by JJ Zep
Skye said nothing. The quicker she let him say his piece, the quicker she agreed to his terms, the sooner she’d be loose.
“You’ll cook for me, clean for me, do whatever else I tell you to do.” He ran his gaze over her naked flesh sending a ripple of revulsion running through her.
“Oh, I’m not asking you to fuck me or anything.” Messenger gave a phlegmy chuckle. “That blue shit is some kind of high, but despite the color it ain’t no Viagra, quite the opposite in fact. Anyway, I prefer exploring with my hands. Back in the day, when Cleveland’s finest were falling over themselves trying to catch me, they used to call me The Handyman. Want to know why?”
“No,” Skye said. She really didn’t want to know. In fact, if he started telling her, she was going to start screaming so she didn’t have to hear.
Daniel stirred in his arms. Messenger shushed him.
“So you’ll cook for me, clean for me. You’ll be my wife. In exchange I’ll let you and your boy live. You’ll have free range of the property during the day. I mean, where you going to run to with a year old baby, right? At night, I’m going to have to tie you down, just in case you get it in your head to run a knife through my black heart while I’m asleep. You agree?”
“What have you done with my family?”
Messenger averted his gaze. “You were there, you saw.”
“What have you done with them?”
“Sent them to a better place, gave them a decent Christian burial.” He sniffed the air like a predator, seemed to savor the barbeque stench. “Well, a decent cremation at least.”
Skye let out a dry sob. Her stomach churned and for a moment she was sure that she was going to throw up. She fought hard to maintain her composure. There’d be a time for grieving and for taking stock, for allowing her brain to process the atrocity that had occurred here. Now wasn’t the time. Now she had to be strong. For her son’s sake.
“How do I know you won’t just kill us once you’re done playing happy families?”
“You don’t,” Messenger said. “That’s the simple truth of it. The alternative is, I kill you right now.”
He stood up from the bed, laid the baby down gently beside her and withdrew a long-bladed knife from his belt. “What’s it going to be?” he said.
thirteen
The Humvee carrying Charlie to his new posting came to a halt at the intersection of Imperial and Adams. Here, a tangle of razor wire had been pulled across the road in haphazard fashion. To one side of the intersection, a sandbagged bunker had been constructed under the canopy of a gas station forecourt. The barrel of a twenty-mil protruded from over the sandbags, its elevation suggesting that an aerial attack was expected. If that were the case, the gun would have to fire itself. No gunner was at the trigger.
“Want me to get out and open the gate, Lieutenant?” the driver asked.
“Hell no,” Charlie said. “Son of a bitch is asleep at his post. Allow me to deliver his alarm call.”
He levered the door open and stepped out into a glare of sunlight, the blast of thermo charged air. It was barely mid-morning and the thermometer was already into the low hundreds. Charlie felt his boot heels sink into the tacky blacktop underfoot. He approached the wire, easily stepped over the poorly constructed barrier then walked directly towards the bunker.
Even as he approached he could hear the prodigious snores of the sentry. It sounded as though a drift of hogs had invaded the post.
Charlie stopped in front of the bunker and peered in. The sentry was sprawled on his back, a sandbag serving as his pillow, his feet resting on an empty ammo case. His shirt was unbuttoned to the navel, exposing a barrel-like belly. The man’s mouth was open, a thin trail of drool buffeted by his thunderous exhalations.
Charlie leaned in and made sure that the safety of the 20-mil was engaged. Then he got a hand on the barrel of the weapon, righted it and spun it on its tripod so that it was trained on the sentry. He closed his fist on the cocking handle, pulled it back and released it.
The metallic clunk of the weapon did its job better than any alarm clock. The sentry’s eyes flew open, his hands flailed, simultaneously grasping for the weapon that was no longer there and trying to gain a hold on the sandbagged wall. He tried to stand, fell back, tried again and eventually gained his footing. Then he spotted Charlie and his eyes flew open almost as wide as his mouth had been a moment ago.
“You’re dead, soldier,” Charlie said as the sentry tried to come to attention while buttoning his shirt.
“Sorry sir,” the soldier blubbered. “The heat just got the better of me.”
“Could have happened to any of us right?”
“Yes sir,” the sentry said, visibly relieved.
“No, it fucking well couldn’t,” Charlie snarled. “When you’re on guard, every person living behind this wire is relying on you. What would have happened if a herd of Z’s had blundered through here while you were asleep, or worse still, quick Z’s? You think your piss poor attempt at a barrier is going to keep them out?”
“Won’t happen again, Lieutenant,” the sentry said. Brunsden, his name was, by the nametag above his breast pocket.
“Make sure that it doesn’t,” Charlie said. “Your HQ still set up at the high school?”
“Yes sir.”
“Then open the gate and let us through.”
