by Mike McKay
By the emergency roster, Mark was assigned to get both junior CSIs from the Sheriff's Office and form an emergency coroner team. Presumably, they would go around somehow and decide if any dead were strictly the hurricane victims or the victims of the human violence. To investigate the latter, there was another emergency team, headed by Alex the Russian Bear, with Alan Moss for a medical examiner and a couple of deputies for the firearm support. Mark found his emergency response team in the garage shack behind the Station. Natalie, in her scene coverall and Tom, dressed in ascetic cut-off jeans, stood on top of a deflated ‘Zodiac’ boat and scratched their heads how to bring the little monster back to life. The Police obtained these boats ten years ago, from the military surplus, – back then, a category of military surplus still existed. By the time of the acquisition, the boats were already in their mature age. Now, ten years later, the synthetic rubber was at its final.
Natalie stomped the goddamn rubber with her bare foot. “We christen this mighty ship USS Hole in One,” she announced, breaking an imaginary bottle of Champagne over an imaginary ship hull. “I am afraid if we decide going out in one of these, we will be the first clients of the Coroner office – ourselves!”
“If we decide going out in one of these, we should be the first clients of the Shrink office instead,” Tom smiled, “to venture out in this piece of junk, especially during the hurricane, you must have five-inch cockroaches in your head! After it all blows over and with great caution – yes. On calm water, this will hold a couple of bodies. Hopefully. By the way, Mark, I've got the service records from the Pentagon DB, but didn't have time to sort them out yet. So I was told, the boat fixing has higher priority now.”
“No worries, Tom,” Mark nodded. “Priority is priority. Do you want me to give you a hand with these?”
“No, sir. Don't get infected with our madness. Or you will get those five-inch cockroaches in your head too…”
Mark returned to his office and did the hurricane preparations of his own. After carefully marking each murder location with a pencil, he removed the color pins and folded the map from the wall. The pages with victims' details went into the same folder. He synchronized his phone with the laptop, unplugged the keyboard, mouse and screen, pulled few files from the desk drawers, and packed everything into a carton box marked: ‘FBI CASE EVIDENCE. EVACUATE – FIRST PRIORITY.’ Now, in case they needed to move the offices to the roof-top, he would be ready.
Mary called Mark around half past six, screaming frantically into the phone. “Mark! Samantha wants to go to the plant! I said: no way! But she keeps telling me it's OK.”
“Is she going alone or with Frederick?”
“They are going all together. Fred's Marty too. On Mike's trike.”
“Oh, I guess it's OK, honey. Let Samantha go. After all, in case of any floods, they can run to the 'Fill. It's the highest point in Houston, or so I was told.”
“The highest point, my ass!” But she already sounded more relaxed. “The schools are officially off. They made an announcement on the SRTV. So everybody else is staying home.”
“Of course, honey, everybody else stays. You know what to do. Check the windows. Make sure the phones are fully charged. And the torch-lights. Ask Patrick to find our emergency radio. It is somewhere between his toys – in the boys' room… Get few bottles of water upstairs…”
“C'mon, darling! This is not the first time,” Mary replied. She already calmed down and now her tone was all-business. Surely she did not need any of his instructions. Before the Meltdown, the Government spent millions of taxpayers' money to make these stupid TV clips: ‘WHAT TO DO IF THERE IS AN EMERGENCY.’ Now, living in the state of a permanent emergency for the last fourteen years, the American common sense kicked back in, and the people knew what to do without any clips.
Mark helped Benito Ferelli to pack the Station Chief's papers, then wandered around the Station, offering help here and there. In the little CSI conference room, Mark saw Alan Moss, who was cleaning his service ‘Glock,’ while two young policemen and Alex were removing the storage grease from ‘Uzi’ sub-machine guns and stuffing the magazines with ammo. Not a bad idea, Mark decided. He returned to his office, took rags and oil from the bottom drawer, spread some old papers over the desk and started disassembling his own gun.
Benito popped his head in, smiled, and boasted: “Believe it or not, I cleaned my gun yesterday. For no apparent reason! Suddenly it clicked in my head: it should be cleaned. As if I knew this morning there would be an emergency. By the way, if you need more ammo, go check the weapons' room. The Sheriff had been a good boy today, – by his orders, we can open the reserve.”
“I have two full clips already,” Mark replied.
“Still, go get some more, man. You never know if you will need 'em. Store is no sore. And – should you get ‘Uzis’ for Natalie and Tom?”
“I think, we can skip it. Unlike the clients of the Bear and Alan, our customers will not shoot back. The dead don't know how to shoot, even if they are – zombies. However, if so happens, and we lose an ‘Uzi,’ – we will have to write excuses till the Christmas.”
“Probably, you're right,” Benito agreed. As it often happened in emergency situations, now they had absolutely nothing to do. Within the resources available to them, the Station was ready. Even acorn coffee and sandwiches were sent to the Station by some proactive shop owners. Now the Police force had to wait for the hurricane to come, and then – respond as necessary. Mark finished assembling his gun and went to the weapons' room for the extra ammo. As he walked past the screen in the lobby, there had been an update. The hurricane Arthur had been upgraded to the Category-5.
