by Tufo, Mark
“Shelter.” As I said the word aloud, ice broke away from my lips. I looked down to my covered legs; I wasn’t sure I could even get up. “Gotta try, right?” I asked, they did not respond, nor did they agree. “For fuck's sake, legs! Move!” I slammed a fist down, dimly aware I’d not felt much, almost like I’d hit a block of concrete. “Fine, be obstinate. I’ll do this without you.” I leaned over and plunged my hands into the snow. There was a fair amount of pain emanating from my near frost-bitten hands. I started dragging my useless back end. I was wondering if it would be possible for me to run across one of those little wheelie devices that are made for dogs that are unable to use their hindquarters. Eventually, my legs decided to get in on the action instead of making snow snakes. I was crawling, making decent time—in comparison to a statue. I made sure to not look too long at my uncovered hand, as it was turning the same color as my gloved one. Somewhere in my mind was telling me this was just like being fucked hard, the participant leaving with your whisky and your favorite t-shirt, and not so much as tossing a few dollars on the bureau for your time. Slightly graphic, but it conveys the appropriate image. Definitely not eloquently, but when one is in the process of freezing to death, there’s not much room for articulation.
Even over the howling of the wind, I could hear my knees popping as I extended them. I needed to stand. Even if I was somehow able to crawl the entire way towards the noise, I would become a snowplow and suffocate before I got there. I was in some strange, crab-walking pose, my knees and hands vying for top spot in the pain-inducing event, my back coming in a not so distant third. I stood up; took two steps before my right knee gave a hard “No.” and locked up. I fell face forward, barely able to get my hands out to cushion the fall, though it wouldn’t have mattered all that much. The snow was high enough now I wouldn’t have struck with all that much force. I sat up, my face stinging even more than it had been, and now came the gargantuan task of standing again. I’m more than a little ashamed to admit I was ready to call it. If there had been any point to this, it had been rapidly dulling.
“You fucking baby! No, I take that back. Babies constantly fight for their right to life.” Can’t even berate myself correctly. I pushed up, wobbling in the gusts. I went back to my old standby mantra: “One more step.” Actually got to seven of them before my foot rolled off to the side—a rock, a body, didn’t matter—I was once again down in the snow and whatever stores of energy I had were finally depleted. If I were a cell phone, there might have been a momentary flash of my brand name before the screen went dark. My eyes were open, but the snow stopped melting and was now beginning to stick to my eyeballs. If I’d cared enough to judge, I’m sure it was a pretty uncomfortable predicament. That was it, all I had. Then I felt myself lifting into the air, and of that, I was surprised, as I figured I was going to be dragged down, rather, into the underworld. I was puzzled as I looked down and did not see my body.
“Where the fuck did I go?” I croaked.
“That’s what I was asking,” BT said. He had picked me up and was moving quickly.
“I’m the officer and you’re no gentleman. Plus, I should be carrying you.”
“As if you could. Now shut up, you sound delirious.”
“I love you, man.” I passed out at that point, but not before he responded in kind.
I woke up with a start. I was under a foil blanket, my hands wrapped in heavy gauze, Gary was seated next to me. The snow was still falling, but not at the blizzard rate it had been.
“Where are we?” My throat was parched. My brother handed me a canteen.
“Most of the way down the mountain,” he answered.
“Be happy you weren’t awake for that.” BT was in the shotgun seat; I could see the indents he had made on the dashboard from where he had gripped it.
“Everyone else?” I sat up.
I saw the look BT gave Gary.
“What aren’t you telling me?”
“Mike, maybe we should wait.”
“BT, I don’t need placation; I’m not a delicate flower. Tell me what’s going on.”
“Springer was bitten,” he said quickly, as if the words themselves tasted bitter. “Ripped two of his fingers clean off, chewed through a fair portion of his hand. We did the only thing we could.”
There was shock at first; this was replaced by anger rather quickly. “Who shot him?” I was thinking of the scarring effects that this was going to have on that particular individual.
“He’s still alive. Winters amputated his hand. He’s in the Hummer ahead, trying to stabilize him and get him back to the base,” Gary said.
“Will that work?” I asked aloud.
“Winters seemed to think so,” BT said.
“This fucking clusterfuck! Lost another good squad member and didn’t even succeed on a mission designed for failure.” I tossed off my blanket, not even giving a shit I had nothing on underneath. Could tell everyone else in the Hummer was pissed as well, as they didn’t say anything, though Gary did toss me a shirt. “Anyone have any idea how the zombies got past the blockade?” If silence could echo, it would have done so. “How’d you find me?” I asked after a while.
“Blind luck. I had a rope tied around my waist so I wouldn’t get lost. Had to undo it to get the extra five feet to you.”
“Thank you.”
He nodded.
By the time we got to Eastman and our ride, the snow had stopped completely. My clothes were still soaked, but the alternative was hopping on to a plane in a shirt two sizes too small; couldn’t even pull it down far enough to cover the privates. And let’s be honest, that pose is only seductive to members of the opposite sex. I was happy to note they’d not received much more than a dusting here; it meant we could take off as soon as we were boarded.
