BREN
Tonight, I am going to my grave.
Well, almost, if everything didn't pan out the way it's supposed to. I do not deny that it would be a fucking strenuous slope to climb, but you know me. I am not in the habit of making myself an easy target—not for the vectors, not for the Alphas, and certainly not for the United States Army.
It was eight o'clock in the evening, the sun was still up and bright, and I had observed and watched all forty-two soldiers within the camp for hours. I had mentally tabulated their duties, routines, and patterns, how they took breaks and where they went for one, and who was close with who or who was more annoyed with who.
Contrary to popular belief, men gossiped twice as much as women, and we do love to talk crazy shit about other people, no matter how minuscule.
They called that locker talk.
I merely had to ask a couple of soldiers who had pliable tongues. It took me two minutes to get their lips moving, and boy did they unpack a lot of baggage. Sure, some soldiers were wary about my personal questions, but I had to be careful with my words. I had to sacrifice my self-esteem to deprecate myself. If you're willing to share your insecurities with someone, chances were, many of them share theirs too...and then some.
It helped that Garrett mostly did the talking. Since he trusted Peter and Haskell, his loose tongue went off, painting a pretty picture of the entire unit in just eight hours. So all I had to do was sit back. At the same time, Peter and Haskell chatted him up like whisking butter about West Point, harking back to their early-morning training sessions, to their favorite teachers, and to the memories of their classmates. Then it diverged into questions about the soldiers.
Peter did a phenomenal job pulling Garrett's strings by comparing their classmates with the other soldiers' skills and behaviors. It was clear Garrett wasn't happy working with them (or at least uncomfortable), especially with what he had to say about the "fuck tent" and Drucker and Garcia's willingness to let such a thing fly. If the top brass willingly turned a blind eye, they wouldn't complain if it improved morale. The lack of morale could quickly destroy an army as much as a bullet could.
"I can understand Drucker putting that tent up, but not with Garcia. She's a woman," Garrett spat. "How could she let that kind of thing happen, you know? She should be offended by it." But his opinions were the minority. The soldiers liked having the women around since, according to them, it killed their boredom.
I now got a good read of everyone: Who had the best shot, who could snipe from a hundred meters away, who was more attentive and intelligent, and who acquired more skills with a weapon. I guessed it's pretty standard to ask these types of questions in the military, mainly when you worked with these men for many months and then expected to encounter many life-and-death situations. It was good to know who had your back and who didn't, so Garrett gave Peter, Haskell, and me the rundown information with volition, as well as who he hated the most (and make no mistake, he was not ashamed to say it). Berry and Donahue's names cropped up a few times, one of the regular patrons of the "fuck tent."
I was happy with my work in such a short time frame, given that I am winning most of them. In fact, I would do myself one better and say I am fucking proud of what I had just achieved. Though, I did have a brief talk with Haskell at least twice to make sure he was still on my side. Being in the apocalypse made you paranoid about your allies' allegiances when that needle could swing chaotically to another direction you didn't want. I needed my plan to go off without a hitch.
And it better be.
Aside from Garcia and her crew, most of the soldiers were young, barely hitting the age of twenty-one. Either they joined the Army fresh out of high school and then went straight into boot camp, or some were willing (or unwilling) volunteers from President Marshall's grand initiative to "reclaim the freedom and integrity of the country."
I could only imagine how annoying it would be to see the endless recruitment ads and propaganda on TV that cropped up after the president's address days ago (or perhaps, months ago when the outbreak occurred). Instead, I only saw the aftermath: strewn flyers everywhere, distributed and thrown off the planes and helicopters (I found a lot within the woods—talk about littering), propaganda posters set up around the camp, and then the way the soldiers talked about the war...it was as if they genuinely believed they could clean out and smash their enemies in the Red Zone—against the millions of multiplying vectors heading their way through standard warfare.
I reckoned that kind of blind trust had their way of stringing you along toward that fabled finish line. Even the slightest qualms about the campaign were squashed away if someone slapped a red, white, and blue-striped banner over it. People would go wild when someone sang the song of freedom.
It was something I could work with.
Still, Captain Drucker had formed a tight ship, drilled in a strict schedule that all soldiers within the camp must adhere to, and Garcia tightened that grip at all cost. They always had four soldiers guarding the gates at all times. One on each watchtower and two on the platform above the gates. Every hour they would have two teams of two soldiers patrolling the perimeter for break-ins and weak points along their makeshift barricades. Still, according to Garrett, it had been three weeks since their last encounter with a vector, and the soldiers had been remiss of their duties, to which he complained endlessly about.
"They were busy lining up to have an appointment with the women than going about looking for monsters," Garrett said as if using the word 'appointment' wouldn't make yourself gag. "Sometimes, I'd find myself thinking that there's actually no war going on like this is just an adult summer camp. You forget so easily around here."
Again, another thing I could work with.
The women avoided me. They had probably heard about Aria and me going into the "fuck tent" earlier, perhaps thinking that Peter and I had done the dirty with here since Berry and Donahue kept teasing us about diving for the goods when we only got here.