By about the mid-day, the Bear's team got their first call. Somewhere in the south of the area, there had been an armed robbery, and a food shoppe owner got shot. Alex, Alan and two deputies packed themselves into the yellow Police raincoats and rubber boots and went to investigate. Mark's team was not invited. The victim had a bullet hole in his forehead, – hardly a death from the natural causes, and the coroner services were clearly unnecessary.
Before the Meltdown, there used to be massive raids on the supermarkets during the natural disasters. Even the law-obeying citizens would run in to get themselves a tin of baby formula or a shrink-wrapped pack of bottled water. A Police cruiser would be dispatched. Most often than not, they would be peacefully standing at the entrance and watching the show. The United States was not China or North Korea, and nobody could give orders to shoot the armless, even if not strictly non-violent, crowd. Besides, all these Wal-Marts and Walgreens would be properly insured, – the little looting was hardly a loss for the millionaire owners. After the Meltdown, the world was different. There would be no supermarket looting tonight. Due to the complete lack of the supermarkets. The owners of tiny stalls and shops would protect their twenty feet of shelf space with their dear lives. Those twenty feet was all they had, and none of the insurance companies had survived the crisis. The owners were by now probably already sitting inside their locked vending spots, the doors and windows – bolted shut, the cartridges – in the gun chambers, the fingers – on the triggers. No looting anymore, but a tough fast-draw competition, the Wild West style. The lucky would be the one who shoots first and hits the target. If the robber – the Bear and his team would go to investigate. And if the shop owner was luckier, Mark, Tom and Natalie would come first to make sure everything was within the reasonable measures of self-defense.
About half past one, Mark's phone beeped with the private call. Mary called again, and again – with the worried voice. “Mark? Davy's fever is back! I got it measured – one hundred and three degrees! We must bring him to the doctor, what do you reckon? Ris wants to go herself, but with her belly…”
Mark looked through the window. Outside, the rain already was hitting hard, but looking at the tree tops, the wind was not too strong yet. “OK, honey, listen in. Clarice should not go, especially alone. Let's do this. Clarice will stay home, with your Dad,
Pamela and Patrick. You go with William. OK, he will not be much of a help, but at least you will not be alone.”
“I'd rather go alone. Through this bloody rain, will be difficult carrying Davy and guiding William at the same time.”
“No, honey. Going alone is not very wise. Well, what you may do. Clarice still has that sling? To carry the baby on the back? I saw it, she was checking it another day. Try it. If it fits, William will carry Davy, and you can be a full-time guide. With your arms free.”
“All right, sounds like a plan. We will not go far. The Doctor Smiths' office, less than half a mile away. The only problem, I can't reach him on the phone. I tried five times already. It says the phone is switched off or out of the network area.”
“Never mind. Maybe, his battery got flat, or something wrong with the tower. Go anyway. If Smiths is not at home, down the same street, there is a licensed paramedic. As far as I remember… Mister Bhapari, or something like this. Well, try to find someone. Oh yeah, don't forget to take all the money with you. In the secret place…”
“All the money?” Mary asked. Mark mentally counted how much they still had hidden away inside the plastic box of now unused electric garage door lifter.
“Take all! In the garage, there should be about forty grand. And another twelve – in the bedroom. And ask Clarice, they may have a thousand or so stashed away. Who knows how much the drugs might be, especially the antibiotics. And – during the bloody hurricane. Well, I am thinking now. Should I come home to help you through this doctor business?”
“Nah! In this kind of weather? It will take you two hours – just to get here. And by that time – we surely can find no doctor. We will manage…”
What the bloody wrong time! Mary was right, Mark thought. Looking at the rain and the picking wind, even two hours might be not enough to get home. It would be about four PM. After that – he had to walk back to the Station. As a very minimum, four hours all together, plus the time to find the doctor. He only could be back to the Station after dark. Unfortunately, neither the hurricane Arthur, nor Mark's emergency duties could be canceled. Well, hopefully, our little Davy was only having a little cold…
Tom came to the office door and scratched his fingers at the jamb. “Problems, sir?”
“Yeah, something like it. My grandson has some serious fever, and we need to bring him to see a doctor, but the weather… Have you seen what is going on outside? It's raining like hell! Perhaps, there will be some flush-flooding too. How are your ‘Zodiacs,’ by the way?”
“Inflated and holding. So far… Natalie went to take a little nap. In the slammer. There are no other occupants. No arrests have been done since the morning… Ah, why I came: I got all the Pentagon records sorted, as you requested, sir. The age from twenty-five to forty, from five-eight to five-ten in height, whites and white Latinos. All together, sixty-nine candidates, sir. Should be already in your mail box.”
“Oh, thank you so much, Tom,” Mark lifted his phone from the desk. The e-mail was already there. “You should not make yourself tired.”
“Tired? If I do something like this, I actually enjoy it! Beats the bootlegged petrol every time.”
