by Demers, Matt
#
CHAPTER 8
Hiram Walker
Heavy fog rolled off the river like the scene where Captain Willard’s patrol boat rolled through a wall of mist in Apocalypse Now.
That journey didn’t end well, James decided and felt for the Bearcat.
They followed the river through the night, stopping once for a rest against the carriage wheels of an old war cannon. A plaque hung by a chain on a cement pillar read:
War of 1812:
Four pounder iron cannon
Barrel weight 1300 pounds
Projectile range 1000 yards
Donated to Willstead Park in 1908
They stuck to the sidewalk for safety’s sake, given the odd chance a car might fly through the fog and send them ass-over-end on their faces. Jade seemed especially cautious, insistent for the first time they hold hands. James thought her palms felt like the underbelly of a dead fish. But he felt pain too. Each time her fingers slid, he winced and regretted not rifling through the ladies’ nylon section in Walgreens to cut a new pair of gloves.
They passed the Monroe City power station, and the last block of boarded-up homes. The buildings drew dark outlines in the fog. James thought of Etch-a-Sketches, the lines reaching up into the low clouds as if they might stretch on for eternity.
Hiram Walker’s came at them little by little — the barbed wire fence that guarded an empty, weed-strewn lot. The stucco and cement heritage center with wide oak doors and engraved marble doorframe. Then a red brick building with no windows — the distillery — made for function rather than form — the perfect Alamo for any apocalypse.
They stopped where the building jutted inward. There, a neatly kept driveway ran to a wide security gate meant for large supply trucks and delivery vans. A speaker box with a round red button stood beside the gate. It beeped when James pressed it.
“I’ve got an under-ager here that wants to get wasted,” James told the speaker box. Jade only blinked.
They waited minutes before trying again. He wondered if everyone had abandoned the plant after all. It would be worth scaling the perimeter even so. Assuming the speaker box wasn’t the only thing running power.
Someone left the cooker on. That explains the yeast. James figured ways to scale the fence and circumvent the barbed wire. He could find some clippers, he supposed, from H&H Hardware a few clicks south.
The fog thinned. In its place, beyond the security gate, stood a man and a woman carrying assault rifles aimed to shoot. James wanted to feel the Bearcat’s poly grip, but thought better of it.
“Step up to the gate,” said the man. The light behind him showed black hair cropped short in no particular style. His height was slightly under middle-of-the-road, James guessed 5’8, but he was thick in the shoulders and lean. Most likely early forties.
Jade squeezed James’ hand and they stepped forward. No one moved or spoke for some time, only stared as the cool waterfront wind blew the fog westward.
“If you come to barter or beg, either way we can’t help you,” the man’s voice had grit and James recognized the snap of command. “We won’t have a batch for two weeks. Come back then,” the man added.
“I don’t need your booze.” James took another step. He could smell the man’s ashy breath and wondered how many packs it took to make it like that. “I just need a place to lay our heads for the night. You’ve got plenty of space for two weathered travelers.”
The man stepped forward and they stood neck-and-neck, trading stares through the space between the rusty iron bars. James definitely recognized him from somewhere.
“That girl,” the woman began in a syrupy East European accent as she stepped closer. “She looks sick.” The woman’s silver chin-length hair waved with each gust of wind. James guessed she pushed 50.
Age be damned — he couldn’t remember the last time he saw such a fantastic chin line.
“The girl bit?” The man accused with the aim of his assault rifle.
“She ain’t bit,” James responded. “But she’s sick alright. An old-fashioned kind of sick that wears you down. But it won’t turn her Tweaky,” James assured them.
The man prodded James with his eyes. “You don’t look much better — ”
Something snarled from out in the fog. Jade clung to James’ waist and peeked into the mist.
“We can talk about this later. Get us inside where it’s safe,” James demanded.
“Strip,” said the man. The woman kept her stoic demeanor.
“What?”
“You heard right. Strip. The girl too. We want to see if you’re fibbing about being bit,” the man demanded.
“I ain’t strippin’ and either is my girl. She’s only seven.”
