by JT Sawyer
Mitchell’s thoughts shifted back to the present as he heard his two senior fighting men approaching. Deacon and Jeffers were former marines imprisoned for treason and smuggling. They were reliable warriors and independent thinkers unlike the other inmates who followed him like loyal lapdogs seeking their master’s approval. Most importantly these two soldiers were skilled in fighting tactics and had extensive combat experience before being incarcerated. Besides these two, he had eight other men who were former army or marines with combat experience that he had assigned as his sergeants. Under these leaders were another one hundred that Mitchell had been training in small-unit tactics and marksmanship. He deemed them his alpha teams and afforded them better privileges, food, and weapons than the rest of his underlings. They would serve as a strike force once his new plans were in place.
As the two men approached, Mitchell stood and waved a finger at the map. “What do either of you know about the road to the Grand Coulee Dam and surrounding regions?”
“Nothing, boss,” said Deacon while Jeffers merely nodded. Mitchell allowed both men to dispense with military formalities around him when they met. “But I can inquire with the men to see if anyone grew up in that area.”
“Gentlemen, this is the next front, perhaps the most significant real estate we will need to acquire for any further expansion to be fruitful. The Grand Coulee Dam has three power plants which have enough juice to provide a city like Seattle with energy for a year. We take that and Fort Lewis and our esteemed Secretary of Defense Conrad Lavine will fall.”
“But wouldn’t Fort Lewis already have a contingent of troops there to safeguard that resource?” said Jeffers, who adjusted the camo ballcap on his shaved head, his eyes staring ahead while he stroked his wispy goatee.
“Contingent is the key word. From what I’ve gleaned from our scouting patrols on the roads who’ve interrogated survivors who strayed from those regions, Lavine and his band of soldiers are stretched thin,” said Mitchell, pressing both hands around the image on the map in the shape of a triangle and pressing his face close like a jeweler inspecting a fine emerald. “Direct action against Lewis at this stage is too risky but if we take the dam we will control the greatest power source in the northwest and cripple their future capabilities thus breaking that fool Lavine’s mighty grip on this region.”
“What do you propose we do? Our numbers are too few to go up against the troop base that Lewis can muster in response to an assault on the dam,” said Jeffers.
“Leave that part to me.” He walked to the window and looked out at the gray clouds which resembled an ashtray. “What I need is to have the men harvest a few dozen more of the fast-moving mutants, increase the daily quota of undead the men have been collecting in the semi-trucks, and intensify the small-unit drills here. I want our alpha teams on standby for their upcoming relocation—I have a ranch in mind a few hours from here that will need to be cleared to provide us with a forward operating base for the mission ahead.”
“Copy that, boss,” said Deacon. “We’ll get right on it.”
As the two men turned to leave, Mitchell raised his hand. “And one more thing—bring me a woman from the group of captives, someone with spirit.” The door closed, leaving Mitchell alone in the comfort of his own mind where he felt most at ease. He had no desire to be in the presence of a woman. He despised the thought of touching another person except through the rush of extracting information from an unwilling subject. The thought of someone being so close to him was distressing. But he had to put on a façade for his men and there had been no shortage of disposable female candidates abducted from nearby settlements.
Chapter 8
Carlie looked at the note from Shane a fourth time and then at her watch, which revealed she had only an hour. She quickly showered and changed then strode upstairs, past the cafeteria to the end of the hallway. She knocked on the door to the lounge but got no response. She opened it and slowly entered the dimly lit room, making out a silhouette of a person standing in the corner, his arms folded. She instinctively placed her hand on the folding knife in her pocket while inhaling a pleasant aroma of pasta that saturated the air.
“Welcome to La Restaurante de Shane, my good lady.” Shane moved forward from the shadows into the glow of candles illuminating the decorated table in the middle of the room. The table was set for two with a steaming bowl of noodles, spaghetti sauce, and rehydrated beef. Alongside it were assorted dishes of crackers, cheese, and two goblets of wine.
She straightened up, walking inside and closing the door. A smile began creeping out, peeling back her ever-present warrior exterior and revealing a side of herself she barely knew.
“I know we had a dinner date once in Tucson after we first met on some inter-agency event but I always hoped we could pick things up again someday. I’ve decided that the time has come.” He smiled and motioned with his hand to the table.
“Did you now?”
He pointed to her hand on the folding blade. “And this is a crime-free zone, at least for tonight, so you can ease up on your weapon there, Agent Simmons—or may I call you Carlie.”
She eased off her defensive posture and moved forward, slapping him on the arm. “You are something. I didn’t anticipate this move.” She looked at the food and surroundings which had been neatly arranged. “I’ve seen how you grill food in the field—did you have some help with this meal from Eliza or Matias or am I to assume that you undertook this operation on your own?”
“Oh, you’ve never tasted cooking like this before, I assure you.” He reached for her arm and escorted her into her chair. “Plus the dessert of rehydrated ice-cream will have you pleading for more.”
“More what—Tums?” she said, laughing.
“Now, now—you go easy on ole Shane. I had to make these room reservations way in advance and barter some of my contraband tequila to Duncan.”
