by Byrd, Daniel
***
First Lieutenant Melissa Bartlett had heard enough garbage from Captain Allen Davenport for one lifetime. The snide bastard was just an overconfident prick to her. Having been made a captain in the Air Force just before the start of the infection of America, his attitude was more than she could handle. With that promotion came the greatest yet most obnoxious ego boost to the biggest ass she knew. Whoever said that hate stemmed from jealousy had this one all wrong; she just simply despised his personality. There was nothing to be jealous of. She'd had the displeasure of meeting his acquaintance enough to justify the “don’t judge someone until you get to know them” clause. After the painful experience of having to drop nuclear bombs on populated areas only three months before that could have very well contained living survivors, she had hoped that his cocky attitude would have diminished under the guilt by even a small margin. Of course, Bartlett knew she was setting expectations too high for the 'ace' pilot. Now here she was, squabbling with a younger man like a five year-old. “Damn you, Davenport! You're not the leader of the operation! McCall was given control of the squadron! Why the hell are you so adamant on being such an ass?!"
Captain Davenport laughed. “I'm just saying, I don’t mind the six of us being a team, but if it comes down to it, I want to drop the bomb on those bastards! I think I've earned it!"
Bartlett walked right up to Davenport, and though she was almost a foot shorter, she appeared even more intimidating to Davenport’s pilots gathered around. She was visibly shaking.
"I've had enough of your bullshit! I don't care if you outrank me, you don't get to just make decisions like that! I don't give a damn if you lost your friend back in Georgia, you don't get to simply claim this! It's not a game! We’re a squadron now, and if you want to be a captain, then fucking act like one!"
“Ouch. Savage,” one of Davenport’s wingmen chimed in. Bartlett didn't know Ra’Shaad at all, but if first impressions meant anything it was that he was a tall, dark-skinned man who she was surprised could meet the size requirement for being in the cockpit in the first place. That, and he was scary when he was looking down on you.
“You're going to defend his way of doing things? Really?”
Ra’Shaad shrugged. “He's my captain. Just because you and McCall have to tag along now doesn’t mean I’ll ignore the guy who’s gotten me this far. Besides, he's not wrong; dead are walking, and we need to fix that.”
“By reenacting the Southeastern U.S.? Just because he gets a kick out of killing innocents doesn't mean we all do. You'd think killing your friend would’ve fixed that mindset. How did it feel to drop those bombs on him, huh?”
She knew she'd probably struck a chord in Davenport with that one. Good. It wasn't a secret to her that Davenport had been forced to abandon a friend of his back in Georgia and likely left him for the undead in the process. Davenport kept the smirk about his face as he leaned down. “I had to kill a lot of people because of those assholes; I'm getting my revenge. Feel free to pick off the spares, Bartlett. That is, if my squad leaves any."
“Who says we will?” another of Davenport’s pilots spoke up, cackling at the thought of going easy on any enemy. Leonard Maynard was one Bartlett knew of. He was smart, and didn't belong in a plane. He had a brain for logistics if anything, but that was too far from the action. Another perfect fit for Davenport’s little band of hot shots. The last of Davenport’s wingmen standing further away mumbled something under his breath, and Bartlett was already in a bad mood.
“What did you say, you little brat?!” she barked.
Davenport waved a hand dismissively. “Don't mind Taylor. He doesn't talk much unless it's important. For all we know he was saying how much he likes your figure.”
“He can keep his comments to himself, whatever the hell they are.”
Davenport appeared to really be enjoying her frustration. “Feisty today, aren't we, First Lieutenant?”
The woman's body language spoke for her silence, and to everyone nearby watching the conflict unfold, it said “I'm about to lay this fucker out on the concrete floor of this hanger.” Her right hand clenched into a fist, but another pilot grabbed her wrist and shook it to get her attention. Bartlett looked to the captain of Grave Robber’s new Helsing Squadron and took a deep breath. Captain Luke McCall was a good man. He treated all of those under him as kids, but kids to be nurtured into proper fighter pilots. He didn't have many enemies in the branch, and those that did eye him with disdain were usually racked with jealousy. He gently pushed Bartlett back and stood between her and Davenport. He looked over his shoulder at Melissa.
"First Lieutenant, save the anger for the enemy. As for you," he said, turning his attention to Davenport, "I may not outrank you, but I've been a captain far longer than you have. We’re wingmen now. You've been through the same hell with us, and you know tensions are high. Besides, no one here is dropping a bomb on anything unless it's absolutely necessary. You should be grateful we aren't required to end anymore lives anytime soon. Our orders are to standby until we are needed, and you know that. Stop acting like a greedy nugget."
Captain Davenport nodded with his sly smile and stepped back. “All right, Captain. Fair word of advice though," he said, pointing two fingers at Melissa, "keep a tighter leash on your woman there."
Melissa had to exercise every ounce of self-control to keep from rushing past McCall and attempting to bash Davenport's head against the side of the F-15 behind him. Her captain was having just as hard a time. She knew he was overprotective of his wingmen, but the look he was giving Davenport must have been terrible, because even the ground crew began to disperse. A lone soldier who had been standing nearby listening in took the quiet yet alarming tension as his cue to back away slowly.