"Aria is off-limits," Berry said. "That's Captain Drucker's girl. I mean, if she willingly went in there with the two of you, then, I guess, she's not waiting any longer. Garcia's gonna give him an earful about you two. Better be careful and step on your tiptoes when he comes back tomorrow." He let out a thunderous laugh.
"What do you mean?" I asked.
Berry and Donahue shared a knowing grin. "The captain wants Aria's virginity, I bet. He seems to go wild about that, even saving that other chick. What's her name? Holly, yeah?"
"Quit your bullshit, Berry. Captain Drucker never once went into the tent with the other women. He's not that type of guy," Garrett said, shaking his head.
Donahue scoffed. "That's because he wants the women in his private sex den."
Berry rubbed his fingers together. "And the captain likes them young and ripe."
Donahue slapped him on the arm. "Shut up," he hissed. "Or we're gonna get in fucking trouble."
Fortunately, Berry never mentioned that again. I had no intention of meeting this Captain Drucker, and Aria would certainly never talk to him again if I could do something about it.
I wondered if Aria had spoken to the girls yet about tonight (hopefully, without giving me away). I wished she had already. It would save me a lot of trouble. But, unfortunately, I had not seen Aria for a while since our talk, so I assumed she was busy dragging some of the girls for a private chat.
Still, I didn't stop the soldiers from running with their assumptions about me, letting them believe what they wanted to believe. It was easier to warp their image of me, especially when they still thought of Peter as the intimidating figure. No one would take a second look at the short, skinny kid next to a towering guy like Peter Gauthier.
Yes. Something I could definitely work with, long enough to make a good plan.
No.
A survivable plan.
A plan on how to get rid of forty-two soldiers so that we could enter the city.
The soldiers had to die.
It was the only logical conclusion after Garcia barred the gates against us after the entire military barred the gates against desperate civilians seeking refuge. There was no way I could convince her again to let them pass—she made that pretty straightforward—and there's no way I would abandon all our vehicles and supplies with still a long way to go to Pittsburgh. If we abandoned our resources now so that we could sneak in undetected, we would be stranded not only on the road, but perhaps we might never leave the city!
So, they had to die.
I'm going to kill them.
All forty-two of them.
——
"Here are your ACUs," said Donahue, gesturing to the neatly folded combat uniforms on our cots. "I don't know if any of them fit, but these are the ones that we have. We might have more if Captain Drucker gets back tomorrow with the fresh supplies."
"Who's badges and insignia are these?" Haskell asked.
"Believe it or not, there's a ton of guys who went AWOL back in the safe zone when we started building up the walls and the outposts, but it had died down since then. If you get caught, you pretty much will get court-martialed, and the punishment is harsh. One guy got six lashes on the back in view of the public, and he passed out on the second whip and pissed himself."
I gave Donahue a sour glance. Haskell opened his mouth and closed it again. However, Peter was nonplussed.
"Where is he now?" I asked.
Donahue grinned. "You're looking at him."
Haskell gasped. "And they let you serve again?"
"Look around, man. We're not exactly swimming with manpower when there's a war going on, especially a war that's supposed to end civilization itself. They sent me here, and, for the record, I feel like an idiot for getting myself worked up over what those monsters looked like that I decided to run away without even seeing a single one of them yet. Once I was here, Captain Drucker showed me there was nothing to be scared of." Donahue strode toward the entrance. "I'll see you three in the mess hall. Chow time is in twenty-five minutes, so don't be late. Garcia will chew you out in front of everyone if you do." He paused before he went out. "Are you three good runners by any chance?"
"Why'd you ask?"
Donahue shrugged. "Just asking in case she asks you to run around the parking lot nonstop until midnight as your punishment. She does that a lot to the newbies, says it teaches them life lessons or some bullshit. Gah! Just be in there before the dinner bell rings. Go get changed."
We changed into our respective uniforms in silence. Peter and Haskell fitted perfectly in theirs, but mine was a bit off, my jacket was a little baggy, yet the sand-colored shirt pressed against my skin so tight that I wanted to tear it off right away against this heat. But, on the other hand, I was glad the trousers were just right. I didn't want to waddle around like a penguin, much less run around with it around my ankles. I peered at the other two men, sort of jealous that they now looked the part. I mean, Peter and Haskell were actual soldiers. But, of course, they looked comfortable wearing the uniform, like a nail to a hammer or a fish's tail to a mermaid.
"For a second there, I thought they were never going to hand us any weapons," Haskell said, breaking the silence.
He checked the clip in his magazine, nodded once he's satisfied with what he saw. The number one rule in the camp was that all soldiers must be armed at all times, so we were required to carry a pistol. I had Betty on my pillow, took it, and put it in my holster. It was already one of the military standard-issue pistols for a SIG M17. Both Peter and Haskell got the Beretta M9. I sheathed my tactical knife around my belt and also snuck a fixed-blade knife under my ankle just in case.
"Besides Alex, some actually recognized us from West Point, but they're a couple years older," said Peter. He put the beretta in his holster and fiddled with his belt straps. "I think one guy's name is Frankie? I completely forgot. He's the one with that weird crooked thumb."
Haskell chuckled. "No offense, Gauthier, but you kind of stand out in our class. Just about everyone recognizes you. That's why you can't skip any of our classes because the professors were bound to notice!"
