by David Rogers
“What?”
“Viv . . . ian.” Bobo repeated thickly, slurring the name like his tongue and mouth didn’t want to cooperate.
Darryl clicked the knife closed without looking at it, thrusting it in his pocket as he turned. “Mat, go get Vivian. Now.” Door Mat took one look at the flat expression on Darryl’s face and bolted for the clubhouse. “You two, help me get him up.” Darryl told Zeebo and Burnout.
“He ain’t dressed.” Zeebo protested.
“He fucking sick.” Darryl snapped. “He our brother. It ain’t pleasant but I don’t fucking care. We ain’t leaving him out here with the shit.”
Burnout stepped up and reached in with Darryl, the two managing to grip the old biker’s arms and get him standing. Bobo staggered as they tried to get him out of the small wooden shed. His skin was slick from sweat, and he was tripping over his pants as they tangled around his ankles. They managed to pull him out onto the grass and Darryl spoke without looking.
“Zeebo, get the fuck over here and hold him the fuck up.”
Zeebo moved closer and took over supporting Bobo. Darryl knelt, turning his head to avoid staring, and pulled Bobo’s jeans and underwear back up from the sides. He didn’t bother with the zipper, he couldn’t make himself go that far just yet, but he did pull Bobo’s belt through so he could buckle it to keep the pants up. Bobo’s breathing was labored, and he was swaying between the two men.
“We gonna carry him over closer to the house.” Darryl said. “Get him by the shoulders, and don’t let his head flop around and fuck his neck up.”
The other two supported Bobo as Darryl lifted the founder’s ankles, and all three started walking toward the patio area. They were halfway back when Darryl saw Vivian appear at the back door, Door Mat right behind her. She ran to meet them.
“Put him down.” she said as she arrived.
“What, here?”
“Put him down.” Vivian ordered.
They complied and stood aside awkwardly as Vivian dropped to her knees next to Bobo and felt his forehead. “He burning up.”
“He ain’t . . .” Zeebo tried again, but still unable to complete the sentence.
“No, he ain’t.” Darryl said firmly. “This normal sick, not zombie sick.”
Vivian was holding some fingers against the side of Bobo’s neck. “DJ, go open up the back bedroom where all the medical stuff at. Get me the bag with the red cross on it.”
Darryl looked around. There were thirty people in view, and some were still in their chairs. He nodded unconsciously. “Everyone who feeling fucked up, come out here.” he shouted, gesturing at the center of the yard. “Anyone who okay, check the other two outhouses; there people in them. And check through the house too. See who else not doing good.”
People blinked at him, and Darryl’s mouth tightened. “Fucking now!” he roared.
Movement started, and Darryl jogged for the clubhouse. He went past the kitchen and turned down the little hallway that led to the bedrooms. The last one on the left had a latch with a padlock on it. Bobo had insisted on locking all the pharmaceuticals up to keep people from getting into them; kids as well as Dogz like Needles who were always looking for a good buzz. Only the designated ‘leaders’ had the combination.
Darryl had to try the dial three times before he managed to input it properly and pull the lock open. The room was barely lit, with only a rim of sunlight trickling in around the boards sealing the window shut, but he saw a big canvas shopping bag laying in the middle of the bed. Red marker had been used to draw a thick cross on it. Grabbing the bag, he hustled back down the hallway and outside.
People were cooperating with his instructions. Some chairs had been moved over to the middle of the yard, and the ‘hungover’ Dogz and others were sitting in them, or on the grass itself. Other Dogz were carrying PK and Tiny over from the outhouse. Tiny was damn near seven feet tall, and even though Tank, who was maybe two inches shorter than Tiny, was ‘bigger’, Tiny’s height still meant he was a heavy load. There was a Dog holding on to each of his limbs and they were still almost dragging him across the grass.