"Davenport," Captain McCall began, slowly walking up to the young man who must have made it a daily goal to piss off as many people as possible, "this isn't a game. People are dying, the dead aren't staying dead, men like us are needed, and you're picking fights with your own people. There is no high score. There is no kill count other than the one those deadmen are racking up. There is us, and them, and we don't need to divide ourselves up anymore. Stop making enemies, and start making alliances, because you'll damn well need them when the time comes. If you were to fight those things on the ground like anyone else and something happened, do you think any of the people you've mistreated would come to your rescue?" He didn't wait for an answer. “Honestly, I wouldn't blame them if they left you for dead, but they're better than that. They wouldn't. We're all in this together. There is no 'claiming' a kill. Our only claim is what we have left to defend. I've got my squadron, and you’re a part of that, whether you like it or not. What do you have, Captain?”
Davenport glared at him. His face wasn't just for giving women handsome looks; it also emphasized his aggression at having his delusions broken down. "Captain McCall, I claim honor; the honor of the fallen. I'm not going to just sit on my ass while the bastards responsible have their way with the world. I want to do something."
McCall's voice was low and threatening. “Then you can do something by following orders. You know that we are to have nothing to do with the operation to find the terrorists, and those were General Doe’s words. We're here for when we're needed, and we're here because we've proven ourselves. You should feel honor in that, and at least enough satisfaction to subdue your pride for a while. Now, get yourself together. Go take a nap if you need to. When we’re ready to fly, I’ll be sure you’re notified."
Davenport nodded with a mischievous smile, and cocked his head to his wingmen then out of the hanger door to signal for them to leave. He waited for them to clear the hanger and stand by for him. Grinning at McCall, he brushed his shoulder on the way out and began whistling a tune. Bartlett shook her head in disgust as Davenport and his men disappeared from view. The one soldier who had been standing by the hanger door caught her glaring at him and quickly went on his way.
"First Lieutenant?"
Bartlett spun around on her foot and snapped to a salute. “Sir!"
"At ease, and please stop picking fights with that kid. You wont win."
"But sir, he-"
"That's enough. Bartlett you're a good pilot, but if you don't learn to ignore even something as simple as that bastard," that drew a smile from her, "you'll never learn to ignore the things that can scar you for life. Like it or not, he’s your ally. Remember that when you’re in the air. The six of us can make all the difference in a combat scenario from the air, and if you’re too busy chasing after him because he pissed you off then we’re all screwed. I need the both of you not trying to kill this squadron before we’ve even had our first flight together."
Bartlett knew he was right. She was one to let everything get to her. She still couldn't get a decent night's sleep after the nuclear bombings three months ago that she had participated in. She was grateful for McCall's call to handle the drops himself so that she wouldn't have to bear the burden in her conscience, but she was still there. She was just as guilty.
"You're still haunted by Megacorpse?"
Bartlett came to and realized she had been staring at the captain's boots for some time while lost in thought. The other two squad members had already left as well. The ground crew was still gone. The two of them were somehow alone in the hanger. McCall noticed as well, and chuckled nervously.
"Lieutenant, if this is your idea of getting me alone, it's clever, but you're dampening relationships with the others. Besides, aren't you married?”
Bartlett could feel herself blushing. Stop it. He's an ass sometimes.
"I'm kidding, Bartlett. Stop letting things get to you. How are you supposed to captain a squadron of your own someday if you keep trying to kill one?"
"I figured I'd take over his position. He's not fit for it anyway," Melissa answered.
McCall covered his face with his right hand. “I'm going to pretend I didn't hear that.” He then placed that hand on her shoulder and directed her out of the hanger. “Let's give the nice ground crew some peace and quiet so they can do their jobs. I don't know about you, but I'm starving."
Bartlett wasn't arguing, but she wanted to get off of the topic of arguing with Davenport anyway. “So, what did the colonel say in the briefing this morning?"
McCall sighed. “He said that we should be prepared to be called upon at any moment, but for now, the Army and the CIA are playing their hand at finding the enemy's location, so we shouldn't do anything to interfere."
"I'm guessing it has something to do with that man they brought into the meeting back in Seattle?" Bartlett asked.
"Wait," McCall started, "how do you know about-"
"It's kind of hard for rumors of a madman handling such a delicate situation not to get around. So, is it true?"
McCall couldn't answer that one honestly, so he just waved his hand in a manner suggesting that she may or may not have been correct. She wasn't satisfied.
"I'm not sure we should just be okay with some outside person being brought in to take care of things,” she muttered. “What do we even know about him?"
"Only that he may know something about the deadmen in the first place, but as to how...well, I don't have access to that kind of information. I try to let those who understand worry about it. My concern is with what's in the sky and what we can do from it to help those on the ground.”
Bartlett went back to being quiet, which always worried McCall. She thought just too damn much to the point where it got her down.
"I'm sure we have nothing to worry about," he told her. She continued to just stare at him. “Okay, I'm almost positive we shouldn't worry. They wouldn't let an actual madman delve into such serious business, right?"
