Orpheus: Homecoming (The Orpheus Trilogy Book 2) (10 page)

"Sleeping in bags in the coaches' office. I don't get that. These cots are more comfortable than any bed I've ever had."

Orpheus did get it. Ethan had already slept in the gym once before, and it hadn't ended well.

"Yeah," Orpheus said, and continued on his way.

He patrolled the entire first floor slowly, checking in with each sentry. There was one posted halfway down the length of each corridor, and one on every corner. At all times, each sentry should be in full view of at least two others. The school was locked down tight, he knew. But they had the manning, so he intended to utilize them to keep it that way.

He made a quick stop with each man and engaged in a little small talk, asking if they needed anything, and trying hard to remember their names. If he had a glaring character flaw, that was it. He'd remember a face until the end of time, but a name would shoot out of his head ten minutes after learning it, if he didn't concentrate.

All of the sentries said that they were all set, sir, and it was a pleasure to work under his command, sir (or words close enough it). Orpheus was certain that it was a combination of their learned military bearing, the newness and uniqueness of the situation that they found themselves in ... and a desire to avoid any appearance of weakness in front of a man who was attaining near-legendary status as a seeker and destroyer of monsters.

If they only knew that all I want to do is go home and kick back with my wife.

He really wanted them to relax a bit, but he couldn't exactly tell them that. Let them figure it out on their own, and he hoped that them being so wound up wouldn't result in anything stupid. He had to remind himself that, as ... comfortable wasn't the right word ...
familiar
as he was with dead people coming back to some semblance of life, he'd had no choice but to immediately accept it and adapt. If he'd been in their shoes, and had a lot of time to think about it, he'd probably be a little tense, too.

He repeated the process on the second floor. He paused when he passed the science room that had Ethan's friend in it. He opened the door and poked his head in. The taggers and baggers had done their job and removed the body. The mess, and a little bit of the smell of death, remained, but it wasn't their job to clean up. When this was all over, Orpheus was sure that some contractor would get an absurdly high contract to come in and scrub the buildings worth saving.

Maybe that's my next career move,
he thought.
Start a cleaning company, win the bid, and get paid.

He finished the circuit and headed for the stairs that would take him back to his office. His feet stalled at the top step. He wasn't tired. At all. He turned his head back and forth, trying to figure out if it was worth it to try and fight himself back to sleep when his eyes rested on the door marked "ROOF ACCESS."

He checked in with the nearest sentry and told him that he was going to the roof for a while.

On the way up, he flashed back to the last time that he'd made for the roof on this island. That time had been much more hurried and full of zombies and gunfire.

And dead friends, although he hadn't known it then.

He'd have to recover Mutt and Sam. Both out of respect, and to ... be certain.

He knew that the building was down, but he would move Heaven and Earth to ensure two things, that their bodies were laid to rest with honors, and that he could piss on that ghoulish doctor's empty skull. Everything else was optional.

He snapped back to the present and walked out onto the roof. Some go-getter had strung up work lights at regular intervals, and they provided enough light to, if not see every detail, navigate safely. He hadn't given that order, but he wasn't about to discourage proactivity. He and micromanaging had never really seen eye-to-eye. The lights revealed just enough to convince Orpheus that it was pretty much the same as every other roof he'd been on. It was a sea of black dotted with air conditioners and vents. He walked a few feet away from the edge and did a full circuit, making a few mental notes about places for canopies to keep them out of the weather, and some harnesses to prevent any accidental falls. He'd ask his men what else they may need or want. He knew the budget was only as limited as what he deemed necessary, so if he could slip through a few extravagances, who would give a shit?

He walked to the edge of the roof and looked out, as he had done nightly from the roof of the hospital. This view was considerably less impressive, as it was about eight stories lower and in a rural setting. Still, it helped relax him. His hand patted at his cargo pocket, which, unfortunately, was empty. "Gotta remember those next time."

"You mean these?"

Orpheus spun and reached for his sidearm, which was back in his desk.

He'd lost the draw to Tim, who was holding an object in his hands. A pair of objects, actually.