"Well, it's a good thing someone recognized the two of you," I said. "It would be a lot harder if it was only Alex."
I had a sneaking suspicion that Alex Garrett wasn't well-liked by the others. After all, he was the only vocal dissent against using the "fuck tent," to which none of the soldiers would hear of it once the topic arose. Funnily enough, this made him much friendlier in the eyes of the women. Once they realized he was serious that he wouldn't force such business on them, they were willing to have a civil conversation with him over breakfast. At least that was what he told me.
We left the sleeping quarters and went straight for the mess hall, located in the suburb's small community center. I could smell the food being cooked rising out from the chimney already, and it smelled like it would include meat. My stomach grumbled audibly once I pictured a steaming plate of juicy steak and grilled shrimp. It had been a long time since I had real, proper meat or seafood. I frowned when I realized it would be quite a while that I'd be able to eat lobsters since they were harder to catch. The one crucial thing that the end of the world tore away from me was all my favorite dishes I could no longer devour.
I continued walking all the way to the front door, reminiscing of all the dishes I wouldn't be able to eat anymore, like sushi. Still, I had time to observe that the two gates were each manned by four soldiers even though most everyone would be eating dinner inside the mess hall. I also caught a glimpse of the patrols following their designated routes. Unfortunately, I forgot to ask Garrett how many laps they had to take until they called it in, and I mentally smacked my head for letting that slip out of the list.
We were the first three to step inside the building.
"Uh, Bren... nobody's here yet," Peter whispered to me, his glare asking me what we're gonna do now.
"Just play it cool," I hissed. "We're playing it by ear, remember?"
Peter thinned his lips and nodded glumly. Unlike me, Peter was the by-the-books kind of guy, the one who would instead plan endlessly every minuscule maneuver and battle plans before engaging the enemy like some tabletop RPG, which would bore me to the fucking death. Better be over-prepared than dead, he would say. Perhaps he was right. Some of my stunts could be considered reckless and detrimental to someone's health (not saying names, but it's mostly me), but when life gives you shitty, misshapen lemons...well, you know the drill.
"I guess we're sitting down and wait?" Haskell asked, eyebrow raised. I nodded. He took a tentative step forward but then stopped. "Er, which table?"
I shrugged. "Let's take the second to the last. It's closer to the door and far enough from the others," I said. I reckoned many soldiers would want to sit closer to the kitchen, where the cook began putting out the trays on the serving counter. Peter and Haskell followed me to the table.
Before my butt even planted on the seat, I heard someone bellowed, "Oy! You!" A man shouted from the kitchen.
I turned to find the cook pointing at me, though I wasn't sure if he really meant me. So, I looked around, thinking perhaps he didn't mean me, and then pointed my own finger at my face, you know, just to be sure. He impatiently nodded and gestured for me to come closer and then pointed at Haskell, too. So, I gave a slight shrug to Peter and ambled toward the kitchen with Haskell close to my heels, my mind racing with a thousand thoughts.
I glanced over my shoulder and saw Peter calmly sat down; his gaze never left us. He's like a snake waiting to strike for any slight, hand closely resting by his hip in case he needed to draw his weapon. It was kind of scary to watch, and I was tempted to scream at him to act natural. He's like a secret service agent you could spot in a crowd the minute you entered the room.
Too late.
The cook waited by the door leading into the kitchen. He looked to be in his mid-thirties, with this panic-stricken, crazy eyes, his balding hair was unkempt, and his face was all sweaty, and it was clear he had been frantic about finishing whatever he was making behind the stove.
"You three must be the new guys!" The cook exclaimed. I nodded. "No one's usually this early. Oh, well! Chow time isn't until fifteen minutes, but those men will be coming in and lining up pretty soon. I want you two to help me finish the food. I am running a little late than usual after I burnt the meat. Here. Taste it." He took a spoonful of the mystery meat pot and handed it to Haskell, who hesitated at first before slowly taking it into his mouth.
"Hmmm," Haskell hummed a little enthusiastically. After a couple of bites in and he gulped it down his throat to get over it.
The cook was not impressed. "Who are you kidding, kid? You can just say it's shit."
"No... it's...edible..."
"Oh, god. Just don't tell the others, then. I'm sure they can push it down their stomachs with the Mac and cheese. Here. You try it."
After he forced me to try the Mac and cheese, it was actually better than I assumed.
The cook wiped the sweat forming over his brow. "Well, I guess that's salvageable. I might have to broil it in the oven for a minute or so. If any of those men complain, they can just suck it up and complain to Captain Drucker. I can't always cook a five-star meal every day for these pussies, like they ever deserve it. But for now..." the cook added more spices to the mystery meat. He then handed that ladle to Haskell. "Stir the meat. Make sure it really forms in the pot. Since you already tasted it, you're free to add salt and spices until it's more edible, okay?"
"Uh, okay." Haskell winced while I stifled my laughter. It was not the job I would choose by a long mile.
Then, the cook handed me another spatula, which I took hesitantly. "You handle that chicken tortilla soup. I was hoping it would be ready by now, but I kind of overdid the water and added the chicken late. Make sure the broth simmered and thickened and tasted right, but not burnt! Easy to burn, yes. Have you ever had chicken tortilla soup before?"