“OK. Let see what we have for the catch-of-the-day.” Viewing the files on the tiny telephone screen would be uncomfortable, so Mark got up from his chair, opened the prepared for the evacuation carton and extracted his laptop. After a couple of minutes, on the computer screen there was the first personnel record: a young handsome officer. Mark began reading aloud the curt military-bureaucratic definitions: “Bradley, Samuel O. A Cadet, the West Point, 2012… Bradley… Such a cool surname for a cadet, right?”
“Like the General Bradley, or like ‘M3 Bradley,’ the fighting vehicle?”
“I guess, both. Yep. His cool surname worked out well… Graduated – with honors, 2016, half a year before the Meltdown. A Second Lieutenant, assigned to the UN peacekeeping force in Somalia, 2017. An Army Achievement Medal. After Somalia: a First Lieutenant, Mexico, 2018. Got himself a Silver Star.”
He continued reading just with his eyes. After the Mexico, there was Libya, 2020. Our young First Lieutenant participated in the ill-conceived operation Gas Shield. Or rather the Gas Gangrene, as Jack-the-Rapper called it? Next, simultaneously: a Distinguished Service Medal, a Purple Heart, a Captain's rank, and an honorable discharge from the Army. At such sad note, the brilliant service record had ended. The last known address was listed as ‘The New Hope Homes Open Type Institution for the Disabled Veterans,’ at the Wallisville Highway, Highlands, Texas. The boxes for ‘phone’ and ‘e-mail address’ both contained the quiet ‘NA.’ A West Point graduate with honors, decorated with medals, and honorably discharged Captain Samuel O. Bradley now was of no interest to the Pentagon.
“This one is unlikely to be a potential client, Tom,” Mark concluded, closing the PDF. “Most likely, one of those Gas Gangrene rejects. Perfectly stumped.”
“What do you mean: ‘Perfectly stumped’?” The CSI was surprised by Mark's conclusion and the definition straight out of the Jack-the-Rapper mouth.
“Oh I'm sorry. That's an internal joke. From some bloke at our local market. Never mind… You, Tom, better go join Natalie in the slammer. The bloody Arthur is in the Category-5 already! We will have a busy night. I'll shuffle the records for a couple of hours. Maybe, my wife will call – from the doctor. And then – I will wake up Natalie, and catch some Zees myself.” By the way, Mark thought, while Natalie was in the standby mode, she could start modifying the photos of the first ninety-two candidates. The black T-shirts, the longer hair, the unshaven look, and all the other stuff.
“Very well, sir. I am on my way to the Station jail! As an employee, I should be allowed to use the customer facilities once in a while!”
Mark opened the next file from the archive, read it, and took a photo screenshot for his folder. This guy served in the ‘Navy SEALs,’ and was honorably discharged, but without the Purple Heart, indicating he was not wounded in combat. Either got sick with something very serious, or managed to get himself crippled during an exercise? Either way, for a time being, the name should be added to the list of suspects…
After sitting for about an hour, Mark selected about a dozen of the potential candidates for further checking. The next personnel form appeared on the screen. Spalding, Eric. The surname was vaguely familiar. Spalding, Spalding – ah! Two days ago, Samantha mentioned this surname. The night watchman at their synthetic gasoline plant. ‘A bit weirdo,’ she said.
On the file photo, Mark saw a young officer in the gray uniform of the West Point graduate. Manly, a bit skinny, face, slightly narrowed eyes, and a proudly raised chin. Mark began to read the text of the form. A Cadet, the West Point Academy, 2010. Graduated with honors, 2014. This looked like a copy of the Captain Bradley's record, the one from the very first card, only shifted two years earlier. A Second Lieutenant, 2014-2015, special training at the FBI Academy, Quantico, Virginia. Here, it started getting rather unusual. The young officer was not deployed to fight a war, but was sent to study a bit more. Well, back then, the USA did not fight as many wars as now. Afghanistan, Iraq, and a bit later: Iran, Mexico, Quebec, and Bulgaria. Before the Meltdown, there was no draft, the armed forces were staffed exclusively by volunteers.
After the Quantico, it was even more interesting. A First Lieutenant, 2016, the United Military Command, Arlington County, Virginia. What the hell would a lieutenant do in there? The Pentagon was such an unusual place: the lieutenants mean nothing, colonels brew coffee for generals and admirals! It made no sense to take a with-honors West Point graduate, teach him for two years in Quantico, and at the end of all this advanced training – stick him into the routine guard and garrison duties. OK, our lieutenant might be related to some big shot in Washington. After the Meltdown, daddy comfortably parked his offspring out of harm's way; no need to go and fight the wars as everybody else.
But it was not the case! In 2017, the young First Lieutenant got himself a Distinguis
hed Service Medal and a Purple Heart. How would one earn a Distinguished Service Medal in the Pentagon's five walls? By kissing a five-star general in the butt? At the same time, dislocating your jaw, so a Purple Heart would be also due? Sure, in the Pentagon one can get a medal or two for the butt-kissing. But those medals would be way below the soaring level of the Distinguished Service Medal! That could only mean one thing. The First Lieutenant Spalding was only listed in the Pentagon staff, but served someplace else. And not very safe place either, judging by the medals. Very interesting!