"Son of a bitch," Orpheus said, and reached for one.

"Getting sloppy, boss. There was a time where you would've drawn before I came through the door."

"I'm management now, so I'm allowing myself to get old while other people handle shit like bringing me cigars when I forget to."

"Fair enough." He handed Orpheus the lighter. "Age before awesome."

Orpheus lit his cigar and took a deep, satisfying draw. "I've been a really good influence on you."

Tim laughed around the cigar clenched between his teeth and lit his own. A moment later he responded, "And I can't thank you enough." Sincere.

The response caught Orpheus off-guard, but he managed a nod.
You're welcome.

"It's a lot different this time," Time said in between draws.

The symmetry of this moment was obvious. Orpheus observed Tim as he had on that hospital rooftop a lifetime ago. Back then he saw a nervous greenhorn, now he saw a seasoned leader. He wanted to take credit for the transformation, but the reality was that Tim had just been given an opportunity to grow into the man he was meant to be. If Orpheus had never made it off of the island, Tim would still be right here on this roof, running things. And he suspected that his son and Rachel would be right here with him.

He knew that the future was in good hands.

His job was to protect it for the time being.

Donnie Morelli pushed off slightly with his foot, and the creeper that he was lying on rolled a few inches to the left. He readjusted his grip on the oil filter wrench and gave it another tug. "C'mon, you stubborn bastard," he grumbled. While he struggled, he kept mumbling incoherently.

"Having fun, dad?"

His hand slipped off of the wrench and his knuckle paid the price. He automatically put it in his mouth and sucked on it, happy that he tasted no blood. "Ten thousand miles, Peach. Your mother waited ten thousand miles between oil changes and neglected to tell me. I'm surprised that this thing didn't have a heart attack. I still might."

"You're fine, Dad. And so macho."

"The two of you." It was an indictment of their solidarity. The women were practically one and the same.

They both heard the squeal of the mail truck's brakes as it stopped in front of their mailbox.

"I'll get it," Jackie said cheerily. "You recuperate."

Donnie pushed off and shot out from under the SUV. He got three-quarters of the way out when his pant leg caught on a bolt. "Nope! Nope! I got it, just gimme a sec."

Jackie was already walking toward the road. "I can get the mail. You've gotten it for like the last three months straight."

Donnie slumped on the creeper, and his arms fell out at his sides. Defeated.

Jackie thanked the carrier and walked up the driveway, flipping through the mail. "You, you, junk, me, you, me, junk ..." She looked down at her father. "You okay?"

"For the moment." He finally extricated himself from under the truck and rose to his feet. Jackie was already ripping open the first piece that was addressed to her and her husband.

She pulled out the letter, unfolded it, and began to read. Donnie watched her eyes move back and forth across the page. She'd always been a fast reader, so at least it would be over quickly. Her eyes narrowed when she held up the check. "What's this?"

"Uh, what's what?"

She ripped open the second one and confirmed that it was similar to the first. "Did you know about these, Dad? Is that why you've been so anal about getting the mail?"

He shrugged.

"Oh, my God, how many of these are there?"

"I don't know. A ... few."

"A few. Like five?"

She got no answer.

"A few dozen?"

"Well ..."

"Oh, my God, Dad! Does Cam know about this?" Jackie went through the whole progression with no input from Donnie. "He does. He put you up to this? Of course he did. And of course you did. Oh, the two of you ..." She unintentionally repeated the phrase that Donnie had used a few moments before. She slammed down the rest of the mail on the hood and walked toward the house.

Donnie was almost afraid to ask, "Where, uh, where you going, Peach?"

"Me?" A humorless laugh. "I'm going to get my gun."

O

That wasn't a figure of speech. Jackie Holt walked into the living room, dropped the two letters addressed to her on the coffee table, and headed to her bedroom. She picked up her phone and considered calling her husband to chew him out, but the cooler part of her won out and recognized that, as mad as she was, what he was doing was literally life and death. She could wait to kick his ass. She continued to the closet and moved aside a few shirts to reveal the gun safe that Cameron had moved in and immediately stocked.