"Yes," I answered.
"Well, good. Make sure it tastes exactly how you had it. And remember, make it edible! Oh! Holly! You're here!"
A woman—Holly—appeared by the kitchen door. She was a couple inches shorter than me, with raven-black hair and green eyes with a bit of dimpled chin. She meekly said hello to the cook before he handed her a plastic bag filled with six Tupperwares, listing all the foods he had prepared inside. Once she left, the cook went back to finish the mashed potatoes.
"Are the girls not gonna eat with us?" Haskell asked.
The cook laughed. "Ha! You would love that, don't ya? No, kid. They prefer to eat in the house by the creek. It gives them peace of mind away from, well, everyone. At least Sergeant Garcia allows that."
I went over to the large pot of the simmering soup and started stirring. I never tested it to see if it was ready, afraid that I would never get rid of the aftertaste once it touched my tongue, and that scared me more than actually filling up my stomach because, boy, was I fucking hungry. So, I pretended like I was doing something important, putting the spatula closer to my lips (without touching it) when the cook looked in my direction while I tried to formulate a plan.
I was meant to disappear into the crowd and slipped out of the building while Peter and Haskell distracted the others with their tales about the Red Zone and the monsters inside (they had been interested in that since our arrival) and then make a beeline for the armory. It was supposed to be a simple in-and-out mission. My goal was to set a distraction by causing a fire in the radio room, maybe put the house itself ablaze, and once I rendezvous with the others, we would take the soldiers out one-by-one. Bonus if they thought it was the Alphas attacking; made them act as clowns in a circus.
And then it hit me.
Why not do it now?
I had the pot in front of me, begging to be tampered with. Looking around, I quickly spotted a bucket filled with cleaning supplies shoved under the sink. My heart hammered against my chest so fast, it felt like I was going to faint. I was fully aware of Haskell trying not to gag as he stirred and stirred to make the mystery meat edible, the way the cook shuffled back and forth between containers and pans, and how distracting Peter was sitting there alone on the table like a killer statue. My hands started to shake.
Oh shit. I'm really fucking doing this.
I glanced at the cleaning supplies again and found a lump in my throat, gulped that fear away as I grappled to keep my mind clear. It was different this time. I knew it was different. When I killed the Alphas, it was self-defense. They attacked me first, so I fought back. But here... I'd throw the first gauntlet.
What to do, what to do...?
No. The cleaning supplies wouldn't work. They'd taste it real quick, and they'd throw it away to the garbage faster than I could pour the entire bottle of bleach inside the pot, and who knew how they would react until then? My best case was that they'd just blame it on a typical case of food poisoning. Granted, the food sucked ass already, but I wanted them all to have at least a few bites in before they abandoned the plate and maybe die in the process. Even saying that made me nauseous.
But the rat poison...
I took a deep breath and tried to stop my hands from shaking. I couldn't even stir the soup now, so I put the spatula on the counter. This is it. I turned to Haskell and whispered, "Say you're done."
Haskell looked at me curiously. "Er, what?"
"Say you're done with the meat."
"Uh...okay. Um...hey! I'm done with this one!" Haskell shouted. "Whatever the fuck this is," he muttered out of the cook's earshot.
"Is it, you know, edible?" The cook asked hopefully.
"Y-yeah?"
"Oh! Good! Bring it over here and put it on the counter. Will you help me serve these to the men when they arrive? I could really use the help."
Haskell darted his eyes to look at me, panicking, but I calmly nodded my head. "Y-yes. Sure. I can help you with that," replied Haskell, chuckling nervously.
"Good, good! Now, grab that pot and bring it over here."
Haskell put on some mittens before he grabbed the handles, pivoted his heels, and sauntered toward the cook, who had his back on us.
And...now!
I stuck my foot out, clipping Haskell's left ankle, and he stumbled forward with a comical yelp. He managed to grab on the counter and held his fall, but the pot went straight to the floor, crashing like metallic ding heralding doom. Well, for the cook, anyway.
"My meatloaf!" The cook screamed.
That's a fucking meatloaf? What kind of meatloaf is that? I shook my head from the intrusive thoughts, which distracted me for a split second. I pretended as hard as I could at the accident, making a swift hand up for Peter to stop when he was about to get up from his seat. The cook ran over to salvage what he could of the meat, and Haskell shot me some dirty looks, of which I threw in a couple of winks. Finally, he got the gist, and he went down on his knees, profusely apologizing to the cook.
"We can still save it! There's like that five-minute rule, right?"
"It's seconds..."
"Gah! Half of it is still in the pot, at least. We'll just use those. Grab a mop—"
"I'll go get it," I said instantly.
The cook waved me away. "Go ahead. The mop's in the closet, but the cleaning supplies are under the sink."
"Got it."
The cook's face seized with fear. "Oh, shit! My macaroni!" And he ran over to the oven, which had started to smoke. Once he pulled the door open, a massive puff of smoke blinded him; a slew of curses followed within the cloud.
That ought to keep him busy for a while, I thought.
I went over to the closet and grabbed the mop, then the cleaning supplies, making sure to slip at least three rat poison packets into my jacket's pocket. Then, I walked back and gave everything to Haskell except for those.
