The Gathering Dead (14 page)

“Well, maybe that’ll change.” There was something else in Finelly’s voice, something that tickled the edges of her persona. He was clearly coming on to her. And oddly enough, Regina was surprisingly receptive to it, even though she usually favored what her father disparagingly referred to as “thoroughbreds”: moneyed traders or corporate chieftains, men who made millions with their brains and on occasion, their brawn. Finelly obviously didn’t do much with his brains, but the brawn, oh he had that, in spades.

She turned to him, and hit him with her patented wilting smile. “Oh, I wouldn’t worry about that, Finelly.” As in,
You don’t have a snowball’s chance in Hell of ever seeing me without my clothes on.

“That was just plain cold,” Finelly said, without a trace of remorse in his voice. He’d either been teasing, or had expected to go down in flames from the get-go.

“Hey Finelly, let’s get what we came for and get back outside,” Derwitz said. “The major and the first shirt should be back any second now, and I want to hear what they got to say.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Finelly said, rolling his eyes. He grabbed some salt and packets of mustard and mayonnaise, while Derwitz grabbed bread and roast beef. He then headed for the door, followed by the taller (and infinitely sexier, Regina thought against her will) Finelly. Finelly turned and looked at her as he backed through the door.

“Don’t go far,” he said. “No one’s really supposed to go anywhere alone, but if you plan on stepping outside of the kitchen, let one of us know.”

“I will,” Regina said. She started to thank him for his concern, but he stepped out of the kitchen, and the door swung shut.

She went ahead and made herself a zesty salami sandwich with oil and vinegar and black pepper, grabbed another beer, and headed back for the dining area. She sat down across from her father again.

“The soldiers were right, there is beer,” she said.

Safire merely grunted, apparently totally uninterested. Regina shrugged mentally and started eating. She was surprised at how utterly ravenous she was, then she realized she had had nothing to eat for almost twelve hours. She consumed her sandwich rapidly, punctuated with draughts from the beer bottle. It was definitely low on the class scale, but the meal was one of the enjoyable she’d had in a long time.

And then, McDaniels and the first sergeant were there, striding across the room. Everyone perked up when they saw the major, and Regina knew exactly why. The man exuded confidence and calm, even though he must have been infinitely more tired than he appeared. And he was clearly educated, much more so than, say, Sergeant Finelly by a long shot. The fact that he was black was not lost upon Regina either. She wondered if his race had made life in the Army easier or harder for him. She’d known many people in the corporate and medical arenas who had experienced a little bit of both, but she imagined the Army was more of a vacuum-sealed environment. Maybe things like color didn’t mean anything in the military.

“All right folks, listen up,” McDaniels said. “In about two hours, we’ll be getting out of here. The Marines are coming for us in one of their V-22s and will upload us from the roof. We just have to keep alive until then.” He looked around. “Where are Rittenour and Leary?”

“Back on the first floor,” Finelly said. “They hit the latrine, grabbed some chow, and headed downstairs. Wanted to keep an eye on whatever’s going on down there.”

McDaniels glanced back at Gartrell. “First sergeant...?”

“Not my idea major, but makes sense. If anything goes down, those two can handle it long enough to pull back, blow up the stairway, and then fight a rear guard if necessary.” Regina noticed the first sergeant met McDaniels’ eyes squarely. There wasn’t much respect and absolutely no obsequiousness in his demeanor. She could almost see the undercurrent of tension between the two men.

Are they enemies?
she wondered.

McDaniels turned to the two soldiers who sat at the table, still eating. The third, Jimenez, lay on his left side on the floor, some distance away. He hadn’t moved much since Regina had last examined him.

“Finelly and Derwitz, I want the two of you to head topside once you’ve finished eating,” McDaniels said. “The Marines will be looking to get in and out as quickly as possible, and I would guess you Night Stalkers can help them out on the ground, correct?”

“Hooah,” both soldiers said in unison. Finelly went on to add, “We have IR strobes and radios that talk on their freqs without any problem, sir. What’s the call sign?”

“Thunder Three,” McDaniels said.

Finelly nodded, smiling. “Heh, the Thunder Chickens. Yeah, that’s their real unit des, sir. We worked with them just about a month ago when they got back from Iraq.”