She remembered the conversation that they'd had on the day he broached the subject of buying it.

"Jackie, I've been thinking about something. I think it's a good idea. I mean, I don't want to get caught again, and -"

"You want to get a gun?"

"Um, yeah."

"What kind?"

He seemed surprised by this. "Uh, handgun, for sure. Maybe a shotgun for more immediate stopping power. I mean, they're dead but they can still be knocked around and blown apart, which saved my life a few times. I'll get a safe and everything, tuck it away. Maybe a rifle, too. I've seen the worst case scenario. I'd like to be ready next time. This is all just a hypothetical, and I doubt -"

"Okay."

"To which one?"

"To all of them. And whatever else you think may possibly be necessary. You have my blanket consent."

He blinked a few times, surprised. "I was expecting more resistance."

She put a hand on his cheek. "Cam, I didn't go through anything like you did. But I saw a little bit of it, and you're right. It could happen again. I have one condition."

"Name it."

"You have to teach me how to use them. Every single one. If it comes down to it, and I can't get away from them, I want to know how to go through them."

He put his hand on her waist and pulled her closer. "That," he said as he moved in to kiss her, "might be the sexiest thing I've ever heard."

Her husband obtained all of the necessary permits, and spent a couple months' worth of the government settlement on weapons, ammo, and a safe. He even bought a handgun especially for her, due to the vast difference in their hand sizes. The first time she held the Walther, she had to admit, it just felt kind of right.

He eventually finagled a membership at the local gun club, which was pretty exclusive. The only way in was to either have a legacy membership from a relative or be sponsored by a current member. Though "finagled" wasn't exactly the right word. What happened was that he walked in, introduced himself, and they fell all over themselves signing both he and Jackie up. To show his appreciation, Cam allowed his likeness to be used in some print ads and did a few radio spots gratis. Fame really did have its perks, as much as he hated being the face of anything.

She took to the weapons training pretty quickly, due to him being a good teacher and her having a certain aptitude for it. After three months or so she started to head to the range by herself. In fact, she went more often than he did. Neither one of them worked or was particularly busy anymore, but she also didn't have his experience around weapons. She didn't want to say, "Yeah, I learned how to shoot once." She wanted to be able to pick up any firearm and know how to fire it, reload, and clear a jam.

Now that he was gone for a year? She didn't exactly live there, but she'd locked up a time or two.

Once a long time ago, he'd come back from a deployment about 20 pounds lighter, and in the best shape of his life. She asked him how he did it, and he'd said, "If you're not drinking, partying, or cheating on a deployment, you find something else to do and do it a lot."

She understood that now. Boy, did she understand it.

Jackie entered the code and opened the safe. She put her pistol and several magazines into her carrying case and snapped it shut, still very annoyed with him. She grabbed her hearing and eye protection off of the top of the safe and headed out. She walked past her father, said only, "Club," and left, still very annoyed with him, too.

The drive to the club was only a few minutes, not long enough for her to either completely calm down or work herself into a greater anger, so she arrived in pretty much the same state that she'd been in when she'd left the house.

Connor Spruce, the proprietor, had a bottle of spring water waiting for her. "Saw you pull up, Mrs. H. Slow day. The line's all yours."

She accepted the water bottle with a smile and walked through the red door at the back of the room. She headed to her usual spot at #12 and set up. The range master, Buck, walked the entire line, verified that they were alone, and set up a target for her at a 25 meter distance. After he was safely back on the line, he signaled to her that it was safe to fire.

She pulled the first ten shots, and they sailed over the shoulder of the silhouette. She paused and realized that she was firing angry. She put the pistol down and stepped back for a moment to compose herself. Buck held up his fingers in an
Everything okay?
gesture. She shot him back a quick thumbs up and returned to her spot.

The rest of the rounds hit the target's center mass in a reasonably tight grouping near where the heart would be.

Better
, she thought.
Can't hit shit when you're angry.