Brunsden scrambled over the top of the bunker, crossed to the barrier and pulled aside a section of razor wire mounted on a wooden frame. Charlie waited for the Humvee to roll through and then got on board. As they headed down Imperial Avenue he was astounded by how generally unkempt the town looked, the streets strewn with garbage, broken down vehicles clogging the road in places, discarded furniture and clothing on the sidewalk, even a few dead Z’s left to slowly marinade in the desert sun. A SUV and a couple of pickups passed them, heavy laden with items of furniture and other effects. Charlie had seen at least three convoys as he’d made his way south from Pendleton. What the hell was going on here?
fourteen
Inside, the high school was abuzz with activity, soldiers hustling fro and hither, all of them heavy laden. Following the path of these military worker ants, Charlie realized that they were headed out of the building. It was almost as though the town was being evacuated. That, of course, was impossible. They’d hardly have posted him here if they were in the process of abandoning the town.
Obtaining directions to the former administration office, he found Colonel Jake Duma directing the removal of radio equipment. Duma, then a major, had been one of Charlie’s instructors during basic training. He was a solid guy.
Charlie snapped off a salute, which Duma returned. “Come on in, Lieutenant. Excuse the mess. Pendleton does have a habit of springing things at the last moment.”
“If you don’t mind my asking sir, what the hell’s going on?”
Duma barked out a reprimand to a soldier who was rolling cable in a way that didn’t quite meet with his approval. When he turned back towards Charlie, he was wearing a frown. “You don’t know?”
“Begging your pardon, sir, know what?”
Now Duma really looked confused.
“My orders are that you were coming down as the new watch commander.”
“Watch commander?” Charlie said. “I was told I was being assigned as a section chief under your command.”
“Hell no, son. No call for that now that El Centro’s being downgraded.”
“Downgraded, sir? I don’t understand.” He was beginning to form a pretty good idea though. Harrow. Harrow had screwed him over not just once, but twice.
Duma blew through his teeth. “Well this is a cluster fuck. Goddamn military intelligence, huh. Now there’s an oxymoron for you. How about you show me yours, I show you mine and we see if we can piece this thing together. Let’s walk and talk.”
He left the office at a fair clip, leaving Charlie in his wake. “Here’s what I know,” he said talking over his shoulder. “General Harrow sent me down a
n order late last evening, only got it this morning because my orderly didn’t think it was worth waking me for. El Centro has been declared non viable as a fortified settlement.”
“Non viable?”
“That’s right.”
Duma shouted an order to two soldiers carrying a desk between them. “Not that! What the fuck are we going to do with that?”
“Truth is,” Duma continued, “we’ve been bleeding settlers over the last six months, all of them heading up the road to that tin shack city at Pendleton. Can’t say I blame them, ration cuts have been deep and ever since that last tremor destroyed the aqueduct, agriculture in these parts has been a non-starter.”
They’d exited the building now and stood on the steps overlooking the parking lot, where a small fleet of military transports was being loaded up.
“I’m still not sure where this puts me, sir.”
“General Harrow really didn’t tell you shit did he?”
“No sir, he didn’t.”
Duma gave Charlie a look that might have passed for sympathy. “El Centro is now the southern and eastern most outpost of the Pendragon Empire.” The last two words were delivered in a tone that was unmistakably sarcastic. “As such, it is an important strategic asset. Harrow wants a listening post set up here, under your command.”
“A listening post?”
It all made sense now. Harrow was setting him up. Setting him up in an abandoned town in the middle of Z infested territory. He might as well have strapped a steak to his ass and thrown him to a pack of starving wolves.
fifteen
By the time the last of the military transports departed the schoolyard, the sun was drawing water out over the Pacific. Duma lingered a while longer, standing with Charlie on the steps and looking out over the abandoned parking lot. In the west, the sky was a three-tiered kaleidoscope, red, then golden, then blue, fading into black. Closer at hand, insects chittered and buzzed in near dark, the first stars were out, Duma’s Humvee idled on the blacktop.
“I’m sorry about this, son,” Duma said. “Seems to me you drew the shortest straw on this one.”
Charlie didn’t reply.
“I left you as much ammo and rations as I could. More than Harrow ordered, but a hell of a lot less than you’ll need.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Hell, don’t thank me son. I just cast you off down shit stream without a paddle.”
“I appreciate you’re following orders, sir.”
“Orders my ass,” Duma grumbled. “I feel like I’m handing you over for an execution.”
Charlie didn’t want to pursue the subject of his imminent demise. Neither did he want Duma to feel guilty about something over which he had no control. “Tell me about your perimeter defenses, sir.”
Duma seemed glad of an opportunity to change the subject. “Well, we’ve got wire drawn around the grid formed by Adams, Imperial, 4th and the I-8. Too damn thinly drawn but the best we could do in the circumstances. I got sentry post at eight major intersections. You won’t be able to maintain those with the men you’ve got now.”
“Broadcast sites?”
“Had a number of those along the perimeter. Been instructed to take them down. Those positioned around the school though, I’ve left in place. Got those broadcasting now, in fact. If Harrow asks, I forgot them in the rush to evacuate the town.”
“I appreciate that, sir.”
“Least I could do.”
Charlie quickly computed the information that Duma had given him. But for the puny razor wire he’d seen earlier, the town now lay open to the Z’s. The school itself was protected by the frequency being broadcast from antennae positioned around the periphery, but anyone beyond those boundaries was on their own.
“Any civilians left in town?” he asked.