“Ugh, great, does anyone else know about this other than all of our friends and colleagues?” She held up her wine glass as he poured in some chardonnay.
She looked around at the setting once more and up at his beaming face. “Well, good sir, it’s all very impressive and very surprising—you totally caught me off guard and that’s not easy to do.”
Shane tilted his head. “No—no it’s not. I thought that if this didn’t work or you came in the door, guns ablaze, doing a room sweep, that things might turn out differently. But here we are,” he said, sitting down opposite her, his face fully illuminated by the candles. Carlie hesitated to drink as her eyes widened at Shane’s smooth facial features. “Dear Lord, you even shaved. Why Shane Colter, I almost didn’t recognize you.”
He rubbed his chin and then held up his glass. “A toast then, to new appearances, a hot meal for a change, and great company.”
She tapped glasses with him, emitting an easy smile, her eyes drifting over his jawline and down his shoulders. Carlie took a sip and then set her glass down. “You know the last time we did this in Tucson, you left me to pay my portion of the bill. Did it ever occur to you that that’s maybe why there wasn’t a second date?”
Shane arched his back and leaned into his chair. “Now wait a minute, I offered to pay, I even grabbed the bill, but you were like, ‘No, my agency will cover my part of the tab as I’ll just say this was a business meeting.’”
She rested her hands under her chin. “Hmm, was that what happened? I can barely remember, though I do recall just how charming you looked dressed in that blue button-down shirt with the flared collar.”
“Hey at least I didn’t travel with a steam iron in my vehicle so I could press my work clothes between coffee breaks like you Secret Service types,” he said, chuckling as he served her a portion of the pasta on a white ceramic plate.
They both started eating. After he swallowed his first mouthful, Shane’s cheeks grew flushed and he scratched his throat as if a hot coal was lodged there. He tilted his head up and squinted his watery eyes then reached for the glass of wine, emptying its
contents and quickly refilling his glass for another swig.
“Whew—you must have real Italian blood in you,” Carlie said, waving her hand across her mouth and trying to swallow gracefully without drawing attention to her burning tongue. “This is some sauce.” She grabbed her wine and quietly swished it around in her mouth, trying to quell the flames on her taste buds.
Shane looked at the jar of spaghetti sauce on the counter and then back at Carlie as he let out an embarrassed smile. “Tell you what—why don’t we just skip to dessert instead? I think I must’ve added in too much oregano or something but I promise that the chocolate mousse is out of this world.”
“You’re on,” she said eagerly, pushing the plate of pasta to the side.
As the candles burnt down and the shadows shortened, the two of them continued on through the evening, joking and exchanging quips about their past jobs, politics, and recent missions together, laughing like old friends gathered around the campfire. Carlie often found herself staring in admiration at Shane as he recounted some adventure from his days with the SEALs. Several times, she felt like reaching across the table and pulling his lips towards hers but that veneer of desire was tempered by a bastion of self-control whose walls she couldn’t seem to breach.
With the wine bottle nearly depleted and candles nearing their end, they retreated to the couch and sat down facing each other while continuing to talk. Carlie knew Shane was interested in more—she had always known but she had made her immersion in her work, and later her survival, push her recognition of it into the trapdoor recesses of her own heart.
As Shane set his empty wine glass down, he rested his hand upon hers. She twitched slightly, her fingers scrunching up and then relaxing while she cleared her throat. You’re a grown woman—how old are you again, 34, so just relax. You’re entitled to a nice evening. These thoughts pulsed through her head, made light by the wine, until she found herself reaching back and interlacing her fingers with Shane’s.
He moved closer, brushing his other hand across the side of her face, sliding her blond hair back over her ear. She smiled at him, looking into his hazel eyes, but then found herself wavering and looked away. Carlie pulled back slightly and looked at her watch, forcing out a gruff exhale. “It’s late and I have to prep for tomorrow’s, uhm, training activities.”
She began to sit up but Shane held onto her hand, grasping it with both of his. “Carlie, won’t you stay a while longer? We have a few days off to just relax—be ourselves for a change—and spend time with each other.”
Carlie looked down at his rugged hands and then into his face, the fading candlelight etching the furrows in his tan cheeks even further. She found herself pivoting on her toes, like a swimmer on a wobbly diving board, preparing for a plunge into the unknown. The warmth of his touch felt so good—it had been so long since she felt such a connection and to a man she cared for deeply. But tentacles of fear shot through her like lightning before the arrival of a thunderstorm. She glanced around the room and back at him. “This, uhm, this has been amazing, Shane. I just, uh, I really had a nice time but I should go.” She slowly extracted her hand and walked to the door, turning to give him a warm smile and running her hand through her hair as she turned the handle.
“OK,” she said, trying to convince herself of her resolve. “See you tomorrow.” She waved self-consciously as she retreated into the hallway.
Chapter 9
In the armory the next morning, while Shane was running through an inventory of his team’s weapons and ammunition, he heard Matias and Eliza enter the room. He turned his back to them, examining the barrel of an MK-12 rifle.
