Redaction: Extinction Level Event (Part I) (26 page)

David tapped Robertson’s arm, offering him the drink.

The private glanced at the pouch before shaking his head. With one hand still on the wheel, he twisted the GPS, aiming the screen at David. “Here.”

The red arrow aimed at a house off of Baseline. Damn. They had been there yesterday, replenishing supplies. Could they already be exposed? His stomach clenched. Well, if they were, he knew how to deal with it. Antivirals. There were enough for him and his men. He backed the map out a bit. “And the rest of our squad?”

“Sector G.” Robertson braked at the stoplight and fiddled with his sleeve jacket. “They’ll be doing the normal rounds and rendezvous with us at Baseline and Seventh Street to feed the neighborhoods we missed yesterday.”

In the intersection, the Marine on duty waved them through.

Robertson scratched his arm. The truck remained stopped.

“Sector G is ten miles from where the bodies are. Our men are safe.” As safe as they can be with the Grim Reaper looming over the city. “We’ll stop and pass them this information on our way.” Setting the shake on the floor, David grabbed a paper off the seat and opened the door. The Marine fingered his SAW. A little jumpy today. But then again, they had been attacked last night. “Wait here.”

Flashing both palms and the paper, he jogged through the intersection.

The Marine slid off the tank, while two more popped out of the top. All of them wore masks. Word had spread. “Sergeant Major.”

David stared at his reflection in the Marine’s sunglasses. “Got some information for you and your men.”

“We already know about the Redaction’s imminent return.” The African-American Marine in the hatch hissed.

“This is something new.” He handed the paper to the man with boots on the ground.

With one hand on his SAW, the Marine took the paper and scanned it. “Fuck that noise. Is this for real?” Within seconds, he’d climbed up and handed the paper to his buddies.

David turned as the truck drifted into the intersection. With Robertson as rattled as he is, he might not notice his NCO wasn’t in the cab with him. “It is.”

The African-American slammed the paper against his buddy’s chest. “Pass it down. You know, Sergeant Major, bearers of bad news used to be shot.”

David smiled at the threat. “You want to be ignorant and dead, or in the know and have a chance to survive?”

“We’ll survive, Sergeant Major. We’re the fucking Marines!”

The chorus of oorahs followed David back to the truck. Hopefully Robertson had shaken off his funk. Climbing into the cab, he reached for his vanillas shake. Gone. Son of a... He glared at his companion. Maybe he’d invent a rank lower than a private just for Robertson.

Robertson’s Adam’s apple bobbed as he squeezed the last drops from the pouch. Licking his lips, he cleared his throat and tossed the pouch into the garbage sack between them. “Sergeant Major?”

Uh-oh. The kid had gone all formal on him, and there was no one else around. David hot-potatoed the beef pot roast from the heating sleeve before plunking it on the papers. He probably didn’t want to be holding anything when the other man said his piece. “Yes, Private.”

Shifting into gear, Robertson drove down the road. “I got a couple bites on me. Do you think I have it? The Plague, I mean?”

Fucking shit! Closing his eyes, David rested against the headrest. Not today, God. Please not today. He couldn’t have an infected man and Patient Zero in the same day. “When did you notice the bites?”

“Couple of days ago.” Robertson scratched his forearm as they approached Interstate-Seventeen.

Shaking off his worry, David sat up and picked up the flyer. Cold-like symptoms and swollen glands appeared two to six days after infection. If Robertson had the disease, he should start having symptoms any time now. David resisted the urge to scoot closer to the door. “Are your glands swollen?”

Robertson felt under his armpits before sticking his hands between his thighs. “Nope.”

“Fever, chills, headache, or extreme exhaustion?” David read from the list on the paper.”

“Hell no!” Robertson wiggled in his seat. “I wouldn’t go out with any of you guys if I was symptomatic.”

So the private didn’t actually have anything other than a few bug bites. David cut open his food pouch and stirred the contents with his fork. After spearing a potato, he tucked it against his cheek. Maybe he shouldn’t pass out the information. If Robertson, a trained soldier, got a little hypochondria, God knew what the rest of the population would do. They couldn’t afford to give out medicine. Swallowing his bite of food, he dug at the slab of meat.

