by SP Durnin
Sometimes, things wouldn't go right if you paid them, Jake thought.
"Tell us."
It was bad.
After George finished they were all silent for a while.
"Can I have that for a minute?" Allen motioned for the bottle.
His friend gave it over and the mechanic took a drink, then another, before handing it back to him.
Jake swallowed another mouthful himself and corked it. "What you're saying is that we're on our own."
Allen hung his head, looked at the floor, and then smiled at Jake ruefully. "Figures. You finally meet a really cool girl, then Armageddon comes down the pipe. Man, that blows…"
Jake was frowning, his eyes far away. He looked at George and asked, "How long?"
Foster rubbed his chin and considered it. "Water's no problem. The gravity system's good for at least four or five years. The battery bank and solar panels for eight. I've got lots of spare long-life bulb replacements. Plenty of cleaning solutions, most of which can be used as soap and disinfectants in a pinch. Medical kit's in good shape even with the eleven of us. The problem is…"
"Food," Jake said. "We've only got enough for...three more months?"
"Four. If were careful," George confirmed.
"We'd all starve to death long before anyone got to us," Allen said, bitterly. "If they ever did."
Jake stared at the materials on the table. The look on his face went thoughtful as he traced the lines from Ohio to the Rockies. Roughly two-thousand miles. Four months of food. A massive assortment of automatic weapons, rifles and ammo. Tools and supplies versus time and numbers.
"We've going to have to save ourselves."
The other two men gaped at him.
"We can make it to the Rockies," he said. "We just need transportation. We avoid population centers, stick to small towns and back roads. With people running for their lives during the outbreak, there's going to be a lot of food still in farmhouses, small town general stores, even gas stations. We could make it."
Allen was looking at him like he'd lost his mind. "Oh, sure!" he said, brimming with false enthusiasm. "We just need an RV to carry us all, a dump truck for the supplies, an armored car for when we have to push our way through the dead with a damn snowplow on the front, and oh yeah! A wrecker to move any stalled cars out of the way! Other than that we're fine..."
"Allen we're going to have to find a way," he insisted. "You like Heather, right?"
"Of course I do!" he bristled. "I like everyone here! Well, except for Nichole. And maybe Mike."
"Could you watch her starve to death?"
Allen looked scared for the first time Jake could remember since high school. "No. No, I couldn't do that."
"I won't let that happen to Laurel," Jake said, resolution burning in his eyes. "Or you. Or Kat. Or Gertie."
"So how are we going to get the vehicles? The fuel?" Allen demanded. Jake was right. If they stayed, they'd die. But they could only handle the smallest fraction of the huge numbers of dead that were sure to be still roaming about hungry. Sneaking around, looking for working transportation would take time, and who knew if they'd be found by a group of ghouls, then end up drawing more by fighting them? Granted they were slow and dumb as turnips, but there were so many.
Jake pulled out a smoke, lit up, shook his head, and stared into space. Foster fired up one of his stogies and blew some truly impressive smoke rings.
"You know what you're talking about?" Foster laid it out for them. The distance, the probable conditions of the roads, bands of raiders, psychotics, maybe even people that have turned cannibal from lack of food and, of course, the ever present threat of the infected. "The two of ya ready to kill, not just zombies, but maybe living people who wanna take what you got? Food, weapons, hell... the women? You boys ready ta do that?"
Jake's face was harsh and unforgiving. "I'd do worse. And it wouldn't be the first time I've had to kill. I'll slaughter a path through those shit-bags all the way to the Pacific if it means keeping everyone alive."
Foster turned to Allen. "What about you, son?"
Al picked up the bottle again and took another drink. He sat for a minute, letting the whiskey burn its way down to his stomach.
"Anything," he said, thinking about his family. "I'll do anything."
George nodded slowly then stubbed out his cigar. "Alright. Follow me."