“So how’s mi amigo doing on this fine morning?” said Matias, grabbing the back of Shane’s shoulder with both hands in a congratulatory rub.
Shane just grumbled, “I’d rather not talk about it.”
Matias looked back at Eliza, who hunched her shoulders up.
“So, she showed up and you two had dinner, right?” Matias said.
“Yeah, we had dinner,” he said, shoving the rifle back on the rack. “We had dinner and everything was going just fine—and then she had to go all of a sudden, had to prep for today’s training activities.” He raised his fingers to claw out air quotes at the last two words.
Matias and Eliza both stepped back, crossing their arms and trying to hold back their discomfort at the awkward situation. Shane turned around and grabbed the same rifle off the rack to re-inspect it.
Eliza cleared her throat. “You know, Carlie can be very stubborn and…” Before she could finish Shane cut her off, turning around with a greasy rag in his hand that he kept squeezing in his right hand. “‘Stubborn’ is too kind a word for that woman. She’s a thick-headed, steel-vaulted…” He stopped, his face red and his jaw clenching. He threw the rag at the wall and walked off.
“Fuckin’ soap opera I’m livin’ in,” he muttered as he stomped up the steps.
Matias watched him walk away and then glanced back at Eliza. “Those two just gotta stop putting hurdles in their way.”
Eliza placed the rifle back on the rack. “I suspect it’s mostly Carlie, and she’s probably tripping over some of her own in this case.”
Chapter 10
Inside the infirmary on the second floor of the prison, Doctor Benjamin Holcomb was finishing the last stitches on the cervical region of his patient. Holcomb was hunched forward, his bifocals barely clinging to the tip of his glistening, oily nose. A few strands of floss-like hair hung over his balding head and his miniscule eyebrows kept scrunching together as he completed the final knot in the suture.
“The anesthetic is going to be wearing off soon,” said the lanky assistant on the far side of the operating table.
“Yes, yes. I’m nearly done here so everything should be fine. This procedure went much smoother than the last one, wouldn’t you say.”
The man just grinned, exposing his missing front teeth. “Good thing there’s no longer any insurance companies to worry about, eh.”
Holcomb’s unconscious patient was face down, the cheeks resting on a donut-shaped pad, allowing the mouth and nose to remain unobstructed. A slight moan emanated out from the space below the headpiece and the fingers began twitching, the hands secured by leather straps to the sides of the table. As Holcomb finished snipping the end of the remaining suture, he leaned back in his swivel stool and stretched his stiff shoulders. “Only two more surgeries to go and then it’s dinner time. The rest of them I’ll finish tomorrow. ”
He heard footsteps approaching and he turned to see Mitchell entering, flanked by two thugs. “Dinner will have to wait. I am speeding up the timeline. I need all of your work completed by tonight.
The two henchmen covered their mouths with their sleeves and then stepped back out, closing the door behind them. Mitchell strode forward and leaned over to inspect the doctor’s handiwork. “How long before this one is ambulatory and ready for action, Doctor?”
Holcomb always delighted in hearing his title echo off the walls of the operating room. He held back a crooked smile, wondering if Mitchell was just trying to flatter him with a designation he had been formerly stripped of for killing two patients on one of his drunken binges. Those days seemed so distant now that he had been put in charge as chief medical officer of the prison, free to dispense his own brand of healthcare without a meddling oversight committee.
Holcomb tossed the suturing implements on the soiled cart beside his patient and then clumsily removed his latex gloves. After dropping them on the blood-stained floor, he removed his spectacles and rubbed his weary eyes.
“The meds will wear off shortly so we should get going on the next surgery. I just need ten minutes to stretch and retrieve a few things from my office.”
“A swig of vodka does not a steady hand make,” said Mitchell, folding his arms against the shoulder holsters on either side of him as his six-foot-four frame towered over the doctor. “You’ve got five minutes. One of my guards will accompany you t
o make sure your little respite doesn’t take a wrong turn. I need you sober to complete the rest of these implants.”
Holcomb swallowed hard and looked away. He knew that his skills were unique amongst the other prison inmates but he also knew from the mass grave outside of the prison that Mitchell was ruthless in his quest for power. He could be decidedly cool at times and then the next minute he would slit the throat of the man beside him because he coughed. The man was predictable to a point until his sadistic shadow-self wrestled control away from the otherwise charismatic leader that he presented to the inmates.
“He’s coming around, Doctor,” muttered the assistant, who took a step back.
“It’s not a he…it’s not even an it,” said Mitchell. “This is an abomination of nature, a cruel design, but thank God for anomalies.”
The doctor pushed his rolling stool to the right. His eyes widened at the sight of the writhing mutant on the table which was stirring back to its former alertness. Its hissing filled the tight confines of the room and its smooth yellow skin glowed like the exoskeleton of a scorpion under a black light.
Mitchell moved forward and flipped the diminutive switch on the device imbedded into the cervical region. It produced a red blip which began flashing. He reached over to the sliding table beside him and removed a device that resembled a small walkie-talkie, twisting on the control knob.
“Is this pre-programmed?” Mitchell snapped at Holcomb.