“Seven ate nine,” the man replied without smiling. James assumed he referred to the number of people in Hiram’s, and the possibility of being eaten .
Something snarled again. This time much closer.
“If you want in, you’ll strip,” the man responded. They held all the cards.
James loosened his belt-buckle and jeans, then his short-sleeve shirt and underpants. Jade followed his lead. If they noticed any marks on her, gave Jade as much as a double take, James was prepared to grab her by the wrist and escape into the fog with her, clothes be damned. He hoped, hoped they didn’t notice.
“Some weather, huh?” James said dryly while peeling off his shirt.
“Hurry it up,” the man urged. His glances switched from them to the fog then back at them.
“Turn around,” the man told them. They did.
James caught a quick glimpse of the woman. Was that a smirk? James wondered. Not bad for a guy with stage four Timmy. He packed that thought away with other needless things.
“All clear,” the man said to his walkie-talkie and the gate retracted.
James and Jade slipped into their clothes and followed the other two through the narrow parking lot and around the back of one of many red brick buildings. They could see the river there — rough water crashing against the chunky stone breakers. Foam and algae floated along the water’s edge. James smelled that Green River odor, a potpourri of dead fish and used motor oil.
“Did you know the river is so full of crap it caught fire once?” The man told them as they walked.
“Is that so?” James responded. “Most of it flowing from that cesspool in Greenville,” the man added. “But what would I know. I’m not from here.”
Definitely familiar, James decided.
They walked up a flight of cement stairs to a docking platform. A large bay door stood to the right of an entrance with a sign that read: “Shipping and Receiving: Couriers enter here.”
The man and women lead them through the receiving dock, their backs turned to James and Jade probably a good sign. Their heavy boots echoed with each step and it made the place feel even emptier.
Pallets of long piping, distillation columns, aging barrels, and unmarked boxes filled the receiving floor. A propane forklift without a tank sat sullen in the corner. Large crates labeled “Krothe” lined the high-racks.
The foursome entered through a side door and followed a long narrow hallway. The man and woman took a right and stopped at the table of a bright all-white lunchroom.
“Coffee?” The man called over his shoulder.
“Sure. Black,” James responded.
“Apple juice okay for the girl?”
“Apple juice is just fine,”
This would be the test. Under the bright fluorescent light, every imperfection on Jade’s little face showed. Whether they thought skin disease, illness, or Tweak, someone was bound to pry.
The man put a hand to his wide chest. “I’m Albert Bondy. This is —“
“Kovac,” she cut in.
Formal precedence, James figured. The Brave New World was — beside James and Jade — last name only. These weren’t friends. These were barrack buddies. Bondy had landed on his feet.
“Please to meet you.” James kept h
is eyes on Kovac.
“Likewise,” Kovac replied.
“I’m James and this is Jade.”
“Hello,” Jade said. She managed a plastic smirk.
Kovac tilted her head at James, in a way that suggested a struggle to get to the bottom of the sickly strangers in front of her.
“What do Americans say about the contents of their closet when they have secrets?” She asked Bondy while holding her stare.
“Skeletons,” Bondy responded. “When someone has secrets, people say they have skeletons in their closet.”
The makeup job ain’t foolin’ you. Just fucking say that.
“Have you been to Auschwitz, James?” Kovac asked. Half you bin to Aushwitz Jims.
“Never visited Europe, actually.” His leg shook under the table in a way it hadn’t since twelfth grade geography when he sat next to Deanna Sands, a hot-lipped track-star who eventually placed a respectful fifth at the Olympic Trials.
“I have, James. I’ve seen the scratch marks in the gas chambers. The ones carved by the Jews who clawed at the walls as they slowly chocked on Zyklon-B gas. I have seen the crematorium too, with incinerators no larger than your typical American walk-in closet. They burned thousands of skeletons in them. Until that day, I had no idea something so small could fit so many skeletons. Now I know it’s not the only thing capable of it.”
Kovac’s a nosey one. A closet creepin’ Freudian.