"You clean. I'll tend to the soup," I said.
"What the fuck, Bren?" Haskell hissed, yanking the bucket and the mop off my hands.
"Just clean," I said, pleading with my eyes that I had no time to explain. He saw the rat poison peeking out of my jacket.
Haskell heaved a sigh and started mopping, but I caught a glimpse of his hands shaking when he grabbed the broom handle. He was nervous, too.
I glanced at the clock. Eleven minutes left before the soldiers would arrive—Plenty of time.
I tore off the packets and dumped all the content into the soup, and stirred them. I pushed a few kibbles that had floated toward the surface. They were more like brown-tinted pellets about the size of a grain of rice, which hid easily with the corn and the beans. I was worried they would never dissolve, giving this odd texture that the soldiers were going to notice, but after five minutes of vigorous stirring, they started to break apart and dissolve within the broth until they're practically non-existent. I didn't know whether to be happy, sad, or anxious. Would it kill the soldiers instantly? Debatable. But I could guarantee it would give them a severe case of vomiting and diarrhea, perhaps giving me enough time to think of something else to finish them with.
To be safe, I added a lot of salt and pepper, spices, cumin, lime juice, and stripped corn tortillas, anything to add flavor into my pot of death. I also dumped a ton of jalapeño peppers, hoping the spiciness would hide any weird tastes. Unfortunately, though, I had no way of knowing what it tasted like. I crossed my fingers and hoped for the best. After all, the tortilla soup still looked more appetizing than the rest.
I heard the door opened. A dozen soldiers poured in and lined up at the shoulder of the kitchen. The cook was busy putting down the metal trays and arranging the pots in order of how they would be served, but eventually, he made his way to me, grabbed a ladle, and tasted the soup.
I froze.
The cook smacked his tongue and lips as if that would enhance his taste buds better. His face suddenly scrunched up together, looked at me, and then took another spoonful with the ladle and tasted it.
"Did you add salt by any chance?" He asked.
"I-uh dumped quite a bit."
The cook frowned. "Well, it is a little salty, but what the hell. We'll serve it as it is."
"Wait. It's...good?"
The cook nodded. "I'm not a fan of the spice, but given what these boys have been through, they're not gonna complain now. The reason I'm splurging with all these ingredients tonight is that Captain Drucker is bringing in some fresh supplies tomorrow. I gotta clean out my pantry a little bit, you know? Once he orders we're back to MREs, then I'll stop spoiling their stomachs. But until then, splurge away!"
Splurge away.
——
I stared at my tray for twenty minutes, trying to stop my legs from shaking, and stopped myself from biting my fingernails. If someone observed me from afar, they would have suspected I was up to something.
Luckily, I had Peter and Haskell take the edge off, having a small conversation, even if it was forced. Oh, how was the weather? Yeah, it was pretty hot today, huh? Are summers normally this warm? Well, might as well blame it on climate change. Then back to nibbling something from our tray to keep ourselves busy.
The cook portioned everything based on our needed calorie intake, which rose to either four to five thousand a day during active duty. I had eaten all the mashed potatoes (the most edible thing on the plate), the canned corn and beans, the three pieces of sugar graham crackers, and half of the macaroni and cheese. But I never touched the mystery meat, er, the meatloaf. Neither did I took a sip of my bowl of chicken tortilla soup. That was just for show.
Neither Peter nor Haskell touched theirs, too.
I caught a glimpse of Berry sitting with two other men from the following table, and I quickly realized that I hadn't seen Donahue or Garrett anywhere.
"It must've been their turn for patrols," Haskell explained. "Or they're guarding the gates."
I sighed. "Possibly."
"I don't see Sergeant Garcia anywhere," Peter said calmly.
Haskell craned his neck. "But her crew is here, well, two of them at least. So where's the other two?"
I looked around, thought I had seen her for sure when I was in line. Peter was right. She wasn't in the mess hall. What the fuck? Peter leaned over to the other table and whispered something to Berry. They chatted for a minute before he returned.
"Says there's been an emergency, and she's been called to the radio room," he said.
I closed my eyes and gritted my teeth. Well, scratch our Step Three, then. I looked around. People were still busy eating, although I saw a couple of tables were already digging deep into their last pieces. "Fine. That's fine."
At least mostly everyone had their soup bowls empty.
My eyes caught sight of another soldier sitting close to the kitchen, engrossed in a conversation between two men. He had his elbow resting on the table, his head perched in the cup of his palm, leaning forward to get a good earshot. He laughed from what they said, something funny that made him touch his belly. His hand stayed there, still laughing—although dying down—until he put his hand over his mouth and coughed. He coughed two, three, four more times, a gurgled, phlegmy, and taxing cough. He massaged his lower ribs after with his index finger, felt a slight dull pain there, I'm sure, but it would soon grow sharp any minute.
I was transfixed, like a scientist behind a small pane of glass watching mice poison themselves. He was the first to eat that soup and finished it, and my eye had been on him ever since.