She popped out the empty magazine and slid another in. She saw movement on the right side of the line. A man was setting up two spots down from her. That wasn't out of the ordinary; just like in a movie theater, people tended to gravitate as close to the center as they could get. He was blond and looked to be about Cameron's age, give or take. He looked up at her and smiled. He pointed to her hearing protection and mimed her taking it off. She thought that he might be the next in a long line of men who had hit on her out on the line, a pursuit which lasted exactly as long as it took for another club member to educate them about who her husband was, that is. Whether that was out of respect, awe, or fear of him, she didn't really care. Still, she obliged the man.

"Is this okay?" He asked while pointing to #14.

She didn't understand what he was saying at first. Then it clicked that he was actually asking her if him being so close on an empty range would make her uncomfortable. She responded, "No, that's fine. Thank you for asking."

He touched two fingers to his eyebrow in a mini salute and started setting up his spot, and she returned to her own.

Not a creep. Good to know.

The rounds from the second magazine were even tighter than the first. Jackie briefly considered going through the third, but she'd taken the edge off of her anger, and figured it would just be a waste of ammunition. She watched the other man fire for a few seconds. She actually recognized his weapon, a Beretta, the same as her husband's. He fired it confidently, like him. He emptied his magazine and reloaded like lightning, never taking his aim from the target, like him. Suddenly, despite her initial anger, she missed her husband very badly. She packed up quickly, waved to the range master, and left the line.

When she entered the common area, Connor asked her, "Something to eat, Mrs. H? The special is a chef's salad. I'm that chef, so it probably sucks, but still. It's a special."

She hadn't realized that she was hungry until Connor had brought it up. She sidled up to the bar and said, "That actually sounds pretty good, Connor. Thanks."

"Just give me five minutes. Seltzer?"

"With lime, please."

He disappeared into the back to make her salad. Her eyes wandered to the televisions that were mounted at each end, facing inward. One of them showed a 24-hour news channel, and the other sports highlights. Not really being interested in either of them, she pulled out her cell phone and opened up her ebook app. It immediately synced to where she had left off on her tablet at home.

She had just reached the part where the romantic interest had proclaimed his undying love for the protagonist (a fiercely independent, yet still acutely feminine, war correspondent, who also had a black belt in judo) when Connor arrived with the salad.
Salad wins,
she thought, and deferred to her growling stomach.

Despite Connor's self-deprecating claims, the salad was incredibly delicious. The meat was fresh, the lettuce crisp, and she savored every bite after the initial few when she had just attacked it. Connor seemed very pleased with himself as he washed glasses on the opposite end.

She was down to the last quarter or so when she glanced at the news feed, which showed an aerial view of a large brick building. The location was immediately familiar. After all, she had dropped her son off there every morning for four years. The next shot was of a reporter, and she recognized him, as well, only not as quickly. Then he stuck the microphone in her husband's direction, and it came back to her. He'd done the same thing within a few minutes of her husband's return. She still didn't understand how reporters had gotten there so quickly. Then it occurred to her that maybe they were sticking close to her just in case she did something newsworthy like check into rehab or kill herself or something, and that soured her on the reporter even more. The graphic identified him as Iver Thompson, and the subtitle read "Live from Island Z."

Ugh. The island actually has a name.

The closed captioning disappeared as the volume was turned up. "I figure that this is relevant to your interests," the barman said.

"... going well at this point, as expected. We have a group of skilled professional soldiers and experienced leadership," Cameron said.

The reporter took the microphone back to say, "By 'experienced' you mean with the zombies."

"Yes, that's what I mean."

"But they have no military experience themselves. Are you afraid that their lack of experience could endanger this decidedly military-style operation? Why would you elect to put your son, your future daughter-in-law, a college student, and a former security guard in charge of an operation with such far-reaching ramifications if it fails?"

Oh, boy.
She recognized the look that had come over her husband's face. It was a subtle change, but it almost always meant trouble. Cameron Holt was a wonderful man in a host of ways, but he still had problems with his temper.
Come on, honey, keep it together.