“Here.” Darryl said as he arrived back at Vivian’s side. She took the bag and dug through it to come up with a stethoscope and blood pressure cuff. He heard pill bottles rattling around in the bag, plus a bunch of other stuff he could only guess at. Lots of packages and little boxes of things. She started wrapping the cuff around Bobo’s arm. Darryl looked around while she worked, trying to figure out what was going on.
People were emerging from the clubhouse, some who looked okay, others who were moving slowly as if they were in pain or too tired to walk properly, and some who were leaning on someone. He counted quickly and came up with at least forty who looked like they weren’t doing too good. Twenty of the Dogz, the rest women consisting of girlfriends, ex-wives, a few actual wives, and Needle’s mom. And four children that he counted. His mouth tightened as he compressed his lips into a thin line.
Think. Fucking think damnit. He was supposed to be in charge now. His thoughts felt like they were stuck in neutral. He could feel his pulse thudding in his veins, feel his mind whirring away without getting any traction. He had to figure this out. What would Bobo do?
That settled it, and Darryl felt his gears finally start turning properly. Bobo didn’t stand around dithering. He fucking got on with it. Simple as that. Just do something.
“Aw man, that nasty.” Low complained as he staggered up supporting Big Chief.
“What?” Spider asked as he helped Kailyn sit down on the grass.
“He done shit his pants.”
“He ain’t the only one.” Emery said as she helped Yvette along.
“Right.” Darryl almost whispered. Looking around again, he started pointing and ordering, his voice loud and firm. “Evil, go wake EZ the fuck up and get him here. Goat, you start bringing them tents and shit we got stashed in the barn out. Tank, take the water bins down to the lake and get them filled up and back up here. Take three guys with you and don’t slack off on paying attention in case there any zombies wandering around.
“Everyone else, we need blankets and pillows and towels out here. All the air mattresses so our people ain’t laying on the ground. We gotta get some cover set up for them. They can’t go in the house; it too hot and if they shitting themselves we ain’t got time to clean the place out with that going on. We gonna get some shade in place so we see about helping them.”
A few of the Dogz and women started moving, but more were just standing. Some were staring at him, some were staring at the growing collection of groaning people, and a few just looked plain scared. Darryl counted to three, then opened his mouth again.
“Fucking move! Now! Get to it!”
His shout had the desired effect. People started heading in different directions, but no one was standing around anymore, and all of them were heading for somewhere that had something they could do.
Darryl dropped to one knee next to Vivian. She had the stethoscope in her ears, the little metal circle positioned on Bobo’s chest. The old biker’s breathing was still labored, even just laying there on the ground. A plastic probe looking thing was on the bag next to the blood pressure cuff at her side. He waited until she tugged the scope’s earpieces off and left it dangling from her neck.
“What wrong with him?” he asked quietly.
“I don’t know.” Vivian said, sounding scared and stressed. “I keep telling him I ain’t no damn doctor. I ain’t even no damn nurse.”
“You went to medical school didn’t you?”
“Medical assisting.” Vivian said sharply. “No one fucking listen. I about the lowest you can be. I know the basics, just the damn basics. I do what they tell me because they know how to figure it out and I don’t.”
Darryl nodded. “Viv, we ain’t got no one else. You it.”
She rummaged in the bag. “I know.” she said tightly. She pulled some pill bottles out and started looking at the labels. A couple slipped from her hands and
fell to the grass with a rattle, and she flinched. Darryl reached out and caught her wrists up.
“Take a breath.” he said firmly. “Take a long breath and let it out real slow.”
The same thing worked for shooting, because it calmed. It wasn’t possible to aim properly when your nerves and muscles were all knotted up and racing. He held on to Vivian as she closed her eyes and complied with his instruction. Darryl waited until she opened her eyes again. “Better?”
“Some.” she said, nodding slightly.
“Okay, so what do you know. Don’t worry about what you don’t yet, just tell me what you know.” Darryl released her and sat back a little on his haunch.
“He got a fever, one oh two, which ain’t good, but it could be worse. His pressure a little low at a hundred and five over seventy. Delirium, sweating, diarrhea.” she said like she was ticking off items on a list.