I watched him put his hand back to his belly again, now rubbing it from side to side. He pushed the bowl of soup out of the way along with his tray as if that would help to give him space to breathe properly. A slight twitch on his upper lips, the unfocused glaze in his eyes, and he quickly grabbed the glass of water beside him, gulping it down in one breath. He coughed; the water must've hit something at the back of his throat because he puked half it back into the cup. His friend asked if he was okay, but the soldier merely shook his head, smiled, and laughed it off.
I turned to Peter. "It's time."
Without skipping a beat, Peter and Haskell got up. They strode out of the mess hall, but I didn't see them go out through the front door, no doubt locking it from the outside per my instructions. I hoped no one stumbled upon it five minutes from now, or else I'll be on my wit's end.
I picked up my tray, placed the bowl of soup on top, and strode toward the kitchen. The cook had been busy putting away some of the dishes into the sink. Beads of sweat started to form on his forehead, his skin growing pale and clammy, his lips turning blue, and his breathing grew ragged and loud like an engine's throttle as I approached.
He heard me walk into the kitchen. "Oh. Hey, corporal. What do ya need?" He asked, voice a little slurred. His Adam's apple moved up and down, and it was clear he was fighting back his vomit. His body swayed a little.
"Are you okay? You don't look so well," I said. I put the tray on the counter and helped him lean against the sink.
"No, it's just the weather. It had been so hot, and I think...I..."
"Oh, I could help you while you go to the bathroom."
That lit him up. His eyes already told me he wished for that, a private place to hurl, not on his sacred kitchen. He quickly nodded, grumbling about where to put the dishes away (but he was hard to understand at this point), and then quickly darted off the kitchen toward the building's bathroom. I distinctly remembered Garrett telling me that those were out of order due to the plumbing needing electricity, but I wasn't going to stop the cook from going in there. I needed him out of the way.
He only made it halfway.
Th cook started hurling all the content in his stomach at the middle of the hall. Everyone looked wide-eyed, and it was like a domino just fell, and one guy crumpled over and started puking his guts out. Then, one by one, people moved off the table, checking on the others before they began to puking themselves. One man had foam forming around his mouth; three more were already on the floor, clutching their stomach. Finally, one guy was convulsing on the table, blood spilling out of his nose.
I quickly dropped to the ground behind the counter, hiding from everyone's view.
I need to act fast.
I turned on the gas-in grill in the kitchen all the way to the highest setting, releasing propane gas into the air. I dragged the bucket of cleaning supplies and quickly tried to remember what I learned from chemistry class. What were the few things you shouldn't mix in your cleaning supplies? One that goes kaboom? I picked up the bleach and distilled vinegar, but I distinctly remember it would produce chlorine gas, which caused third-degree burns. I had no protective gear for that, so I chucked that aside. I also saw ammonia and bleach, but that would only create chloramine gas, which would be a nerve agent, and again, I had no protective gear or mask for that. Finally, I found the ingredients I needed: Drain cleaners, and I was lucky to find different brands with an acidic or an alkaline component. What do they say in those home magazines? It's a bad idea to mix two different brands of drain cleaners if you had no plans to remodel your kitchen? Well, let's see.
I looked around the kitchen to mix them with, finding one from an empty plastic bottle of cola. I took out the aluminum foil, tore six palm-sized pieces apart, crumpled them down into balls, and shoved them into the bottle's tiny opening. Then I poured the content into the bottle, mixing it with the aluminum balls before closing the lid.
That should give me about two minutes.
Beyond the counter, I could still hear everyone groaning, hurling, and begging. People were shouting and screaming at each other. I knew some people didn't eat the soup, but I hoped they hadn't realized the doors were all barred.
Suddenly, one cried, "He's infected!"
A strangled scream. Curious, I peeked from the counter and saw a soldier stabbed in the throat by another soldier with a butter knife. I dropped behind the counter again.
Shit. No time to lose. Please don't start shooting. Please, don't start fucking shooting!
Bang!
A gunshot.
Bang! Bang!
I flinched, putting my hands over my head and hunkered down the floor, imagining myself burning red-hot, my skin and organ peeling off with every nano-second, my face forever frozen in a charred scream.
But the building didn't explode. Well, not yet. The gas hasn't reached the mess hall yet, still filling up the kitchen, though I probably only had several seconds to spare before it would pour out into the cafeteria.
The gunshots were followed by another, then another.
"I'm not infected, you idiot!" One soldier screeched, but it fell on deaf ears before a loud shot was fired and a body dropped on the floor.
They were shooting each other now in quick succession. They hadn't seen how an infection spread, nor did they realize you had to be bitten. I guessed they were panicking due to the similar symptoms that the others exhibited.
I threw the bottle on top of the grill. I could already smell the gas coming out of the propane tank, caught a glimpse of the bottle already starting to smoke from the inside into a milky white hue. I ran to the kitchen's backdoor just behind the utility closet.
Peter was already waiting behind the door for me.
"What took you so long?" He asked sourly.
"I got held back," I said. He tried to shut and bar the door, but I grabbed his wrist and dragged him away. "There's no time!"
We never made it beyond thirty feet when the building exploded. Heat radiated behind my back, snaking its way all up to my neck and to my ears. I screamed as the shockwave propelled me into the air, thrown against the pavilion canopy like a rag doll, but fortunately, it cushioned my fall, hugging my body like a hammock.
