by Anthony Puyo
Blake Edward steps back quickly to elude the fast tipping cabinet, falling on his butt in the process. Captain Robert Hawks, about to get crushed, has just enough time. He leaps away, avoiding injury and possibly death, landing a few feet from Blake, hitting his head on the bottom-end of a metal column.
Feathers and Tao stunned, gaze towards their fallen men, not realizing the infected has enough room to get out. Taking advantage of the distraction, the infected leaps towards Feathers who’s the nearest of the men. He goes straight for his eyes, shoving both his thumbs into his sockets. A defining scream resonates out of Feathers. A squishy sound follows the tenacious gorging, as the infected seems to be digging for his brain.
Tao caught off guard from the horror, recovers quickly. He grabs the infected from behind in a choke hold. The infected instantly unhands Feathers who falls to the floor, wailing in pain with his eyes erupting like volcanoes.
Tao struggles mightily to keep his grasp with his choke hold. The infected, being a tad taller than Tao, leads him to the nearby brick wall, backing him into it harshly—trying to shake him off.
Blake gets to his feet, darts towards the infected, and gives a smashing right hook, breaking its teeth and making them jagged. The crazy, not fazed from the jarring hit, bites down forcefully with his newly sharpened teeth on Tao’s forearm—it gushes blood. A yelling Tao let’s go, getting flung towards Edward; both of them fall to the floor. On impact, their heads hit against each other’s, dazing them both.
The anguish of Feathers is heard in the background, adding on to the already disturbing scene. The infected walks up to Tao, who sits with his back facing him, holding his bleeding arm—sobbing. The grey hand of the infected grabs Tao by the hair, making him get to his feet grimacing in pain. With force—he slams Tao up against the brick wall. Now facing the muddled man, the infected slowly puts his filthy, blood smothered hand in his mouth, as if to torture the private before death. He pushes harder and harder down Tao’s throat, making him choke and gag. Running out of air, turning blue, Tao’s throat swells up twice its size, and his eyes begin to roll back.
Abruptly, the stock of the unloaded rifle, smashes on the side of the crazy’s head—knocking him to the ground heavily. Tao slides down the wall. Too little too late for him, he hunches over—dead.
With the infected knocked unconscious, and the immediate danger all but gone. The flustered Captain, turns and walks over to the loud, distressed Private Feathers. Hawks drops the rifle and pulls out his pistol. He can’t stand the yelling. He puts one hand over his ear. He looks over Feathers. The man is in bad shape, talking incoherently.
There’s no hope for you.
Staff Sergeant Edward slides his back up against an aisle rack in sitting position. He gathers himself. Still a little woozy from the head hit, he gazes over at Robert. His vision is hazy, so he puts his glasses on. Seeing clearly now, but he wished he couldn’t see at all. He sees the Captain pointing his pistol then shooting a single round into Feathers; putting him down permanently. Edward tightened his eyes closed before the shot, he didn’t want the image. Anger and sadness grows in him. He questions the Captain’s decisions—which are starting to show a pattern.
Maybe there was a chance to help Feathers; he was still alive. Was it necessary? Did you shoot him because you wanted to end his suffering, or did you do it because you couldn’t stand his screaming? You, sonofabitch!
Soon after the gunshot, there is pounding and shouting on the stockroom door. Blake peers the way of the outcry. Some of the soldiers heard the commotion and rushed over to check things out.
Blake Edward turns back to the Captain who has a disturbed look about him as he holds the pistol. Robert glares back at his Staff Sergeant. The stare made the hairs on Blake’s neck go up. He doesn’t understand what Robert is relaying with his eyes. It has un-trustful undertones to it, at least that's what he feels.
Hawks motions with his weapon. “Get up. Open the door.”
Blake rises to his feet and walks to the door, keeping his eye on Robert the whole way. He has a strange feeling he would get shot otherwise.
Blake yells towards the door, “Here I come.”
When he opens the door, the soldiers trounce in and are instantly horrified with the repulsive scene. The Captain quickly calms them by acting routinely. He gives them orders to pick the infected up and tie him.