Foster led them down to the ground floor, through the machine shop, and into the storage space beyond. He cranked open an eight by eight, three inch thick, steel door that Jake had thought led outside, to reveal another stairway leading down into a basement level. They followed him down into an echoing, vaulted chamber that seemed to run on forever into the darkness.
Allen looked around nervously. The only dim light came down the stairway from above and his eyes were flicking about the expanse, looking for movement. "Are you sure we're safe down here?"
Foster nodded. "The only way in except for the stairs is covered by a twelve ton steel door. We're good."
Jake was looking off to his left. There was something large there, outside the dim rectangle of light. Try as he might, his mind couldn't make sense of the shape.
"Have you got a couple of tour buses down here?" He asked.
George reached for the wall and flipped on the overheads.
The younger men stood there, jaws slack, shock plain on their faces. Allen's mouth began moving in a fair impression of a goldfish, but no sound came out. Jake recovered more quickly and at that point, little things about the building's sup that had never quite added up before, started making a lot more sense.
Foster had fooled them all.
Jake started to smile. "Why you sneaky, lying, brilliant old bastard."
Now it was George's turn to smile.
* * *
Tracy Dickson walked along the riverfront.
She would never know that the corpse that had bitten Carl Davis, who had in turn bitten her, was still stuck in the drainage culvert eighty yards to the north. It would remain there until the enormous catfish living in the murky waters of the Scioto eventually picked it clean.
Tracy had been shuffling round and round the Riverfront Mile Fountain all day. Endlessly following the wall…
Chapter Nine
Dinner was outstanding.
Maggie let it drop the fact that Karen turned eighteen that day, so they'd planned a celebration. Kat and Laurel had kept her occupied with girl talk in the office, along with ogling some teenage idols on the ever-slowing Internet. They'd taken a case of Coke, a box of chocolate chip cookies, two bags of crackers, some salsa Laurel had made two days prior, and locked themselves in Foster's office with a few chick flicks. Leo baked Karen a cake while Gertrude altered some of Foster's army-issue clothing into a few new outfits for the girl.
Young Salazar had surprised them all by being a damn good cook. He'd considered going to culinary school after graduation that year and had done wonders with the bags and bags of George's dehydrated foodstuffs. He'd even discovered a way to make great eggs out of the normally tasteless powdered egg mix, which previously always reminded Jake of flavorless globs of shower caulk.
"Why chocolate with white frosting?" he asked.
"Karen said she liked it when they served it last year at homecoming." Leo replied, then blushed furiously when Karen gave him one of her rare smiles. He and the pretty brunette had gone to the same high school and knew each other only in passing, but he seemed to remember a great deal about her likes and dislikes. He obviously had a crush on her from the way he went quiet every time she walked into a room. He talked about her endlessly when he, Jake, and Allen repaired their leaking water tank. Even after they asked him emphatically not to.
After the meal, and the truly horrible rendition of 'Happy Birthday" that followed, Kat and Heather went upstairs with the birthday girl to help her try on the newly altered fatigues. Foster retreated to his office again to talk on the shortwave and search the dying Internet for satellite photos
of the areas southwest of the city. Leo vanished downstairs to the machine shop, excitedly working on a way to make swords for each of them, just in case. Allen was playing George's game system on the flat screen, having a grand old time blasting unsuspecting aliens into little bits. Nichole sat on the other couch leafing through a Cosmo, making disgusted noises at the models. Jake had convinced Gertrude to sit at the counter with a cup of tea next to Maggie, while he and Laurel did the dishes. The aging woman only took her pain medication every few days since she was trying to conserve her supply, and her hands were bothering her that evening. She only had enough for two months.
Laurel flat-out told Jake she'd deck him if he tried to stick his raw-knuckled hands in dishwater, so he settled for the task of drying them by hand and stacking them in the cupboards. She drained the sink, wiped it down as he put away the last of the forks, then she grabbed two Guinness out of the far fridge. She popped the tops and emptied them into a pair of large mugs.
"I've been meaning to ask you about something." Maggie leaned her chin on her palm and sipped her drink.