It took me a minute to come to. Then, after the ringing in my ears had subsided and the thousand tiny bright lights flooding my vision dissipated, it was the towering plume of smoke before me that took me out of my reverie.
Suddenly, Peter's face loomed over me with such worry and panic in his eyes that I thought I would see him cry for the first time. Though he held them back, smiled when I nodded my head to some question he asked, but I couldn't remember. The ringing was still faint in my ear. He held his hand out, and I grabbed it, straining with every reserve of my strength, determined to plant my feet back on the ground.
Behind Peter, I saw two burning men wiggled out of the broken window, screaming as they burnt to death. They only made it through three feet before they crumpled onto the ground, convulsing and desperately rolling to put the fires out. The smell of meat was thick in the air.
I choked up a sob. I did that.
I held on to my chest, trying to loosen the knot that had wedged its way inside.
I did that.
"Bren. We have to move," Peter said, grasping my face and steered my view away from the burning inferno behind him. He met my gaze and held it. My hands were trembling. "We have to move now if we want to finish this."
Yes. Finish this. I nodded. I have to finish this and save the others.
Peter let out a sigh of relief. He got me back. "Good. Haskell's waiting at the rendezvous."
Suddenly, a body stirred on the ground behind Peter. Still alive, I thought. I hadn't realized someone had followed me out through the kitchen. Then, I quickly recognized Berry.
I walked over to the soldier, who had rolled himself to lay on his back. Half of his face was burnt to a crisp, charred as if he was broiled alive inside the oven. His uniform was still putting out white smoke, and I could hear his skin crackling like wood against the campfire. He stared up the darkening sky with his one good eye, struggling to breathe. I stood beside him, looming like a giant as it would stare at an ant. I hid all the emotions threatening to pour out of every pore in my body. He looked so confused, scared, and in pain, this raspy groan escaped his lips that I could never forget—the sound of desperate mercy. Not to live but to die quickly.
It'll be over soon.
I took out Betty from my holster and shot Berry on the head.
——
Footsteps sounded from behind, coming down from between the pavilions. Peter hung back and looked at me with wide yet determined eyes. I held tight to my gun and hid behind the supply crates, Peter following close to my heels, making sure that neither our footsteps would give us away. Then, the footsteps came closer, a couple of sets of them, and two shapes went quickly by.
One of the patrols, I thought.
I counted silently to two and moved out of my hiding space on three. I sidled behind the soldier and slit his throat. His throttling death gurgles alerted the other, whirling around to face me before Peter swooped in and elbowed his jaw. He went down on the ground, and Peter launched on top of him, stabbed him three times in the chest. His breathing grew ragged, and wanting to end it quickly, Peter struck the blade into his skull.
The other soldier slid from my grasp and crumpled to the grass, twitching, hands clasped around his bleeding throat. His eyes suddenly glazed over, dead.
The sky was beginning to darken, and twilight had set in. We still hadn't encountered Garrett, Garcia, or Donahue, so at least there's still three soldiers alive in the camp. Add that with the four soldiers camped out on each gate and two of Garcia's lackies, then we got a squad of thirteen we had to take out fast.
We slipped into the empty fuck tent.
"What took you guys so long?" Haskell asked, hiding behind the curtains. He pulled out a duffel bag, unzipped it, and handed each of us an M4 Carine. "This is all I could pull out of the armory before the soldiers came running."
I looked into the bag. There were half a dozen of grenades, a couple boxes of ammunition, a shotgun (which I picked up for myself), knives, helmets, tactical vest, belts, first-aid kits, ropes, wire cutters, flashlights, and other odds and ends. We put the vests and the helmets on to complete our look. I didn't think Garcia or her men would be able to distinguish us separately from her men.
"You were right, Bren. They think it's the Alphas who attacked. Garcia's calling everyone to fall back into the radio house." Haskell placed a CB radio on the cot. He had been listening. "I don't know why she would do that. The gates aren't compromised."
I shook my head. "If they think they're being attacked...and the enemy is already inside...and had killed most of her men, there's no use defending the gates. So she has no choice but to fall back to a defensive position where she could keep everyone alive while she waits for backup. Remember. The radio is inside the house, so she must've called it by now."
"Yes, it would certainly make it easier for us to take them out if they just waited by the gates," said Peter.
"Do you think reinforcements are coming?" Haskell asked.
"If it takes their captain a day to go back and forth from Olympus for a supply run, it will also take them a day to send help here. We're gone by the time they arrive." I was reminded of the call signs in Albany. Olympus meant Headquarters.
"I don't know why we can't just bust out of the gate and get out of here. We're wasting our time going after them. We'll get ourselves killed!" Haskell said.
"The radio house has a direct line of sight on the second gate. How do you think we're gonna open that fucking thing if they're shooting at us from the windows? They have the vantage point. We'd be dead for sure," I said. "Did you hear anything about the girls?" I asked, pointing at the radio.
Haskell shook his head. "Unknown."
I sighed. "Well, let's hope Aria manages to convince them to stay put until this is over."
"What's the plan, then?" Peter asked.
I paused for a moment, breathing deeply to clear my head. "We take them out," I said. "The whole lot of them."