None of it made a whole lot of sense to Darryl. He generally knew what fever and sweating and the other symptoms she’d named were, but the numbers were meaningless. And he had no idea what all of them together could mean. “So, what might can cause all that?” he asked, keeping his tone reasonable.
“Shit.” Vivian started, then took another breath before beginning again. “Bad flu maybe. Systemic infection. Food poisoning.”
“What can you do about any of that?”
“I ain’t –” she said, then cut herself off again. A moment later she continued, her voice even once more. “I ain’t a doctor. I know there lab tests with blood and stuff that can check for things, but I don’t know how to do any of them, and we ain’t got no microscope or stuff for that anyway.”
Darryl nodded encouragingly. “We got drugs and shit. Any of that gonna help?”
“I guess.” she said as she looked at the bottles again. “Fever we treat with Tylenol, keeping the sun off them, and maybe cold packs and water. Sweating and diarrhea a problem because it dehydrate them, and that bad. They lay in the filth when they shit and that bad too, and if they can’t walk or move on their own keeping them cleaned up gonna be messy and hard. And we gonna need clean water with salt in it to keep fluids in them.
“I need to look through that book I grabbed from the pharmacy, the drug book. I weren’t taught how to diagnose and treat because I ain’t supposed to be doing any of that; it the doctor’s job. He does the figuring and the hard stuff that need a doctor, and the routine shit what I do. After he tell me.”
“What do you need?”
Vivian arranged the bottles in a little line on the grass next to the bag and sighed. “Tents help. Water help, but it gotta be boiled so it safe. Even just for washing them with. Swimming in bad water might not make you sick if you healthy, but once you come down with something, it ain’t gonna do you no favors. Gonna need a lot of water for this many people.”
Darryl nodded. “Okay. You pick anyone you want, anyone you think can help you start tending to folks. They all gonna do what you say, and if they don’t, send someone to fetch me or . . . Tank.” he said, running down the list of the leaders in his head. With Bobo and Big Chief down and out, he wanted Tank to backstop him.
“We gonna get tents and beds set up. We gonna start boiling water for you, and you tell us how much salt gotta go in it.” He thought for a minute. “There anything we can go out looking for that we ain’t got?”
“A doctor.” Vivian said immediately.
“That might not be possible. What else might help.” Darryl answered calmly, very calmly.
“I don’t know . . . medical books, but I don’t know where we’d find any out here. If the internet working somewhere, maybe that might help.”
“Okay.” Darryl said. “You get to work and do what you can.” He patted her on the shoulder, then rose and looked around as he started deciding what wasn’t being done yet.
* * * * *
Peter
“Swanson’s dead.”
Peter turned to face Crawford. Her expression was almost calm, but with a coldness that was telling. He considered her a moment then nodded. “I know. I figured as much. With no doctor on hand, there was only so much the medics could do to help him.” The Guardsman had taken several hits, including at least most of a load of shot from a shotgun. Maybe with a full doctor, or a trauma center, he might have pulled through.
Without, however, he had just lingered in a coma until the wee hours of the morning.
“It’s that asshole’s fault.” she said, flicking her eyes at Carlson. The senator stood against the wall with his fellow state congressmen, the families separated a short distance away. His fellows varied between worried and terrified, but Carlson’s mood had clearly settled into defiant anger once he’d seen the refugees moving about on the school’s athletic fields, settling into their first full day in their new home.
Peter had locked the ‘governor’ and his fellows in the small maintenance building near the main parking lot overnight, to give himself time to think. Now he had them out and under guard again, but found himself dithering still. Mendez, Nailor, and Barker were with him once more, guarding both the senators and covering the area while Peter thought.
“Gunny, what are you going to do?”
He sighed. As Sawyer had taken over and gotten the steadily arriving survivors busy on the tasks that needed doing, he’d been left with only this problem. He still wasn’t precisely sure what he wanted to do. Part of him knew the easiest solution would be to eject the senators with a strong warning to go anywhere they liked . . . so long as it was nowhere near Cumming.