"Shoot." He took a swig of the god's own brew
"Allen mentioned you were the Last of the White Knights. What did he mean by that?"
"Ah…" He looked uncomfortable. "He was just messing around. You know how Al is."
"Bull feathers," Gertrude mumbled.
The muscular EMT gave him a narrow look and turned to Gertie. "Do you know what he meant?"
"I do. And shame on you, Jacob, for being embarrassed over something like that." She put down her tea and ignored him while he cringed. "He was knighted during his time with the SAS."
Maggie's jaw dropped. She rubbernecked back and forth between them. "Really?"
Jake kept his eyes on his beer.
"They were in… where was it again?" Gertrude began.
"Bosnia," he replied, softly.
"Thank you, dear. Bosnia," she continued. "His brick as they called it, we call it a squad, was ambushed by a much larger group and virtually wiped out. Jake helped get the survivors to safety, when the helicopters finally came to pick them up. The Queen Mother herself knighted him, along with two others, for their actions that day."
Laurel smiled covertly as Maggie tried to wrap her head around it. She looked at Jake to find him frowning into his Guinness. "I'm impressed," she admitted.
"Now you're impressed?" He had to laugh.
"You forgot the good part," Nichole rose from the couch, half-full glass of vodka in hand. She sauntered over to lean on the bar under Gertie's openly hostile gaze. Laurel was sure that if Gertrude Jennings were ten years younger, she'd have kicked the mouthy Miss Young's ass up one wall and down the other.
The dancer's eyes twinkled with malice, and she took a sip of her vodka. "You forgot how he took off when the choppers set down and got shot in the back as he ran. It's alright though. You always did have that poor, helpless, widdle puppy look. It's no surprise you scampered off like a frightened dog when things got intense."
Jake went still. "Nichole, you don't know what you're talking about. You're drunk."
"So?" She glared at him defiantly.
Jake put his empty mug in the sink and headed for the stairs up to the top floor. "Okay. That's all of this conversation I can stomach. See you all in the morning."
"Sweet dreams!" Nichole called after him, rocking on her stool with laughter. Jake trooped up the stairs without looking back.
"You lying bitch." Allen looked over the couch at Nichole, game forgotten. The expression on his face could only be described as utterly fucking pissed.
"You know damn good and well Jake didn't run. He wasn't even one of the unit for God's sake. All he had to do is flash his press pass and the insurgents would've taken him to the nearest embassy, so he could tell the world about their victory. But he didn't," Allen continued coldly. "He picked up a gun and killed eleven of them. He helped hold them off until the choppers got there. Christ, he carried a friend to one after being shot himself, then had to hold her while she died."
"Oh boo hoo," Nichole said. "My heart bleeds. That doesn't change the fact he's nothing but a wishy-washy coward."
Maggie considered putting the offensive stripper in a chokehold but wasn't sure she'd be able to let her go before killing her. Nichole was definitely one of the reasons blonde women were thought to be vapid-eyed idiots.
"You think?" Lauren asked.
Nichole turned back to the redhead and snorted. "Yeah, I do."
"He isn't wishy-washy in the least," Laurel said. "Jake led Allen and Kat across the city during the outbreak. You know, when everybody else was running for the hills? He fought his way through those things to reach me, then got us all back here safely. He even had us stop to rescue Maggie and the girls along the way. That doesn't sound cowardly to me at all."
Gertrude's was smiling from ear to ear.
"I'm just saying this for your own good, honey." Nichole gave her a compassionate look. "You need to realize Jake's nothing special. He's got a little more intelligence than most, but that's all. He'll figure out who's holding the strings soon enough. I'll work on him till he's too tired to fight anymore. Then maybe I'll give him a pity fuck."
Nichole completely missed Gertrude's look of revulsion.