“I’ll consider that to be a good thing, then.” McDaniels nodded to the two Night Stalkers. “Check in with us before you leave for the roof. The first sergeant and I are going to get some chow.” With that, McDaniels turned to leave.

“What about the weather,” Safire asked suddenly.

McDaniels turned back to him. “I’m sorry, Doctor?”

“The weather, major, the weather!” Safire twisted around in the booth and pointed toward the windows that looked out to the east, over the rest of Manhattan, the East River, and the borough of Queens. The dark clouds were still stacking up, and had definitely moved closer than the last time Regina had looked.

“The Marines can handle it,” McDaniels said. “The MV-22 Osprey is one of the most sophisticated airframes in the service today. It’s an all-weather transport, Doctor. Please don’t worry.”

“Fifty dollars,” Safire said.

“Sorry?”

“Fifty dollars that the weather gets in the way,” Safire said. “Fifty dollars says we’re here throughout the night, at the very least.”

McDaniels snorted and looked around the room. Everyone seemed a little bemused by the sudden impulse wager.

“Sure, fifty bucks it is,” McDaniels agreed with a shrug, before he turned for the kitchen. Gartrell headed for the wounded soldier, Jimenez, and knelt beside him. They talked softly.

“Why did you make that bet with the major?” Regina asked her father.

“To keep him honest,” Safire said. “I’m not sure he’s been thinking of alternatives. Maybe fifty dollars will jumpstart his mind.”

The hours passed slowly, moving like molasses on a cold January day. Despite the tension of the situation, McDaniels felt bone-weary after eating a light meal; his eyes burned, and his ears buzzed. He felt as if he hadn’t slept in a week, and that was not a good thing. He needed to have all of his wits about him now, up until the Marines extracted them and they were on their way out of the city. If his mental faculties weren’t up to par, then mistakes could be made, threats overlooked. It would suck to have made it so far for so long, only to have defeat snatched from the jaws of victory due to his carelessness.

So he brewed some rather fine gourmet coffee he found in one section of the kitchen (where there was hard liquor as well; apparently, Earl’s bosses knew how to get their drink on when the circumstances warranted it). The coffee was sharp and bitter and strong, and cut through the veil of lassitude that had descended upon him like a fisherman’s net. It was a temporary situation, he knew. Caffeine was a godsend to most soldiers, but McDaniels’ body processed it quickly, leaving him just as tired and moribund as before. He brewed an entire pot, just in case.

He checked in with the two Special Forces troopers watching the front gates down on the first floor. They reported nothing particularly unusual, beyond the fact the street was full of a bunch of walking dead people. McDaniels filled them in on the coming exfiltration, to which Sergeant Rittenour said he didn’t care was conducted by the Corps or the Civil Air Patrol, so long as their butts were pulled out of the city. McDaniels told them to remain in place until the MV-22 was closer, then he would have them withdraw to the roof with the rest of them.

He also ordered them to report in every fifteen minutes, and the Green Berets agreed.

For a change of pace, McDaniels walked through the cafeteria again, checking it out, making sure their security condition hadn’t changed since his last jaunt to the roof. There was very little to see that he hadn’t noticed before. He edged toward one of the windows and looked out over Lexington Avenue. The view hadn’t changed much either since the last time he’d taken it in. Parts of the city were dark due to power loss, and the orange glow from Central Park had diminished as well. The growing breeze had cleared away most of the smoke, and he could now see in all directions. Below, zombies shambled about in the lamplight on Lexington Avenue, moving this way and that in an aimless fashion. Or was it? McDaniels wondered if the dead actually patrolled the street like a shark might swim through its territorial waters, using all of their senses
—
whatever they had left
—
to search for signs of prey. He had no doubt that the zeds below would do anything they could to reach him; most certainly, the “window divers” as Gartrell had called them proved that point. There simply was no negotiating with the dead. Trying to parlay with a Great White shark was likely to be more fruitful.

“‘Scuse me, major?”

McDaniels was startled out of his reverie by Earl’s whisper. He turned away from the city and thoughts of the walking dead and swimming sharks, and refocused his attention on the cafeteria. Earl and his two daughters stood nearby, watching him.

