Orpheus: Homecoming (The Orpheus Trilogy Book 2) (11 page)

He fought it off and responded, "Quite the opposite. This time, the enemy is extremely hard to kill. Their behavior is erratic, yet they are single-minded in their purpose. They have no regard for their own existence. Wounds that would incapacitate humans don't matter to them at all. They cannot be intimidated. They won't surrender. And they wear our friends' faces. Anyone coming in here with a preconception that the way they were taught to wage war against humans is the way to do it now would endanger the mission. As you've already learned for yourself, this is an entirely different type of war, Mr. Thompson. I know. I've fought in both. And the four people you mentioned not only have more knowledge of zombies than anyone else alive, save for me, but I trust each of them with my life and the lives of everyone under my command."

Good for you, babe.

Connor gave voice to a similar sentiment, only with a little more color. "Yeah, you tell that twerp, Mr. H!"

Thompson seemed impressed with that answer. Jackie didn't think that it was because he believed the answer. She doubted that a guy like him believed in anything. But it was exactly the sound byte he was looking for, she imagined.

As if on cue, the graphic below changed to:
"A Different Type of War - Orpheus."

Thompson threw it back to the anchor, and the story changed to a more common type of war in the Middle East. She gathered up her gear and said, "I'll take the check, Connor. I need to make an important call."

"Yeah, like I'm going to charge you after that speech."

She put a twenty on the bar and winked. "Yeah, like I'm not going to pay you after that salad."

She left the club in a much better mood than when she had arrived. All of her anger at Cameron had just evaporated after seeing him in the interview. She knew that whatever his reason for keeping the money from her was, in his mind, for her benefit. She may disagree ... okay, would almost definitely disagree ... but she wouldn't doubt his motive.

Now she just wanted to speak to him, check on him, make sure he was okay.

Kicking his ass could wait a little while.

He picked up and she ripped off the Band-Aid, telling him that she knew, but they could talk about it later. She just wanted to check on him and the kids, make sure everything was okay, and did anyone need anything?

After that call, she felt lighter, like she had burned off the anger for a little while through gunfire and bleu cheese dressing. She was calm enough to make the phone call that her husband suggested she make. The voice on the other end seemed to have been caught completely off guard, but once Jackie had explained why she wanted to meet, she seemed to relax. When the call was over, Jackie tuned the satellite radio to the 80's channel and sang along with Cyndi Lauper as she drove to the market to pick up a few things to have ready for her guest.

Even if she had been paying closer attention, she probably wouldn't have noticed the midnight blue Subaru pulling out a few seconds after she did.

"Okay, time to work some magic on this footage." Thompson's cameraman, Greg Hedley, packed up and got ready to move to the school's AV room. When he had first arrived, the cameraman had been impressed with the equipment that the school had sprung for, and decided to just work with what they had. "If I need anything really special, which I doubt, I can get it from the van or requisition it from the mainland."

Orpheus motioned to two of his men. "Take an escort."

Hedley said, "Oh, come on, Cap, I know it's your show, but I'll be fine. This place is locked down tight. I don't need a babysitter."

Orpheus was insistent. "Take an escort, or take your ass back on home."

Hedley acquiesced. "You're the boss." He turned to Thompson. "Meet you at The Zom Shelter at," he looked at his watch, "6:30?"

"You got it."

Hedley left and it was just the two of them. "Awesome interview, Cap. That quote is going to stand out during my Pulitzer acceptance speech."

"You sound pretty confident."

Thompson took a sip of bottled water. "Are you kidding? I am literally the only game in town for one of the biggest stories in history."

Orpheus couldn't disagree. "Speaking of which, how did you get this gig? I specifically stated that I wanted no embedded reporters. I got literally everything I wanted except for that. And you are literally the last reporter I'd want here. You have dirt on someone?"

"Heh. That's not a horrible guess."

"Who?"

"Now that," Thompson said, "you'd have to beat out of me." He stopped mid-sip when he saw the look on Orpheus' face. "Not a challenge."

"Too bad."

"You really don't like me, do you?"

"I'm not in love with you, no. Part of it is how you horned your way in here, part of it is how I know for a fact that you're Ralston's boy, and the rest is just your personality."

Thompson laughed. Genuinely laughed. "An honest opinion. I like that a lot. I don't get many in my line of work. I'll be honest with you, too. I may take some liberties here and there, I may sensationalize some stuff, and I may be so omnipresent that you'll think there's ten of me. But, by the time I'm done here, you're going to look like a cross between Patton, Einstein, Neil Armstrong, and Martin Luther King, because that narrative works out best for both of us. You don't have to trust me personally, but you should trust in my self-interest. You keep me alive, I'll make you immortal."