Laurel put her hands on her waist and cocked her hip. She realized that while Nichole was good at being sneaky, she was lost inside her own head. The woman believed she was entitled to whatever she wanted, which evidently included a certain writer. Thankfully, so far he'd firmly squashed her attempts to pull him into bed. Nichole had tried everything from pressing her ass against his groin as he squeezed by her in the stairwell, to, most recently, trying to join him for a morning shower. The thought of her touching Jake was enough to make Kat's friend just short of violently ill. The fact that he'd thrown the blonde out of said shower buck naked gave her a shiny, happy feeling when she thought about it. That, in turn, caused Nichole to become the haughty, unpleasant bitch she'd been for days now.
No, Laurel was determined not to let this bleach-blonde bimbo anywhere near Jake.
"Thanks for the tip." She looked at Gertrude. "Are you turning in?"
"No," Gertie said, pointing at Allen. "This one says he found a classic movie in George's collection he wants me to watch that never got the recognition it deserved. What was it, dear?"
"Hobo with a Shotgun," he said with a straight face.
"Seriously?" Maggie's eyebrows shot up. "That's almost as good as Blind Fury! Hauer was always one of my favorites, ever since Blade Runner! Can I join you guys?"
Allen smiled. "The more the merrier." He was sure he'd be able to get in a little discrete ogling time while she was focused on Rutger's gritty visage, and he silently thanked the powers- that-be for impressively buxom, Nordic women who wore shirts three sizes too small.
"I'll see you all in the morning then." Laurel strode from the kitchen.
She stopped by her room upstairs, got rid of her shoes, and took a quick look in the mirror. She frowned at her reflection, then took her hair out of the braid she'd begun to wear out of habit. That helped a little, and just this once she left that damn stray lock alone. Laurel considered the results and after a minute of indecision thought, To hell with it.
She rid herself of her sports bra, workout sweats, and finally her underwear. After some thought she pulled on the tight, light green, spaghetti-strap t-shirt she was so fond of, along with a black pair of short silk boxers she'd kept in her backpack with the rest of her under things.
Padding barefoot down the hall to the bathrooms, she turned into what had been deemed the men's side. It didn't really matter which was which, considering the fact George had installed urinals and stalls in both. It was simply a matter of propriety. Most women (and all men) were touchy about members of the opposite sex, or even the same sex, watching them take a dump. The door's oiled hinges opened without a sound, and she moved past the line of sinks, through the modest-sized dressing room with its rack of t
owels and took a look into the shower.
The writer was leaning against the far wall, back to her, head down, hands against the tiles. Everything Laurel could see was very easy on the eyes and looked like it had been chiseled out of stone. The muscles in his shoulders and back stood out as he leaned there, palms pressed flat to the wall. His calves and thighs were firm, not bulging, telling her he was more interested in using them as opposed to shaping them. And she could now confirm without a doubt that, yes, he had a cute butt. Even though the air was sauna-thick with moisture from vapor swirling about in the eight-spigot shower, she shivered.
* * *
Jake was oblivious. The hot water was beginning to loosen his sore muscles. It ran over his head, down his face and chin that was finally getting to the point where he'd have to shave again. He never did get a five o'clock shadow. He had something more along the lines of a you'll only have to shave every three days or so scruff.
He didn't think he could stay cooped up here much longer. Nichole was making his life as miserable as possible. Laurel was utterly disinterested in him because of said blonde, despite his efforts. That ass-clown Mike Barron was hitting on her all the time and, since Jake didn't really have any right to insist he knock it off…
* * *
Laurel watched him for a few minutes. She ran her eyes over his form, thinking about everything Gertrude had said. Of everything he'd accomplished on the day of the outbreak. Killing those men, saving Maggie and the girls. His face when he realized she was alright after diving through her door. The way he looked at her that made the butterflies in her stomach start racing around, every, single time he turned those eyes her way.
She picked up one of the towels from the rack and cleared her throat.
Jake's head sank lower. She saw the lines of his body go sharp again as his muscles tightened and his fingers curled against the wall like claws. "Damn it, Nichole. I told you before; it's not going to happen. So please, leave… beat it… scram… Just leave me the fuck alone!"