“I was wondering if you were going to make it down. Tried to radio you; the base called a couple of hours after you left. They wanted to scrub the entire mission because of the front moving in,” Eastman said. His expression changed from happiness and relief upon seeing us, to concern as we began to come out of the vehicles. We very much looked like the “down-trodden” the Statue of Liberty promised she would take care of.
Winters and Kirby were working on getting Springer to the plane. He was the color of the ride he was boarding; gray, if that needs explaining.
“We need to get out of here,” I told Eastman.
He turned quickly and got in. Within a few seconds, the props were turning. We were loaded up, the equipment strapped in, and in the air in under ten. I leaned back. More than once I lightly tapped my skull on the body of the plane. I was wondering who I was going to kill first. Again I was shivering, but this was not from the cold; this was anger. When we touched down, there was an ambulance waiting for us. Major Dylan helped load the stretcher and bring Springer into the vehicle.
“The rest of you head home,” I said as I climbed in the back. I stayed out of the way as the major and a medic were diligently working on Springer; plastic bags, syringes, cotton balls were flying around like they were inside a cyclonic vacuum cleaner. The major had questions, but she was much too professional to ask anything while she worked on saving the private’s life.
Five minutes later, we were rushing through the hospital emergency doors. She gave a litany of medical terms to the team that took over once we got to the hospital. I jogged alongside the gurney until it pounded through the emergency surgery doors. A gentle hand on my chest let me know this was as far as I was going to be allowed to go. I wanted to push past and stay with him.
“There’s nothing you can do, Lieutenant. He’s going to be in surgery for hours.” Major Dylan said, standing before me. “Follow me, I’ll get you some clean, and more importantly, dry scrubs.”
When I came out of the bathroom donning my new clothes, the major was waiting for me. “Want a drink?” She started walking.
“No. What do you have?”
Walked into a plush office, not something generally associated with
military spaces. There was a large, brown leather couch and a mahogany desk with an office chair that could have fit two captains and a general. To one side was a liquor cabinet that a rock star would have been envious of, and under our feet, I’m no expert, but if I was a betting man, I would have gone with genuine Persian rug.
“I can see I’m not the only one supplying black market goods,” I said as she headed to the large cabinet.
“Whiskey?” She turned with a bottle in her hands, saw something about “aged twenty years.”
“Hate the stuff. I’ll take a double. Is Springer going to make it?”
“Between the shock and blood loss, I’m surprised he even made it here.” She plopped a couple of ice cubes in the glass, poured the amber colored liquid over them, and handed it over.
I took a large swig. “Smooth,” I managed to cough out as I bent my head down, shook it and winced.
“It’s meant to be sipped, not guzzled.”
“Yeah,” I said hoarsely after I took another gulp.
“You trying to get drunk?”
“Without a doubt.”
“Sit.” She motioned for one of the comfortable chairs that faced her desk. She went and sat at hers. “Tell me what happened.”
Maybe it was the whiskey, maybe it was the fact I considered her an ally, or maybe it was just that I needed to say something to someone. I told her all that had happened, how close my entire squad had come to being wiped out, how I felt that we’d been set-up from the beginning. She sat patiently, only stopping me a couple of times for clarification or to ponder a thought.
“Do you truly believe the colonel to be the one behind this?” she asked. “Because if you do, we’ve got some big problems to deal with.”
“We?” I asked. I shook my empty glass.
“You know where the booze is,” she said.
This time I went for vodka, wishing I had a splash of cranberry juice to throw in, but after the burn of whiskey, the vodka went down smooth as silk.
“Bruno likes you; he’d be mad if I let anything happen to you,” she said, referring to her mountainous dog.
“And you?”
“I don’t want to believe any of this, Lieutenant. I like it here. I like this new life I’ve carved out. I can finally say the name Emily…without crying.” I noted the hitch in her voice as she said what I figured to be her dead partner’s name. “But I cannot idly stand by if, indeed, the base commander is sending personnel out to their deaths or disfigurements. That goes against everything that I believe in.”
“I have no proof, Tabitha. I can’t very well go to the colonel with my suspicions.”
“Not everything has to be the blunt force way of the Marine. Like I said when we met, the examination room can be like a confessional. I will gather whatever information I can; in the meantime, you try and stay out of trouble.”
“Thank you for the drink,” I told her as I slammed down what I had. “Fuck.” My belly was an inferno from the added liquor.
“You should have mixed some cranberry juice in,” she said, pointing to the whole shelf full of mixers.
“Now you tell me.”
“Take care of yourself,” she said as I walked out and toward the waiting room; the rest of my squad was there.
“Work here now?” BT asked, referring to my scrubs.
“Yeah, this way I can start writing my own scripts,” I told him. He put an arm around my shoulder. I wouldn’t have minded a good long cry right about then, but now, more than ever, I needed to look like a pillar of strength for my squad, to let them know that there was an end to the long, lonely, and dark night.
We were all exhausted. The added booze wasn’t doing me any wonders. We were in various states of wakefulness as each of us tried to get comfortable on chairs seemingly designed for Medieval torture chambers. I had a fitful, tossing slumber, and a short dream I only mention here because it broke up the stress and worry I was feeling.
