Redaction: Extinction Level Event (Part I) (40 page)

Bitch! He released a shaky breath. At least she’d served one purpose—she’d provided the perfect opportunity to reopen the topic of the Aspero. “Did that Aspero character get to her too?”

Tattoo’s laugh rumbled up his massive chest to bellow out his mouth. Around them, people fell silent. He lifted his arms and took his plate. Two slices of toast were wedged between the mountains of food. “The Aspero is a gang not a person.”

The next server added the extra cream-colored blob to his plate then plunked a square of toast into it. God, what animals. Was it too much to ask to keep the food separate? After accepting his plate, he set it on his tray then added a cup of the brown stuff. “Um, thanks.”

The server ignored him.

Cretin. Picking up the tray, Trent followed Tattoo to the rolls of napkins and disposable utensils. “Where are the Aspero?”

Tattoo scooped up his utensils then stopped to scan the crowd. “Why you interested?”

Trent carefully placed his bundle next to his plate and waited. “I want to know which area to avoid.”

Without a word, Tattoo walked away. He turned at the third stripe of tables.

Bastard! He had the power and knew it. Trent’s grip tightened on the tray until it shook.
Let it go. What does it matter in the long run
? As soon as he got his murder kit back, he’d even the score. He rolled his shoulders, easing the tension and followed the big man.

Tattoo paused next to a half empty table. Within seconds, the occupants swept up their trays and departed.

Trent smirked. Did the giant actually think scaring a bunch of bums would impress Trent Powers? Darting right, he maneuvered onto the opposite seat. “Look, if you think the gangsters did this to me, I’d rather not meet up with them again.”

“I thought you might want to get your Jaguar back.” Tattoo unrolled his fork from his paper napkin.

Trent dropped his tray onto the table and collapsed onto the bench. Shit! Now he needed to think of something fast to explain his reaction. “You—You think I have a Jag?”

Smooth, Powers. Real smooth. To reach his fork, he slid his hand along the table top. The big man wouldn’t see him shake.

After tucking the napkin under his chin, Tattoo scooped a wad of yellow off his plate. “Goes with the thousand dollar suit.”

Three thousand two hundred and twelve dollar suit. He wouldn’t dress his dog in a thousand dollar suit. “Wow. A Jag.” He continued to play dumb while he freed his own fork. “I can’t believe I have a Jag.”

As soon as the big guy blabbed about the Aspero’s hide-out, he could retrieve his car and get a little payback.

With interest.

Trent scraped a bite of yellow off his fork. God damn it. His tastebuds rebelled; and his stomach ached. The powdered eggs tasted like dirt. The surly server’s spit might actually have been an improvement.

“Had.” Tattoo removed another large forkful from his pile. “Candy tried to drive it into a tank last night.”

Stupid, stupid bitch!

“Tried to?” He carefully set his fork down. If she hadn’t succeeded, the cops could have impounded his car and have his murder kit. He’d have to think of a better means to kill her. One that was slower and more painful. If he was going down for one murder, he might as well make it two. The state could only execute him once.

Tattoo speared the last bit of yellow. “Rocket got her before she got anywhere near the Marines.”

Rocket. A rocket was good. His murder kit would be incinerated and he’d get a new car out of the deal. God was certainly smiling on him. “So the car is...”

“Smoked.” Tattoo grinned. Bits of egg clung to his lips and teeth. “Of course, you might be able to recover the license plate.”

Trent stuffed another lump of egg into his mouth. This bite wasn’t that bad. Of course, he’d have better when he went home. Home. Where cops waited to tell him the distressing news of his wife’s suicide. Maybe he’d celebrate with a meal out tonight.

Goth Lolita sank to the bench next to him. Her lips puckered as she blew on the steam above her mug.

Yeah, his day was definitely looking up.

“You’re going to have to stay the night, I’m afraid.”

Trent sucked the eggs of his fork and slowly chewed the mush. His cock stirred to life. Wow, she was forward too. Perhaps she’d left to set up a love nest. He hoped it was far enough away from the others. He didn’t want anyone coming to her rescue when he showed her who the real boss was. “Why’s that?”

“The police won’t be able to get here until tomorrow.” Rising from her seat, she left the mug behind. “And they definitely want to see you.”