***
"For the last time doctor, no!" Max argued. “I'm not giving you my knife! Stop asking!"
“What if I'm just attacked outright with no means to defend myself?” Hamilton retorted. “I'm supposed to be this trump card to find the terrorists, right?”
“You would have been given a weapon if Houseman or someone else deemed it necessary,” Max reminded him. Hamilton rolled his eyes.
“They didn't give me anything.”
“Why?” Jackson asked, curious as to how this great hope for mankind was supposed to infiltrate without a weapon. “In case you were searched, or…?”
“That, and Houseman declared it was a threat to arm me since I would be in transit for a time before the meeting.”
"You're scaring me doc," Jackson said, "and while that was to be expected, you're scaring me more than you should. I can't believe you're our only hope at getting answers."
"I can't believe you two are all they sent to escort me. Imagine if something went wrong; Jackson here is a hated man.” He looked to Max. “Then there's you. You're not even out of training…officially."
Jackson wasn't liking the fact that the doctor was actually getting to something. “What are you trying to say?"
"The very thing that you are already aware of," Hamilton stated plainly. These two were nothing but expendable, and that was the only reason they were here.
Jackson grunted and began to slow down. They were within a mile of the memorial, so it was time to let the doctor swim free. He stopped just past an intersection and put the Jeep in neutral as the doctor opened the door and stepped out onto the street. He had no intentions of waiting around for more gossip.
"Don't just run off, doc," Jackson warned him.
"Why not? As far as we're all now concerned, you two have no affiliation with me. You'd be better off that way."
"That doesn't mean I still don't have questions."
Hamilton was growing tired of the two and what he perceived to be their pointless ramblings. They were just precursors to what the rest of the world would be like after this; people demanding answers from a man who didn't have them all.
"Mr. Dawson."
"Yeah?"
"I'm privy as to why Mr. Jackson is here, but what about you? What reason do you have to be here? I doubt you've done anything as barbaric as killing a man in cold blood," he said with a quick glance over to Jackson in the driver's seat. Jackson didn't react to the jab. “Surely it's not to just play moderator for his temper? Maybe you got on the bad side of someone in the brass?"
"Hey," Jackson said, "I don't need a fucking moderator. I can be pissed all the hell I want to. I think I'm just as justified as anyone else."
Max shook his head. Even the doctor had the guy figured out. "Point taken. I guess I'm here because I don't want to see another person go through what my friends David Heyman and Joseph Palmer went through."
Hamilton picked at his nails while listening, "I take it they fell victim to what you believe I've caused?"
"Yeah," Max said as he opened the door and began to walk around the vehicle. Jackson got out to stop him but he actually considered letting the kid do whatever he was going to do to the doctor. In the end Jackson put his hand on Max's chest and held him back. He was still worked up. “They're collateral damage for your fucking work! David had to drag himself along as one of them for about a week to get to the girl he loved, and Joseph…Joseph is the reason the two of us are alive," he finished sullenly.
Hamilton only cared about one of Max's tales of loss. “This David…he dragged himself on for almost a week? As one of them?"
Max nodded. “That’s right. He was physically dead by the time we reached Georgia, and when we left him, he wasn't far from the turning point."
"I see…" Hamilton said, turning his back on the two and rubbing his chin.
"Hey, doc!" Jackson shouted after him. “Don’t tell me you're more interested in how your disease is working out!"
There was no answer. He was already well on his way up the road headed north, and the two men who had taken him there were of no more use to him.
"Dr. Hamilton!"
Hamilton turned around at his name. Jackson was standing with one foot out of the vehicle and cupping his mouth with b
oth hands. Hamilton actually didn't know what he expected from the man. Maybe some words of encouragement? Those were something he had never really gotten before from anyone other than Frank Tuefel.
"Don't fuck up!" Jackson shouted at the top of his lungs. Hamilton didn't understand how that had surprised him. Blank expression on his face, he gave an impassive thumbs up and turned his back on the last two soldiers he hoped to see for a long time. There was only another mile to go to the memorial, and those two had just done the worst thing you could allow for a person like Hamilton. He was now left alone with his thoughts.
I'm not that bad.
"You're a scourge in my mind is what you are," Hamilton spat as he took note of an elderly couple watching him. He stopped in his tracks and gave an awkward wave that they returned, but the damage was done. He was a crazed tourist in their eyes.
You are.
"Piss off." Hamilton continued his walk of solitude for another ten minutes before he checked his watch, and only then realized that he had forgotten to adjust it to the time zone. He added six hours from the Eastern time he had set upon landing in Philadelphia and realized he was ten minutes early. How the hell was he supposed to kill ten minutes?
I'd start by asking the locals if they've seen any shady people here besides you. Too bad you suck at German.
"I'd like to spend it in silence," he responded while taking in the surrounding area. The memorial was now in front of him. Rows and rows of concrete slabs filled the almost five-acre plot. The slabs almost looked as if they were purposely done in an orderly fashion, like they were supposed to represent how the countless victims were trapped in a system of order that stripped them of their humanity and separated them from the world outside. He began to approach the cemetery-like construction as his eyes traced the buildings to the north and west of it.