Orpheus surprised himself by nodding. He'd trusted nicer people in the past and been burned, so he was willing to give a conceited punk who was up front with him a chance.

Thompson slung his bag over his shoulder. "I'm going to get a head start on drinking."

"Your escort's right outside."

"Uh, copy that."

He got three strides before Orpheus asked, "'The Zom Shelter'? That's what you're calling it?"

Thompson beamed. "That's what we're all calling it, baby. Came up with it myself. Although I'd trade that any day to be the one who came up with 'Orpheus.' That's just perfect."

Orpheus motioned to the two soldiers who were stationed outside his office. "Take him where he wants to go. Check the duty roster, notify your replacements, and knock off for the night."

"Yes, sir," they answered in unison and escorted Thompson through the basement door to the Zom Shelter.

Ugh, that is just an awful name.

He set the tomahawk on his desk to protect the leather chair and sat down. He absentmindedly traced his finger along the blade and considered some things.

Thompson made a lot of sense. As much as he didn't like him after his first encounter ... and still didn't ... he would be wise to let Thompson do his job. He wasn't looking to tear Orpheus down. Not only did he have no reason to, but there was really nothing to find. No hidden crimes, no extramarital affairs, no corruption. He'd make his name and earn recognition by making him even more of a sympathetic figure, the ultimate reluctant hero. To do that, he'd also have to imply that Ralston is kind of an asshole, which Orpheus was fine with.

He'd also made a good argument for a few drinks.

"Screw it," Orpheus muttered and stood up. He had just dropped the tomahawk into its case when his phone rang. Jackie. He smiled and answered. "Hey, you."

It went downhill from there, because now Jackie was unloading about the money. By the time they said their
I love yous,
he was halfway to the Zom Shelter. He declined his own escort because, well, he was in charge.

He walked down the stairs and turned the corner. What was once a corridor of seemingly endless concrete had been dressed up with posters and photographs. The posters had to have been lifted straight from the library and repurposed, because they showed kids reading and owls in glasses reading, and slogans like, "Reading is a free ticket to anywhere!" The effect was both hilarious and a little touching. The photographs, now those were different. They ranged everywhere from wallet sized to 8x10. They featured mostly women and children, but there was a significant amount of family photos, as well. It was clear that the soldiers had decided to make the photos that they brought public, instead of keeping them for themselves. The message was clear: "Now we know who each other is fighting for." Considering the manpower and funding that he had at his disposal, and that he was taking no chances, it was easy to forget the possible consequences if they fucked it up. If one, just one, infected person made it back to the mainland, what he'd lived through a year ago would be small potatoes when compared to a continent-wide epidemic.

He lingered over the photos for some time. His desire for a drink had taken a back seat. A few soldiers passed behind him, heading in either direction, but he barely noticed. He was transfixed by the photos, and walked slowly down the corridor, looking from one side to the other. He often stopped altogether and stared, as if he were in an art gallery. His knowledge of art was non-existent, but he understood this. What really got him were the children in their baseball uniforms, princess dresses, diapers. Not only were his children (he'd started considering Rachel to be his own long ago) fully grown and capable, but they were right here with him, and he'd separated from the Air Force before they'd even conceived Ethan. He couldn't imagine having to leave toddlers behind. He knew that it was really common for military personnel to be deployed during childhoods, even pregnancies, but he was thankful that he'd never had to go through it.

The children on this island never had a chance. Jen believed that the virus killed them outright before they turned, and Orpheus' own experience supported that, as he'd never seen an infected child, thank God. He hated thinking about it, but was doomed to, and had made sort of a peace that dying at the hands of the virus itself was the far more merciful option.

He reached over to his left bicep and pulled the Velcro release on his ID badge holder. He slid out his badge and the thin stack of papers behind it: a twenty dollar bill, a credit card (hey, they had internet), and a worn but still well-preserved photograph of he and his wife at their wedding.

They were so young then. Not "too young to be married" young, just with so much youth and vitality and looks. Jackie had kept most of hers in all categories, and he had no idea how. On some days he just woke up feeling old and wrinkled and completely apathetic to where the day would take him.

He saw a tape dispenser hanging off of the door, tore off a piece, and gave the photo a quick kiss before hanging it. He'd take it back when he left the island for good, but for now it was at home.

Orpheus put his hand on the knob and hesitated. He was fully aware that it was here when his friend got bitten and the world turned to shit again. Above the door, some enterprising artist had painted "The Zom Shelter," complete with dripping blood, and he could hear the music pumping through the door.