Another part still seethed with anger over what the arrogant, selfish actions of the would-be ‘leader’ had wrought. It would probably take a lot of interviewing and guessing to know for sure, but there was no doubt people had died because of Carlson’s instructions.
Zombies had been a problem around the secondary sites before the refugees had managed to barricade themselves in. The other two hadn’t been hit as hard as South Forsyth, true, but they’d suffered some attacks. And the sealing of the other schools had certainly kept any newly detoured arrivals from joining. Those already present had been too afraid to lower their defenses.
Those who’d been turned away from everywhere they’d been told, rightly or wrongly, to go weren’t all going to end up in a safe place. He knew it in his heart. Anyone whose best plan had been to turn to what the government had told them to do wasn’t likely to be fully prepared for coming up with a new plan on their own. Some of them were going to make mistakes, and it only took one misstep when dealing with zombies.
That didn’t even count the inadequate food and lack of clean water, the overloaded waste facilities, or the press of unorganized bodies in the other sites that Sawyer’s limited staff were going to be weeks sorting out. He knew she was already having lists of needed medicine and materials drawn up to handle the mundane disease outbreak that was already visible in some of the new arrivals. People weren’t usually aware of it, but even something as seemingly innocuous as diarrhea could be fatal if severe enough, and left untreated.
Any way Peter wanted to look at this, no matter how lenient and forgiving he tried to be, he just couldn’t get past one simple fact. People were dead, and it was Carlson’s fault.
“Gunny, I’m talking to you.”
“I know. I’m still thinking.” he answered.
Crawford’s face flashed closer to outright anger. “What’s there to think about? All this is that fucker’s fault. I could give two shits about the stupid cops who were dumb enough to obey; they got what they deserved. Swanson’s dead, Oliver’s limping, and it looks like you’re pretty fucked up too. He’s got to answer for it.”
“I know.”
She reached for the M-16 slung behind her shoulder. “Great. Let’s get it over with then.”
“Crawford, just hang on.”
“Why?”
Peter finally met her gaze. “If we’re in as deep as we might be, then I guess there isn’t any good reason not to deal with him. Bu
t what if things get sorted out in a week or two? What then?”
She snorted in laughter devoid of any true humor. “You giving odds?”
“No, I suppose not.” Peter shook his head, thinking of how the radios were still silent, how the power was still out, and how this FEMA camp was the closest they’d seen to any sort of actual organized relief since everything had gone to hell.
“You don’t have to do it. I’m happy to.”
“It doesn’t matter who pulls the trigger. It’ll still be on me.”
“It matters to me who does the shooting.” Crawford replied angrily. “If sweetness and light descend back upon us, I’ll take the rap. I want to do it. It needs doing.”
“I’m senior. It’s still my responsibility.”
Crawford studied him for a moment, then looked down. When she looked back up a moment later he was surprised to see her eyes were wet. She wasn’t exactly crying, but the tears were there even if they weren’t falling as she spoke in a level tone.
“Swanson was my friend. We’ve known each other since we both got out of boot. I like palling around with you and the others, but he was my friend.” she said flatly. “Now he’s gone, and it wasn’t random and it wasn’t just one of those things like happened to everyone else in the unit down in Atlanta. It’s that motherfucker’s fault.”
She pointed past Peter at Carlson. He knew without turning who she was singling out.
“Now I’m not going to tell you what to do, but if Carlson walks out here then so do I. Right after him.”
Peter sighed, but as he considered her he knew she meant every word. “And then what?”
“How’s that?”
“You track him down and take him out. Then what?”
Crawford shrugged. “I’ll figure something out. Not like it’ll matter all that much.”
“It’ll matter to us.”
“Hah!” she shook her head. “Don’t give me that. I’m not an easy person to get along with. I fucking get that. I’m rude and abrasive and I like to run my mouth.”
“And you’re full of yourself, overly confident, and can be a real bitch more than anything else, but you’re one of us.” Peter added.