Blake, annoyed, asks, “What do we do with privates Tao and Feathers?” He wasn’t liking the lack of care for his fallen brethren.
The Captain glares at Edward—reading him—bothered almost. Hawks caught the young man’s drift. The candles flicker in the dim lit room, and it’s an awkward few seconds before he answers, which he did almost carelessly, “Have ‘em took somewhere suitable.” He then turned his back on the Staff Sergeant.
“Then what?” Edward badgers, with a much more persistent and unsatisfied tone.
Hawks glares at Edward. “Have them burned. Now if you'll excuse me, Staff Sergeant.” And that was it. The Captain got back to his true focus—the infected.
Blake upset, feeling he just got spat in the eye, walks out slowly with his tongue in his cheek.
That's not the way you treat your fallen men.
He begins to question why he followed Robert. He ponders if he should have fled like the many others. He loves his country. He wants to be of use. Especially in this uncanny hour; in this bleak moment of time, but now, he wonders if he would serve better if he’d abandon this “so called mission.”
It’s 5 a.m. Almost six hours since last night's debacle with the infected that resulted in the death of two men.
Staff Sergeant Edward’s heavy eyes, slowly open. His vision is blurred, but he can see the movement of people. He hasn’t put his glasses on. He didn’t need to just yet. There’s no danger here; it was all part of the routine. His fellow soldiers are all on the cusp of waking.
There’s already sounds of tin pots and cups being clanked together, as the camp is starting to address its caffeine needs. Soon there will be breakfast: a tasty fill of dehydrated eggs and jerky like bacon. This is also the time for chatting, having some laughter, “unwinding before the upwind” as some would say. Because before long, they would have to ready themselves for another day at the beach, which they learned to call their call of duty.
Then, at some point, things would get a little somber while they remember their fallen ones, but the grieving would be short. There wasn’t much time for it. Not that the Captain would allow it if there was.
Blake rolls over to his back, looking up to the ceiling with his eyes still blurry. He puts his glasses on. Seeing clearly, he could see someone standing almost over him from the corner of his eye. He turns to witness Robert Hawks bearing a friendly grin and an extra tin-cup of coffee.
“Wake up, soldier, we got business to take care of,” Hawks, light heartedly, says.
He didn’t sound or look the part of the careless over obsessed man he was last night. This caught Blake surprisingly off guard. He isn’t the kind of man that holds grudges, so he responds adequately.
Edward gets to a sitting position, takes the coffee, and gives a friendly gesture. “Thanks, Captain. What’s your plan?”
Robert gets to one knee to be more eye level with him. He talks in a low tone, making sure no one else could hear. But his tone grew in excitement with every word that comes out.
“When you left last night, I had the men wake up and feed the Crazy. Figured it was getting late, and I wanted the bastard nourished and rested so we could extract good solid info from him. Not some bullshit it might say because it's incoherent. Now that it’s morning, it's as good as time as any to do that.”
Blake takes a sip of his dark coffee, listening—thinking. He doesn’t say anything but gives a few nods of understanding.
Robert continues, “We’re going to stay with the same idea. We’re going to water-board the son of a bitch till he cracks . . . What do you think?”
The question catc
hes the Staff Sergeant off guard; he doesn’t show it. He didn’t know how to answer. The Captain has never asked him his opinion on anything since the whole thing started. A matter-of-fact, the rumor was Hawks never asked any lower rank for their opinion. Had this ordeal changed the Captain’s way of doing things? Is this a sign of the Captain having trust in his second in command? Is it possible he saw the Sergeant’s disappointment last night and wanted to mend fences? Or was it something more sinister—a test of some sort.
Not having the time to think about it any further, Edward answers. “I don’t want to beat a dead horse, Captain, but what if those reports are true, and they don’t feel pain?”
“I understand that point, Staff Sergeant. I know your concerns. If that is the case, we will look in another direction . . . Something more suitable to your liking.”
“Then yes, Captain, it’s worth a try. If it's not mindless, maybe there is some information we can extract . . . but if it shows any sign that it could possibly harm us, I think we should lie it to rest.”
