she was their superior. Morally, she needed to know—old man Quartermain had extracted her promise that she’d look after the kid. “There’s more, Sir. The bastards are planning something to be carried out within the next seven days.”

  “They’ve already struck.” A vein throbbed in Lister’s square jaw. “The assholes blew up one of the atom splitters using our C-4.”

  Fuck. Anymore operations like that and everyone could die. What the hell was their agenda?

  “And they’ve called for elections.” Pausing at the tee in the tunnels, Lister pulled the cameras from his pocket and stared at them.

  David clenched his jaw. After everything she’d done for them, this was her payback. He eyed the corridor leading to Mavis. He should be at her side. She might need him. “So it is personal?”

  “They left a decapitated chicken on the desk in her room.” Lister retrieved his brandy bottle.

  “Fuck me.” David cracked his knuckles. Right after he checked on Mavis, he’d beat the names out of Quartermain. This had to end sooner rather than later.

  “Robertson and Sunnie donated it to the cookpot. Chef Jardin was none too pleased, and I don’t think she bought into their story that it was crushed by a horse and had to be put down.”

  At least, one of the good guys had found it first. Option B didn’t even bear thinking about.

  “Use Quartermain to infiltrate the group, Sergeant-Major. We’ve got to have a man inside.”