Duma nodded. “The Morales clan. Tico Morales and his extended family. They’ve got themselves a place at the old National Guard building on 4th Street, about five blocks east of here. Crazy sum bitch refuses to budge.”
“Shouldn’t I bring them in to the school?”
“You can try,” Duma chuckled “You can try.”
They stood in silence as the last of the light bleached out of the day. Eventually Duma let out a long sigh, turned to Charlie and offered his hand.
“Good luck, Lieutenant.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“You give me a shout up in Pendleton if there’s anything you need. If it’s in my power, I’ll get it done.”
“Appreciate that, sir.” Charlie freed his hand from Duma’s grip, stepped back and offered a salute. Duma returned the gesture, then started down the steps towards the waiting Humvee.
Halfway down, Charlie stopped him with the question that had been bugging him ever since he’d seen the Z’s lying dead on Imperial Avenue.
“Colonel Duma, sir, one more question if you don’t mind.”
Duma stopped and turned towards him.
“You get any Quicks around here?”
Duma hesitated a moment. “We see them from time to time,” he said, then turned on his heel and walked quickly to his vehicle.
“Bullshit,” Charlie muttered under his breath. That moment of hesitation had told him a lot more than the words Duma had spoken.
sixteen
An army marches on its stomach, Napoleon is famously quoted to have said. Charlie found some truth in that, although in his experience weapons, ammo and diesel fuel came in handy too. Duma had suggested that the base was inadequately supplied with those commodities and Charlie was going to have to check that out as soon as possible. But first, he wanted to inspect the perimeter defenses. After that he’d do a quick inventory and then address the men.
He waited until the drone of Duma’s Humvee had merged with the relative silence of the night. Then he descended the steps to the parking lot.
The school consisted of a cluster of building, joined together by a network of tree lined concrete pathways. The concrete had long since warped and cracked, but Duma had kept the paths free of weeds and debris.
He turned right, angled towards the perimeter fence, chain link augmented with razor wire and covered in some kind of flowering vine, which obscured the view of the street. He could hear them out there. Buzzing away like moths around a hurricane lamp. He peered through a gap in the vegetation and caught a glimpse of them on the other side of the road, held there by the inaudible frequency transmitting from the perimeter antennae. There were maybe twenty of the creatures but it was early yet. Charlie fancied that more would be along before the night was through.
He continued his exploration, tracking along the fence, passing the sports fields and the dry bowl that had once been the swimming pool. He encountered three roving sentries on his sojourn, introducing himself and exchanging words before moving on. The rovers were a waste of manpower given the area to be covered. It would be much more effective to put a couple of men on the roof of the gym, equipped with night vision glasses (provided, of course, he’d been left any).
Charlie didn’t bother calling on the main gate. He planned on passing that way later this evening. Instead, he walked to the admin block, where Duma had had his HQ and where a corporal was now manning a radio set.
“At ease, Corporal,” Charlie said, as the man snapped to attention.
He waited for the corporal to retake his seat, then asked. “Anything happening out there tonight?”
“Not in our quadrant, sir. Couple of contact reports out towards Pendleton, not much else.”
The Corporal’s name was Galvin and he had thick red hair and a spattering of freckles across his nose and cheeks. As it turned out he doubled as the quartermaster, so Charlie was saved the time of hunting down that individual.
The storeroom was situated in the southeastern corner of the cluster of buildings. Galvin led the way, a portable radio set slung over his shoulder so that he could continue monitoring transmissions. Reaching the stores, he disengaged a series of padlocks before swing
ing open a steel door on a blackened space beyond. Galvin got a kerosene lamp going, throwing light on a small office. Beyond that stood four cages, two to either side, partitioned from one another by wire mesh. A narrow walkway passed between them. The cages were all but empty. In the forward two were a couple of stacks of cans, some without stickers, others with labels that identified the contents variously as baked beans and corned beef, those staples of military cuisine. In addition, there were a few bags marked coffee, sugar, and rice, as well as some loose cans of condensed milk. There was also a pallet load of pineapple chunks.
The second cage contained a prodigious supply of toilet paper, as though the Pendragon Corporation anticipated an imminent plague of diarrhea. But it was the third and fourth cages that concerned Charlie most. In the third, a single case of 7.62 ammunition and a single case of 5.56mm occupied the central floor space, along with a few scattered boxes of 9-mil and shotgun shells. A dismembered M-60, obviously unserviceable, stood against a wall. The other cage contained a barrel of diesel fuel and a few plastic canisters marked ‘Kerosene.’ In addition there were a couple of 1-liter containers marked PRI-FR – fuel restorer. This was one of the Corporation’s few technical success stories, drop a capful into a bucket of even the most algae-infested and water-diluted sludge and within ten minutes you’d have useable diesel.
“This it?”
“ ‘Fraid so, sir. ‘Fraid they cleaned us out.”
“When do we get resupplied?”
“Thursday, sir.”
Thursday! That was four days away. This stuff wouldn’t last more than a couple of days. Not unless they confined themselves to eating pineapple chunks and wiping their asses.
seventeen
“Ten shun!”