“We like to know the company we keep,” Kovac added. “Understood?”
“You got a problem with my girl?”
“Not at all,” Kovac insisted. “You, on the other hand…”
Bondy sauntered to the counter, took three Styrofoam cups from a stack, grabbed the coffee pot and poured. It was very dark. Black even. That’s what the Brave New World was about — big guns, big egos, and strong coffee.
“We’ve all got our share of dirty laundry,” James admitted. “Be it skeletons or whatever.” James tossed Bondy a look.
“Excuse me?” Bondy scrunched his brows.
“You’re a paratrooper,” James said to him. “Am I right?”
“Was. How’d you know?” The recognition wasn’t mutual, despite Bondy being the one in face paint that day. Then again, James had changed a lot since they first met. Lookin’ more like Skeletor every day, James had told himself more than once this past year.
“You stormed my bedroom window about a year ago. Day of the Escalation.”
Bondy fumbled the cups, which only made more of a mess when they fell.
“I’ll get it.” Kovac stood up and went for the industrial-sized roll of paper towels sitting vertically on the counter.
“I remember,” Bondy began. “That boy and his dad in the convertible — “
“What’s done is done.” James told him. “I ain’t sayin’ what you did was right, but you opened that gate for my girl. For that you’ve set things right in my eyes.”
Bondy nodded and returned a guilty smile.
“Please, take a seat,” Kovac offered. She poured coffee into two more cups and brought them as they sat, James across from Bondy, Kovac across from Jade. Kovac handed her a juice box.
“So,” Bondy started. “Why do you both look…”
“Like Death?” James finished.
“Yeah.”
“Me and Jade, it’s a genetic thing we’ve got. My father had it, my grandma had it, now I do and so does my daughter. Jade, bless her, joined the club less than six months ago. I can’t say for sure, but I keep thinkin’ that stress triggered it, the way a cold sore or acne gets worse from stress. It’s like the cancer laid dormant, waitin’ for its turn to bat. I say that because it don’t hit this early in our family. Not that I know of.” James glanced down at Jade as she slurped the straw.
Bondy seemed convinced. He nodded empathetically. Kovac showed no expression. James chalked it up to Eastern European stoicism. Cold War and all that. Yeah, that’s it.
James continued: “We need treatment soon. One trip to John Hopkins might do the trick. Then again, it might not, but we don’t stand a chance without trying.”
Bondy gazed at the tabletop with restless eyes, deciding something.
Kovac reached out and touched Jade’s hand, which was clasped around the bottle of juice.
Shit.
“Sick indeed,” Kovac observed. “She’s cold as ice.”
Jade backed away from Kovac’s reach and sat straight against the backrest where no one could touch her.
Bondy sighed and took a sip. “We’d love to help you and your girl, James. We’d love to help you, especially after what happened back there. But to jump into a crossfire of Tweaks, grunts, and angry cancer patients with nothin’ to lose — ”
“We’ve got nothin’ to lose, Bondy.”
Jade put on her best pouty face. Good, ham it up.
The ex-soldier took another sip as he looked at the ceiling tiles. James saw the gears churning in his expression.
“I’ve been to Hopkins,” Bondy said. “I’d say right about now, it’s probably the worst place on Earth. Giving how things are just about everywhere, that says a lot.”
“Tell us exactly what we’re up against,” James said.
Bondy told them…
#
INTERLUDE II:
Death from Above
The turboprop engines shook the cargo hold of the C-130 Hercules.
“Sound off for equipment check,” the jumpmaster ordered.
“All OK,” confirmed the jumper behind Bondy, but his voice cracked.
Second drop of the day. The first had dropped Bondy and Thrasher on the roof of some clammy-looking, everyday hero type. The soldiers who had survived the morning misdrop knew what to expect this time — it showed. Bondy kept his cell phone hidden behind Thrasher and the lead jumper standing single-file front in front of him. He thumbed the last two letters of his text: “please answer,” and pushed “send to all contacts.”