“Watch for the symptoms and, if you’re still worried, see the medic when we get back to base.”

“I’ve scratched them. Now, they’ve got black scabs on them. That has to mean something don’t you think, Sergeant Major?” Robertson rolled up the sleeve of his right arm and shoved the limb under David’s nose.

He moved his food to the side and leaned back. With his free hand, he held Robertson’s arm away. His eyes finally focused on the red, swollen welts. Sure enough the scabs looked kind of blackish, but that could just be the light.

“If those Plague bugs are in them bumps and I ripped the scabs off, I could have made the whole thing airborne, right?” A car honked as Robertson merged onto the interstate.

That didn’t bear thinking about. Acid shot into David’s throat, and the piece of potato felt like a brick in his stomach. He quickly scanned the paper. Nothing about the bites being infectious. But the bug had to be in there to spread the disease and you could get it through inhaling it. Damn. Maybe he should call Doc and ask. Later, when he was alone. He didn’t want to worry the kid uselessly. “Use the Band-Aids to cover the scabs and stop picking at them.”

“Yes, Sergeant Major.” Steering with his elbow, Robertson rolled his sleeve down.

David wiped his hand on his pants then stirred his stew. His appetite had fled at the sight of those bites. He forced one bite down, then another. God knew when he’d get his next meal. Viruses, bugs and bites, oh shit! Still, if it were a bug, then maybe they could combat it while it was on the surface. “Some antibiotic cream wouldn’t hurt.”

Robertson flashed his pearly whites. “Now you sound like my mom, Big D.”

“Can your mom kick your ass?”

“Yours and mine both.” The private signaled their intention to exit the freeway. “With one hand behind her back.”

David shoveled in the last bites before drinking the rest of the tasteless meal. “That must be where you get your mean streak.”

“Gonna have to roll down the window to get some of the love outta the cab, Big D.”

“You do that.” Licking the fork clean, he dropped it into the MRE bag before adding the extra items into his cargo pocket. He dropped the roast pouch into the garbage.

Stopping at the light, Robertson waved his hand at the Marines in the intersection. Water dropped onto the cab from the humming air conditioning unit. “Do you think the CO went to ground because he had a few bug bites?”

Colonel Asshole was enough of a coward to run. But... “He didn’t know when he took his leave.”

The light changed to green and the private steered the truck toward the tank. “He’ll be pretty pissed when he finds them shoes.”

David rolled down his window and held out a flyer as they turned left. “We need to file a report about those shoes.”

The Marine sitting near the hatch leaned over and grabbed the paper. “Well if it ain’t the bluebird of happy news.”

The stew rose up to sour his mouth. If the Marines had communicated via the radio, then any citizen with a scanner would know. Christ, there’d be panic in the streets. All of them would be at risk. “You knew I was coming?”

“Got a BOLO.” The Marine dropped the paper into the tank and pulled out his cell phone. A photo of the handout stared back at him from the screen. “Word is lots of folks must be listening for your report on those DBs, Sergeant Major.”

Ah, so he wasn’t the only one to think of the scanners and ham radio operators. Too bad someone hadn’t thought of it before announcing the dead bodies or DBs. At least word of the plague and hanta are getting around to the armed forces with the speed of the closest cell tower. “Keep your ears on.”

David motioned for Robertson to proceed, folded the papers and stuffed them between his seat and the console.

“Big D, how come we have to report those shoes missing? It’s not like anyone wanted them.”

“I don’t want any of you tossed in the stockade for stealing women’s shoes.” Neither did he want them returned. Nope. As far as he was concerned, the colonel deserved every shoe. The truck lumbered down the road. Here and there, people hung grand reopening banners and washed windows.

Everyone stopped what they were doing when they spied the truck.

The hair on the back of David’s neck stood up. Damn, maybe they shouldn’t have driven the refrigerated truck to meet his men. But they had to know, dammit! What if some of them had bites like Robertson but felt a slight tickle at the back of their throat?

“And the CO?” Robertson coasted toward the light.

“I’ll take care of the CO when he comes back.” If he does. Although God only knew what David could do? There were too few officers to think he’d get something other than a reprimand in his file. And shooting him wasn’t an option.