Chapter Thirty-Three

“At least today is over.” David squeezed the bottom of his sleeve of coffee and poured the dregs into his mouth. The undissolved grounds were bitter on his tongue. Too bad the caffeine couldn’t keep him awake. And the nap at Mavis’s hadn’t helped.

“Damn Big D.” Robertson pulled the empty supply truck behind the other one in the convoy, waiting for their chance to turn toward base camp. “You keep sighing and I’m gonna tell Johnson to check you for leaks.”

“You go anywhere near the medic and I’ll order a full STD panel on your privates, Private.” David rolled up the empty sleeve and tucked it into the trash can.

Robertson clenched his thighs together. “I liked you better when you were dozing, even if your snoring did drown out the radio.”

“Then you’ll love me for the rest of the night.” David unscrewed the cap from his water bottle and drained it. “I plan on doing nothing but sleeping.”

His cot called and he planned to answer.

For at least eight straight hours.

“Sergeant Major?” The light changed and Robertson cranked the wheel keeping close to the other truck.

Uh-oh. The private had gone all respectful on him. David tossed his empty bottle into the bin in the back. Obviously his gut was tired too, or it would have warned him something was off with the soldier. “What is it, Private?”

“Did you notice anything odd about the people today?” Leaning forward, Robertson rested his forearms on the truck’s steering wheel.

“Aside from the coughing and masks?” That had seemed almost normal. After six months of features obscured by masks, a week wasn’t long enough to grow accustomed to seeing uncovered faces.

“Yeah, aside from that.” Robertson’s fingers drummed the dashboard. Too bad there wasn’t any music.

Well, hell. David sat up straighter. The private could have sworn a few times, warning him about the kind of night awaiting him.

Robertson kept everyone awake with his worries.

The truck jiggled its occupants as it crawled toward the gate into base. David reached through the haze clouding his mind. Abnormal? The usual blusterers had come out, demanding more rations. There’d been the usual whiners complaining about the supplies. “Are you referring to the high number of people collecting for others?”

“Nah.” Halfway into the turn, Robertson braked. The evening air filled with the rattle of the chain link fence opening. He rubbed the back of his neck. “It’s just... I don’t know. Like something is there. Waiting. Something bad.”

“Something bad is waiting or, more accurately, crawling through the garbage.” David closed his eyes for a moment and propped his head against the seat rest.

“But all those people don’t know about the Plague outbreak.”

“They will. The President is supposed to make an announcement tonight.” Tonight was the beginning of the end. Or maybe it was the end of the beginning of humanity’s extinction.

Robertson slapped the steering wheel as they started forward again. “Why did he wait so long?”

Politics. Money. Avoidance. David rubbed his eyes, felt the grit against his lids. “There wasn’t a confirmed case until now.”

“And it had to be the Doc’s daughter.”

“Her niece.” Not that the private would listen any more than he had the first six times he’d been corrected. David thumbed his phone. Should he call Mavis? Find out how she’s doing?

Make sure Lister was gone.

“What do you think he’ll say?”

“The President? Mavis was on the phone trying to coordinate a mass garbage collection thing when I left.” David frowned. The governor had sounded sick on the speaker phone. And tired. And unwilling to do anything.

Because there’d be a record number of call-ins among the city employees.

“What’s with the frown, Big D?”

The skin between his shoulder blades itched. Something was pinging his oh-shit meter. His brain slogged through the sleep congestion and unearthed a nugget. A nugget that was making connections in unpleasant ways. “The people are sick.”

“Yeah.” Robertson rolled his eyes and stopped the truck next to the tent barracks. “I’m pretty sure they know that already.”

David shook his head. “No, the people are sick and no one told them that it was coming.” Faces emerged in his head like playing cards being shuffled face-up. “They’re getting angry at the government.” His hands spasmed into fists. Son of a bitch. “And we’re the government.”

“Fuckin-A, Big D.” Robertson’s knuckles flashed white. “I don’t want to get killed because the government pukes can’t pull their heads out of their asses. We don’t need another Seattle.”

Yeah, but that was out of their hands. The government had already decided to keep the lid on the Redaction’s imminent return.

But he’d be damned if his men would pay the price.