It's just a bar this time. Just a bar.

He opened the door and couldn't believe what he saw.

O

Orpheus had seen firsthand how the promise of alcohol brought people together. How many times had people asked for help moving into a new house, and then sweetened the deal with pizza and beer? Alcohol was currency, as often as not.

This time had been no different. Ethan, not so far removed from turning the legal drinking age that it had lost its shiny newness, had come up with the idea to turn the bomb shelter into a bar. Orpheus had seen no reason to say no. The zombies were gone, save for the carcass of one of the biggest men Orpheus had ever seen lying in the corridor. Even desiccated as it was, it weighed a ton ("You should've seen him when he was fresh," Ethan had offered and told his father the story of Rachel's heroics). So he'd told Ethan to have at it.

In less than two weeks, and on their own time, they'd done an incredible amount of work. Televisions had been liberated from the AV room and were now mounted and wired for satellite reception. Someone's iPod was playing through a stereo. The walls were covered with all sorts of sports memorabilia, uniforms, and trophies. They'd even found a disco ball in the theater department. It spun slowly on battery power.

They'd actually built a bar from scratch. He assumed that the materials had come from the shop, but he had no clue how they'd done it in such a short time, or what plans they had used, but he suspected that a few of his men had reported for the briefing a little tired on a few occasions. They'd even given it several coats of lacquer, so it had the feel of a real bar top. The stools had come from the cafeteria. The only thing that was missing was the brass foot rail. If it wasn't for the uniform pants, it would look like any other bar. It was easy to forget that they were underground and encased in concrete.

He had just broken the threshold when the music came to a dead stop. Fish had his finger on the iPod and yelled, "Well, as I live and breathe! Welcome to the freakshow, Captain!"

Fish was comfortable with him, and he had every right to be. The rest of them, however, still had no idea why he was there or what he wanted. Most of them slowly lowered their drinks, and a few even tried to hide them, like kids at a high school party when someone's parents walked in. Orpheus walked to the bar and didn't say a word, even as three soldiers fell all over themselves giving up their seats. He motioned for the dry erase board and a marker, and wrote only three words. No one spoke, not even Fish.

The "bartender", a man named Malone, looked at the board and smiled.

He hung it back in its place so all of them could see what he had written:
NO RANK HERE.

"Now someone get me a damn drink before I start wondering where all of this booze came from."

And the party resumed.

Malone reached into the refrigerator and pulled out a bottled domestic beer. He held it up so that Orpheus could see the label and got a nod of approval. He dropped the bottle out of sight, and a moment later placed the capless bottle in front of his boss. Orpheus toasted Fish, who returned it with a bottle of his own.

Orpheus took three long swigs and drained nearly half the bottle. He hadn't had a drink in over a week, so the beer lit up his taste buds. "Man, that's good." He put the bottle down, spun on his stool, and tried to unwind a bit.

Jackie had been pissed. Once she'd calmed down, she'd admitted that he was correct in his assessment that all of the donations would have bothered her, but she'd gotten him to agree that it wasn't his place to make a decision like that and keep her in the dark. They both agreed that they loved and missed each other very much, but they were split on whether or not he was, as she'd put it, "a big, stupid, money-hiding asshat."

He looked down and realized that he'd drained his beer. He got another one and told Malone to not bring him any more tonight. He knew from experience that when the first one goes down that easy, it was smart to call it a night early. He let the second beer breathe for a minute.

The music volume dropped and he heard Fish yell, "Lady entering the bar!" That sentence was automatically echoed by most of the patrons, a learned behavior from basic training. Back then, it was a warning to make sure that you were covered up and on your best behavior.

Come to think of it, it still meant the same thing.

He knew that Rachel was with Ethan on school grounds, checking on the posted sentries. So the candidates were down to one.

A tattooed ball of energy landed on the stool next to him. "Buy a girl a grog, sailor?"

He turned to face Lena. "There are so many things wrong with that one sentence alone."

"Hey, I'm an IT geek. What do you want from me?"

Malone practically ran over to see what she wanted. Her answer was, "Something in a shot. Nothing ladylike. I'm celebrating."

The bartender produced a shot glass and an unlabeled bottle of clear liquid. "What's that?" she asked.

"Best not to ask, ma'am."

"Sounds good to me. And one for my friend here."

"Yeah?" Malone asked.

Orpheus slid his untouched beer over to Lena. "Yeah, sure."

Malone poured a second one and left the bottle with them.