They turned into the neighborhood. Weeds, plants and trees choked the yards. The scent of rot weighted the morning. Children and adults scavenged through the piles of garbage. One child of twelve picked up a rat by its tail. The creature curled its body and scratched the air before the kid chucked it into a bucket on the ground. Another child slammed the lid down.

Christ Almighty. They were eating the rats—the rats that could be infected with Plague or Hanta. The twelve-year-old scratched his arm before springing through the refuse and fishing another one out. David fingered the papers. Maybe he should hand out the flyers.

“Look at all this garbage, Big D.” Robertson slowed the truck. “If they do as Doc suggests, they’ll burn the whole neighborhood to the ground.”

Further down the road, a crowd gathered around his unit. On the ground, one man stood guard—his hands resting lightly on his M-4. Two stood in the open truck beds, surrounded by sacks of rations, their rifles in their hands. On the other side of the vehicle, more of his men would be standing guard watching all sides for a sneak attack. The group leader, Ray, had his gun on his back and a table between himself and the others. Some civilians stood by their portion of rice, wheat, beans and assorted canned rations. Why hadn’t they moved on? They always moved on after receiving their supplies.

David checked his M-4—one in the chamber and a full clip. He slung his weapon over his shoulder as the truck slowed.

The soldier in charge held his hands loosely at his sides, far enough away from his rifle to be nonthreatening, yet close enough if he needed his weapon. He faced a burly man in a ripped red flannel shirt and jeans straining under a beer gut. The citizen motioned to the soldier’s face mask then to the crowd. Heads nodded.

“Once I draw attention off Ray, I want you to text him a photo of the flyer. Understood?”

With his M-4 across his lap, Robertson tugged his phone from his breast pocket. “Yes, Sergeant Major.”

Fingering the face masks by the door, David decided against wearing one. No one seemed to be coughing. Yet. And he’d bet his monthly salary that the face masks were the source of concern. He jumped to the street, slammed the door and strode forward. The smell of meat cooking drifted over the stench. Could you get plague from eating infected rats? “Problems?”

Ray came to attention. “Some folks are a little spooked out by the masks, Sergeant Major.”

David faced Beer Gut. With his hands behind his back he signaled for Ray to fall back. There was a squeak of metal when the soldier climbed into the bed of the supply truck. A rift from AC/DC’s Back in Black came from the truck before it was quieted.

Ignoring the ringtone, David kept his attention on the civilian. He didn’t remember the man’s name but he recognized his sort. A troublemaker. He was the slob who claimed he was feeding extra mouths yet never produced the children. He’d also tried to alter his ration card. “Is that a fact?”

With a heave of his lungs, Beer Gut hefted his doughy stomach up before it jiggled low again. “If this dust pneumonia is as bad as the news says, we need masks, too. We have rights, you know.”

God save him from windbags and their rights. Still a few civilians nodded as well. So the malcontent was breeding discord. Assholes always acted up when they thought the good times were coming back. “We are required by law to wear masks when outside for more than four hours.”

“What about us?” Beer Gut’s flying squirrel arms flapped as he spread them wide. “We’re out trying to find enough supplies to live on, and our children need fresh air. Yet by your very words, you’re risking their health by not providing masks.”

The crowd hemmed in closer. David resisted the urge to swing his M-4 around and discharge it. Instead he held up his hand, not touching the man, but clearly defining his protective zone. “Only soldiers have been affected by the dust pneumonia and so far, no one in Arizona has. This is a federal law for the armed forces as we are on shift for twelve hours or more.”

A couple in the back picked up their supplies and wandered away. A group of four on the left followed. The handful of others muttered amongst themselves.

David couldn’t make out their words, but he watched their body language. Their arms hung loosely at their sides and their features didn’t have that pinched look from a moment ago. “I would recommend you allow your children out for only an hour at a time. If you or they need to be out longer, then you may wish to cover your mouth with your washable face masks.”

“Washable face masks?” Beer Gut’s face turned purple and his belly swelled like a bloated corpse baking in the sun. “I never received any face masks.”

Instead of smashing his fist through the gin blossoms in the other man’s nose, David turned his palm face up. “May I see your ration card, sir?”