I had gone over to my sister’s house, which, in this dreamscape, was a small cottage out in the middle of the woods. Looked a lot like something Hansel and Gretel might have rolled up on. A pack of dogs the size of horses came out of the woods to sniff me; I didn’t feel fear, as they made it abundantly clear they were there to play. I didn’t think I’d be able to toss a stick large enough that they would feel worthy of retrieving. A tongue the size of a slab of beef drenched the entirety of the front of me. By the time I got to the front door and knocked, I was soaked in slobber.
“I’ve been waiting for you! I made some crème brûlée French toast,” my sister said as I stepped through the door. The food sounded fantastic, but all I could smell was the lingering lemon of antiseptic. What was stranger than the thought of my cooking-inhibited sibling making some fine cuisine was the version of BT waiting for me beside the kitchen table. BT is a large man; I think I’ve made that abundantly clear, but the one standing there was a steroid-induced nightmare. It would have been impossible for his muscles to be any more substantial; I could barely see his face as his pecs were so monstrous.
“Sit,” he boomed in a semi-Schwarzenegger Austrian accent. “I would join you but my thighs are not flexible enough to obtain that position.” He got into the classic, “I am going to win this competition” muscle-flexing pose, head turned, one arm pointing off into the distance, the other curled to show off the mini-mountain of bicep.
“Not hungry,” I said as I looked down. I should have known; even in a dream, my sister couldn’t cook. The thing on the plate looked like a half-cooked runny egg plopped on top of a cherry Pop Tart.
“You insult my mate?” BT’s eyebrows furrowed as he regarded me.
I should have been terrified, but if the thing across from me couldn’t sit, what were the odds it could run?
“Umm,” was all I could muster.
He made a fist the size of a cinderblock. “I cannot straighten my arm out enough to punch. I need you to run into this as fast as you can.”
I laughed at the hilarity of the muscle-bound man requesting that I hurt myself for his benefit. There was a lesson there; I wondered if I would learn anything from it.
“Lieutenant—Lieutenant Talbot.” I was gently shaken awake. My blurred vision took in Major Dylan.
“Yup, yup, I’m awake.” I wiped the heavy stream of drool away from my cheek. At least I knew where the dog slobber had originated as the dream fell away. The freakish BT, though, that was going to stick for a good long while.
“PFC Springer is out of surgery.”
“Yup. What? Right, sorry.” I sat up. I was reassembling the jumble in my brain until things started to make sense. “How is he?”
The rest of the squad was awake and aware and watching the exchange.
“He’s not out of the woods, but he is in recovery. He’ll be in isolation within the ICU until we’re sure.” She looked around. We all knew what that meant. If the infection hadn’t been stopped in time, he would be a zombie, and his end would come shortly thereafter. “You should all go home. He can’t accept visitors until tomorrow at the very minimum.”
Nobody moved. “You heard the doc. Everyone get home. Hug someone, get some sleep.” The squad slowly left the area, heads down as they went. Major Dylan nodded to me before going back to her office. Only BT remained.
“You going home?” he asked.
“I should.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It isn’t.”
“Don’t do the dancing around thing. Straight answer.”
“Right now, BT, I don’t know what I’m going to do. A part of me wants to shoot Bennington, snap Deneaux’s neck, and then maybe I go to the armory and start beating people with their own body parts.”
“Fuck, Mike.”
“I didn’t say it was a good part.”
“You need to go home, I need to go home. We get some rest, we meet and regroup, then figure out a strategy that doesn’t involve mass slaughter.”
“I was only going to kill
a couple of people. The others were merely going to be beaten.”
“Go home. Kiss your wife, hug your kids, play with the dogs—hell, maybe even pet the cat. We’ll talk tomorrow.”
“I suppose.” I was reluctant.
“Ever watch the Godfather?”
“Are you kidding? It’s a classic.”
“Remember when Tessio approached Michael about brokering peace?”
“Vaguely, man. Where are you going with this?” I asked.
“Well, like Vito warned Michael. The first person to approach you regarding peace or something similar, is likely the one that betrayed you.”
“So you’re saying let them come to me?”
“I am. Guilty parties are going to want to appear innocent in your eyes. It’s almost like they can’t help themselves.”
“I don’t think you’re giving our enemies enough credit, but I’ll play along until tomorrow, at least. See you then, my friend. And one more thing.”
“Yeah?”
“Don’t do any steroids tonight.”
“Certifiable, man. You should be quieter. They have a psyche ward here.”
And with his last words, I headed home. Foregoing the waiting ride, I walked. I wasn’t thinking of anything as I headed home, a phenomenon nearly every male is capable of. I know I’ve mentioned it before, but it’s worth stating again. This is something that women cannot for the life of them wrap their heads around. There is serenity and peace in this silence of the mind. Now, I’m not going to go all Buddhist monk and say I was receiving enlightenment; it was just nice to not add any more spin to the cyclone of destruction that generally goes on in my head. My quiet reverie was broken up as a big black Cadillac pulled up alongside the curb. The passenger window rolled down, and a thick fog bank of smoke poured out. Deneaux leaned over from the driver’s side.