Robert’s light blue eyes, pierced into Edward’s for a few second, as if to be reading him. “Okay . . . One hour. We meet me in the stockroom.” He then taps Edward’s knee, gets to his feet, and walks away.
The infected sits next to a bucket of water, it’s wrists tied behind the back of the chair, his feet tied to the legs. Not taking any chances, the ropes are tied with several knots.
The crazy’s a skinny man with a basketball-round stomach, appearing to be in his late forties. His clothes are ragged, soiled, and he smells immensely. His face and greyish skinned arms show bruises and other sores. Most of them caused from himself. Near the top of his bald head, his veins are bulging.
The infected struggles trying to get loose, but there is no chance. All he does is raw the skin around his wrists, and ankles, to point of blood. It curses and hollers despicable things from it's cracked, tight lips to the soldiers on guard. The men don’t pay attention or even look. There’s something unsettling to them about the black, daunting eyes it possesses.
Robert Hawks and Staff Sergeant Edward step into the room. The infected gets quiet. Hawks stares down the Crazy who glares back, following his every move. The Captain stays emotionless and doesn’t say a word. He grabs two pair of latex gloves, handing one over to Edward who puts his on.
The Captain walks right up to the infected, stands two feet in front of him, and gazes straight down into the darkness of his eyes. “Are you going to make this easy, or do you want this to be painful?”
The infected gapes the Captain up and down. Saliva drools down its jagged teeth mouth that’s slightly open. In a sudden act, it lunges its head forward—violently. “Die, die, die, all of you, die!” It hollers.
Robert moves back, as does Blake who looks frightened. Angrily, the Captain steps forward. He brings his hand across his shoulder and back hands the infected with great authority. Blood and spit spray out its mouth as his head swings viciously to the side from the impact.
The infected expectorates more wads of blood and a broken tooth to the floor before aligning its head back at the Captain. Its manner is uncaring. He begins to laugh mockingly at him.
Robert, not amused, shows his temper by slapping the Crazy the opposite way. Again, the infected spits out blood along with another tooth, and again, it laughs.
“Okay, you sonofabitch, you want to play hard ball?” Hawks turns to Edward, “Get the shirt and the tape—cover this fuckers head!”
Blake moves to the table. The infected looks at the Captain, still laughing at the thwarted man. It begins to talk. Its voice is depraved and polluted as before. “There is nothing you can do, nowhere you can hide. You will die . . . everyone will die. Row after row of your corpses. There will be no one left . . . You must be exterminated.” The infected gives out a more relaxed tired laugh; taunting the Captain.
Edward stands behind the infected, ready to cover his head. The Captain signals him to hold on. “Why must we die? Why do you want to kill us?”
The infected looks up and around the place, its body jerks with a twitch, and its eyes roll back. It seems difficult to think. “The way the body hungers for food . . . water . . . energy—my mind hungers for your death.”
Robert bends to eye level with the infected. “Why do you hunger for death?”
“My mind . . . can’tttt can’tt—” His head jolts all over the place, showing much agitation. “I hate you! Want to kill you! All of you!”
The Captain talks over the overwrought man. “How can I end this, what can stop you from wanting to kill? Do you know? . . . Answer me!”
“No end. Till you’re all dead. No other thoughts. No other thoughts,” it repeats over and over.
The Captain shouts towards Edward. “Cover his head.”
“Why, Captain, he doesn’t have any more information to give us. It’s obvious he’s demented. He doesn’t feel pain. Can’t you see that?”
“He’s feeling pain, that’s why he can’t think straight! But we’ll get it out of him alright.”
“If that was pain we saw, it’s not physical, that’s been proven, Captain. This is the wrong way to do things.”
Robert’s face tightens up. He’s not fond of the Sergeant’s questioning of his tactics. “This is my show, Staff Sergeant. Put that fucken shirt over his head, because I’m not through with him yet. He’s going to talk.”
“You said we would try something else. We should lock him up. Learn more about him. Maybe find a cure. We can test it on him. There has to be something to stop their way of thinking.”