“Hey, Earl. What’s up?” McDaniels kept his voice low, even though no one was sleeping. There was just something about the situation that warranted whispers.

“These’re my daughters,” Earl said, not without some pride. “My eldest, this is Kenisha. Kenisha, say hello to the major. He’s an officer in the U.S. Army, and he’s in charge of these men here.”

The girl rolled her eyes. “I can see that, dad.” She was about twenty years old, McDaniels guessed, and was quite the beauty. With skin the color of dark chocolate and bright, inquisitive eyes that held the light, he was certain she was popular with the boys. She extended one finely-boned hand in his direction, and McDaniels clasped it gently.

“Pleased to meet you, major,” she said. Her grip was firm and strong. She was no wallflower, this one, so McDaniels firmed up his own grip a bit. “Thanks for everything you’re doing.”

McDaniels smiled and nodded to Earl. “Call me Cord, if you would. And you should thank this man here, Kenisha. He’s the one who saved you and your sister, right?”

Kenisha glanced back at her father and smiled gently. “Yeah, he did great.”

Earl beamed, then motioned to his second daughter, who looked to be about ten or eleven. Her demeanor was different from her sister’s, more standoffish, more reserved. She had the same intelligence in her eyes, but not the same bravery. She was the kind who preferred to hold back and take in a scene before stepping into it.

“This here’s Zoe, my youngest.” When she didn’t offer anything, Earl nudged her forward. “Go ahead, Zoe, say hello to the major.”

“Hi,” was all she said.

“Hi back, Zoe,” McDaniels said.

Earl frowned. “Well, shake the man’s hand, baby girl!”

McDaniels shook his head. “No need to push her, Earl. Really. It’s no big deal.” McDaniels smiled at the girl again, and sipped his coffee.

“Are we going to fly on an airplane?” Zoe asked. Her voice was soft but sonorous, and McDaniels wondered if singing might be in her future.

McDaniels smiled. “Well, sort of. The Osprey, it can be a helicopter and an airplane. It can move its engines like this.” He held his hands before him and bent them upward at the wrist, trying to mimic the motion of the MV-22’s tilting engine nacelles.

She seemed to consider this for a moment. “We’ve never been on an airplane before. They look like they might be fun.”

“Well, I think it’ll definitely be different, that’s for sure. I don’t think very many little girls like you have been on a V-22 before, so it’s something you —” McDaniels stopped himself before he said
it’s something you can tell your friends about,
because there was very little chance most of her friends were still alive.

“It’s something you can look forward to,” he amended.

“My daddy says there aren’t very many black men in the Army,” she said suddenly.

“Well, that’s not exactly true. There are plenty of black men in the Army.”

“Will you be a general like Colin Powell was?” Zoe asked. “He came to our school last year and gave a talk. He was the leader of the Army, I think.”

McDaniels snorted. “Yes, he was the leader of the Army for a while. Actually, he was the head of all the military chiefs for a time. And I’d be glad if the Army made me a general like him, but I think I need to get past being a major first.”

“Are there a lot of black generals?” Kenisha asked.

“Some.” He tapped the U.S. Special Operations Command patch on his shoulder. “Very few black guys in special operations, though. Even fewer in the Army’s Special Forces, which is where I’m from. Not sure why, but I think the promotion rate might have something to do with it,” he finished with a grin.

Kenisha nodded. “I see,” she said, though McDaniels could tell she wasn’t so sure she did. She did seem sharp, and he detected the undercurrent of an activist in her. Hopefully, she wasn’t about to try and engage him in a conversation on the state of the racial equality inside the U.S. Army.

Earl apparently felt that way too, and put a hand on her arm as he spoke to McDaniels. “I just wanted to introduce ‘em to you, major. Seein’ as how they was asleep and all when you were up here before.”

McDaniels nodded to the girls. “I’m glad you did. Nice to meet you, ladies.”

“Kenisha, why don’t you take Zoe into the kitchen. Maybe find some of that nice sweet potato pie. Should be some left, unless those Army guys ate it all.”

Kenisha started to argue, and it was obvious she thought the idea of fetching a piece of cake for her sister was far, far beneath her.

“Come on, now,” Earl persisted.

When Kenisha looked at her father’s smiling face, she relented with a sigh. She reached out and took Zoe’s hand.