“Gather the troops. We need to have an impromptu pow-wow.”

“Well, shit!” Robertson pressed on the gas. “Here I was offering you curb-side service to earn a few brownie points, and you go and decide to work through your crank-atude.”

“That’s not a word.” David lifted the trash bin from its place of honor between the two-bucket seats as the truck eased into the motor pool.

“It should be cuz you’re cranky on top of your BMOB attitude.”

Sometimes Robertson had a point. Not that he’d tell the private; the planet could barely contain his ego and everyone else. David bit the inside of his cheek to stop his smile from getting too wide. “Just go round up everyone within ten before my crank-atude turns into your latrine duty.”

“Yes, Sergeant Major.” Robertson took his hand off the wheel to snap of a half-assed salute.

He covered a yawn. For a moment, the motor pool blurred. God, he couldn’t remember ever feeling this tired. Ten minutes seemed an eternity away. “Just park the truck.”

Robertson pulled into the space, shifted into park then killed the engine. “Ten minutes at the gate?”

“Yeah.” David hopped to the ground, chucked the trash into a nearly full dumpster, and then returned the empty bin to the truck. Grabbing his weapon, he slung it over his shoulder and headed for the rendezvous point. His body ached and his eyes drifted closed. Damn, he was worse off than he thought if he was trying to sleep while he walked.

Robertson jogged out of the motor pool, the other men in the unit behind him. The group scattered like billiard balls as they passed the supply tent.

He rolled his head on his neck. The tension eased slightly. Just another ten minutes and he’d have eight hours.

Provided Mavis didn’t get a delivery.

Then he’d have a half an hour’s drive to her house. His head cleared for a moment. And maybe this time she’d offer him a bed to sleep in. Hers would be nice.

But he’d take the floor as long as Lister stayed away.

“Sergeant Major.” A young private wearing a stained apron shot out of the double doors of the mess hall. He shoved a Styrofoam cup at David, before shaking brown droplets off his hand.

“Thanks.” David eyed the soldier whose apron obscured the Velcro name on his jacket. He recognized the face but the name... Nope. His brain had circled around the need for sleep and didn’t seem inclined to allow any other thoughts out. At least he remembered what he planned to tell his men.

Kind of.

Footsteps crunched behind him just as the door to the mess banged shut. The soldiers who remained on base fell into step around him.

Great. It’s a fricking parade led by a sleep deprived non-commissioned officer and his coffee cup. He took a sip, before opening his mouth and fanning his tongue. His cup of very hot coffee. Good thing the media no longer considered them news worthy. David eyed the gate and watched the guard stutter in his back-and-forth march, before focusing on the coming troops. Poor kid. He probably thought he was in for a public dressing down.

Colonel Asshole loved public dressing downs.

Gave the prick something to look forward to.

And it completely obliterated morale.

He really had to take the man out of commission. But how? His brain offered up solutions that wouldn’t work with the current laws of physics. Walking between the barracks, he shook his head then checked his watch. Seven more minutes, until he could sleep.

Seven eternal minutes.

He yawned, blew on the coffee and then took another sip. A degree below scalding. He repeated the procedure as he walked. By the time he reached the gate only a worm of brown oozed in the creases of the cup. Still hadn’t made a dent in his sleep requirements.

Once upon a time, he’d been able to go four days with two hours of sleep per day. Once upon a time, he’d been twenty. Getting old sucked. He crumpled the Styrofoam in his fist. Then again, it beat the hell out of the alternative.

“Sergeant Major.” The private’s eyes widened as he came to attention.

David returned the salute. “Relax. We’re having a pow-wow, not a dressing down.”

The young soldier nodded and his shoulders dropped just a hair, but his grip on his M-4 tightened until his knuckles shown white.

Clasping his hands behind his back, David eyed his men and counted heads. He’d just finished his tally, when he spied Robertson jogging over. The rest of the soldiers on base stood at ease in a semi-circle around him.

Robertson squeezed through the crowd of thirty-three men before handing David a half-empty coffee cup. Brown streaks on the side indicated where the rest of the liquid had gone.

David nodded his thanks before handing the crumpled Styrofoam off to the private. “Before I begin, I need to know if anyone is sick. Feverish, muscles aches, running nose, sore throat. Anything?”