“Cure? . . . What cure! There is no fucken cure, just like there’s no fucken intel!” The Captain’s voice steadily becomes irate. “There nothing left. No functioning government, no scientists, no god-damn America.” Robert gets in Edward’s face, giving him a look that suggest his malcontent. “There only us and the enemy, which is them,” the Captain snatches the tape and shirt from Edward's hands. “You better ask yourself, Staff Sergeant,” he covers the crazy’s head with the shirt as he continues, “Whose side are you on?”
Blake is taken back. Anger boils in his veins. He begins to walk away, knowing things are a hairline from getting seriously out of hand. The opportunity eats at him.
I need to say something. He turns before he gets to the door. “Our mission was to round up and help civilians. To take back the city from the infected. Not to act barbaric, not to torture. Which is what it is when there is no information to be gained . . . And if you believe there is no government, then why are we here? What’s our directive, Captain?”
Robert tapes the shirt closed around the Crazy’s neck. He daggers Blake. “We’re going to take back the city, Sergeant. That directive has not changed. Who were taking it back for . . . well, Sergeant, that’s up for consideration.”
Edward in disgust, begins to walk out. He stops in the doorway, looking at the two soldiers who are on guard. They glance at him with shame in their eyes then look away. Both heard the treason that Captain Hawks is suggesting, but they too—do nothing.
Edwards sighs. He looks down in torment, shaking his head. In the sadness of his heart, he couldn’t be silent. He lifts his head, stares out the exit—no longer wanting to look into the eyes of his disgraced comrades. He murmurs the words he so deeply feels, “We’re all cowards of men.” Then he walks out. Never once looking back.
12
The Confrontation
It’s after 12 a.m. Craig lies in a cubicle on two table desks that have been pushed together forming a bed.
His eyes slowly flutter open in the bright beams of the fluorescent lights above.
I’m not dead?
The poor man's face is nicked, and his jaw and left cheek are bruised purple. His mind is in a fog, and at the moment, he can’t yet feel all of his body. The parts he does feel, hurt.
A few minutes pass. Craig’s thoughts begin to gather. He adjusts his body slowly to the side, facing a wall opposite the entrance.
&nbs
p; He hears talking and footsteps outside the room getting louder. Charlie and the man from the CB radio known as Blade Runner walk in. Craig’s unknown whisk of curiosity prompts himself not to move a muscles. He had suspicions about Charlie and his peculiar team before, and he fathomed information could leak; if he didn’t wake quite yet.
Charlie trails over to Craig, feeling his pulse and touching his face. The other man, leans in the doorway. He’s dressed in camouflage military pants, a green tan-top, and wears large, brown tint sunglasses.
Charlie says, “He’s still out, but he’ll be fine.” He then walks over to a table near the doorway. On it is a coffee pot, stirrers, Styrofoam cups, lids, two kinds of sweetener and regular sugar. Charlie grabs a cup. He begins to pour three-time recycled coffee into it. He takes a gander at Blade Runner who now stands a few feet inside the room. The lanky man has an arm across his protruding belly. His other hand strokes his stubble, white haired chin. He’s beaming over at Craig.
“Want a cup?” Charlie asks.
This seems to breaks the man's focus. He turns and peers in the vicinity of the trash seeing that Charlie has been recycling the grounds one to many times for his own liking.
“Don’t be picky, it's what we got. Besides, I know you've put worse in that ugly pie-hole of yours.” He then takes a sip of the old, watery brew.
Blade Runner chuckles. “I’ll pass, old friend.”
“Suit yourself. But I’m grateful for the generator.”
“Me too, but not for the coffee.”
Norman is Blade Runner’s real name. He’s in his early fifties, big bones, skinny limbs, a good size beer belly—long, mangy, blond and white hippie hair, which he keeps in a ponytail. Norman isn’t a hairy man, but he does have thick patch on his chest, it’s mostly dark and white and shows over his tan-top. His skin’s reddish white with many age spots, and his eyes are grey—which some people find spooky.
Charlie raises his cup, pointing it towards Craig. “I’m no doctor, but he should be up anytime now.” Charlie shakes his head while he speaks, “The man is lucky . . . damn lucky.”