Thrasher glanced back. “High altitude — again,” he grumbled. It meant a less precise drop once more, a needless risk considering the absence of anti-air threat. It also meant even the top brass knew nothing about everything.
Thrasher dug for something in his pants pocket. He cupped his hands over it, glanced, and snuck a peek over his shoulder for Bondy to see. His cell phone screen showed a text from Taylor Hampton, heavy gunner from Alpha Company. She airdropped on target the first time, as part of the assault echelon Bondy and Thrasher missed out on.
Do not come, her text read.
The exit light flashed from green to red.
“Stand by,” the JM yelled. The lead jumper shuffled with his static line to the jump door.
The jumpmaster tapped the lead trooper on the shoulder. “Go!”
The first trooper jumped. Thrasher followed. Bondy tucked his arms in and stepped out the jump door legs first. He planked his body straight until the line yanked his chute open. This time, a jungle of concrete and highway lay beneath instead of swimming pools and green fields — a good sign — for the aircrew at least.
The urban sprawl beneath Bondy grew detailed. The gridline roads revealed a jumble of traffic collisions, some of the cars burning, all of them motionless. Bondy spotted green smoke and steered west. He kept his distance from Thrasher and the lead jumper, aiming for the rooftop between the helipad and the fire escape. The rotten egg smell of phosphorus became pungent. Smoke licked Bondy’s boots.
Bondy’s feet struck rooftop. He threw himself sideways to break the fall. His body trailed through pebble until he unhooked his harness. The parachute blew over the roof’s edge and disappeared. Body took a knee and looked up, watching what Charlie Company like to call white summer dresses. They dropped and deflated on the roof one by one.
The CO — a Lieutenant Colonel — and two staff sergeants stepped through the smoke. The CO stood with sunken shoulders and dark smudges beneath his eyes, a look more akin to frontline privates serving back-to-back tours. ‘A’ Company deployed o
nly 16 hours ago.
“Glad you finally made it, C Company. C stands for clean-up crew. Consider yourself lucky.”
Bondy, Thrasher, and their three platoons filed in and followed the officer and his NCOs down a stairwell before entering the top floor. Blood tracked across the floor tiles, leading to dead bodies in gowns and white doctor’s coats, arms flailed, legs knotted. Someone from Alpha had swept them aside like snow on a sidewalk.
A fire team from Alpha approached single file, their eyes squinting with resentment. One of them, a corporal, popped his bubble gum. “’Bout time the Zambonis arrived.”
Within ten minutes, C Company, 40 in all, organized their non-combat gear in the triage and headed to the infusion room for briefing. Blue leather chairs stood adjoined in long rows. In the corner, stand poles carried IV bags labeled with biohazard symbols.
A handful from Charlie chose to lounge in the chairs. Bondy cringed at them.
“Aren’t we making ourselves right at home!” In stepped Warrant Officer Moberly — the only NCO in the country, maybe on the planet, to earn a degree in dramatic arts before becoming a military lifer. SNAFU or not — Moberly was a dick.
The lounging soldiers sprang to their feet. It felt like jump school all over again, a ridiculous sentiment given the run of bars and stripes on most of the men’s fatigues. Moberly continued:
“First off — no, we don’t know why. We don’t know why Grandma crawled up your leg with a butcher knife last night, or why your neighbor, foaming at the mouth, ate your pet cat. Civvie radio talks about some kind of bioweapon of Chinese or Russian origin, but that ain’t our business. Our job is how not why.”
“All you need to know — John Hopkins is on lockdown, and any trouble we run into will just as likely from rioting than from…whatever those people are. You’ll see the rioters pounding the glass — the terminally ill — begging for treatment. It’ll break your heart, make you wanna claw your chevrons off. Regardless, don’t acknowledge them, don’t fetch them anything and for Christ sake’s — don’t let them in.”
Moberly laid out the clean-up plan and debriefed. C Company split off into buddy teams and headed for their designated floor. Their orders — all “stiffs” picked up, hauled to the cafeteria and piled in the walk-in freezer by twenty-two hundred.