"Easier said than done now that we lost our surprise," Haskell said, rolling his eyes.
We had watched and studied the radio house for hours since it was initially our plan to take it out before they could call for help, and we knew there were no alleys or blind spots that we could sneak in from. They'd see us right away, and that would be a death sentence. Fortunately, the billows of black smoke from the community center completely blocked their view of the parking lot, rendering Garcia and the soldiers blind to seventy-five percent of the camp's layout other than their direct line of sight.
But Haskell missed one detail.
"You forget one thing, Haskell," I said, grinning. "They think it's the Alphas attacking the base." I pointed at my uniform. "But we're the United States Army."
——
I had to act natural.
I followed Peter's move as we traversed across the sidewalk, crouching behind the parked SUVs and Ford Focus left abandoned on the driveway, timing our move with every break of gunfire.
The radio house loomed closer.
Gunfire rang to our right—our little distraction—firing off from the M4 carbine and a beretta M9, then a gurgled screech (that Haskell sold so well) to make it sound like there's a battle going on and people were dying, or he would throw an occasional grenade if he's feeling dramatic—an elaborate illusion. Since the smoke blocked the parking lot, no one could tell who was alive or dead from the other side. I almost burst out laughing whenever I heard Haskell squawked, yowled, and faked a couple of deaths every five minutes. The deathly silence that followed sold the unnerving picture.
Then it would hit me like a freight train. My eyes wandering to the burning carcass of the ruined community center jutting out like a pouring hole from hell, where I had everyone's life in my hand. Suddenly, I couldn't laugh after.
"Follow me," Peter hissed when he caught me staring into space. "Bren, we don't have time for that."
"Sorry. Go ahead."
We managed to sneak past the mansion next door of the radio house, though I suspected that the soldiers had already seen us since we came out from behind the smoke. As we narrowed the bend behind some white rose bushes, then broke through the little one-inch high fence that separated the two properties, Garrett and Donahue waited with their rifles raised.
"Garrett," Peter whispered.
Garrett's head tilted. "Gauthier. You son of a bitch."
For a second, I thought it sounded threatening, and I was ready to shoot Garrett right then and there when suddenly, he cracked this stupid smile and dropped his rifle. Donahue hesitated for a moment, studying us up and down, but once he lowered his gun, we dropped ours as well.
"Quick! Let's get you all out of dodge, eh?" Garrett said.
I nodded, and we followed the two soldiers into the backyard using the gated side pathway. We got to the sliding door where another soldier was waiting.
"We clocked you two coming out from the left flank the moment you guys showed up in our night vision goggles," Garrett said. "It's fucking nuts. Everyone's fucking dead! How the hell did they sneak up a dirty bomb inside the mess hall and inside our camp?"
"Beats me," Peter said, shaking his head.
"You were there," Donahue said.
Peter flashed him a cold eye. "Yeah, and so was Berry"
Donahue's eyes lit up. "Where is he?"
"Dead. Shot on the head," I said. Donahue was a little surprised that I spoke up. There was a gleam in his eyes, his lips slightly quivered, but he turned away before the tears fell and walked out of the room.
"And Haskell?" Garrett asked.
Peter flatly said, "Dead."
"God damn it!" Garrett spat as he rubbed his neck, pacing around the hallway. "I never thought they would ever attack us, you know? We're far away from the Alphas' HQ in the university. So why would they attack us now? There are other strategic outposts set up much closer around I-81."
"Reclamation Day is approaching. Maybe they're attacking the other bases from the bottom to top?"
Garrett shrugged. "Beats me. Garcia's on the second floor, planning to secure a way out with Olympus and Millenium. She thinks if they're here, then the Alphas could have set up ambushes on our routes leading into downtown. She wants to warn Captain Drucker before he sets off tomorrow and to bring back up." He paused. "But we're thinking of taking one of the vehicles and evacuate." Millenium was the division of the scouts.
"Is that Garcia's plan B?" I asked. I couldn't help myself.
Garrett frowned. "No...uh...just a thing that's been floating around. It's open to discussion."
I held my tongue, nodding my head instead.
Finding his cue, Garrett spoke up again. "Oh, yeah. Come on, guys. She probably wants to speak to both of you."
Well, at least they're letting us keep our weapons, I thought. I added that as evidence they didn't suspect a thing—more so to make myself feel at ease.
As I walked through the house, I did my mental count. All thirteen of the soldiers unaccounted for were in the house already, closely guarding the windows and exit and entry points. I could occasionally hear Haskell firing a couple of shots, which sounded distinct enough that they didn't come from the same gun.
Peter and I stood in the master's bedroom for several minutes, just waiting until Garcia was done talking on the radio with Olympus, aka HQ. Flanking on either side were her two loyal soldiers—Dunne and Kwan—both men looking at Peter and me with an unreadable expression.
I tried to keep them off my mind, careful not to get myself away. But it was then I noticed, had a complete map of Harrisburg laid out on the bed, complete with symbols and labels of who was what and who was where.
I had the sudden urge to grab the map and wanted it for myself. It could make our trip across the city much, much easier.
Whoever Garcia was talking to became pretty heated, and it was very awkward to stand there for minutes, pretending like a statue while a grown woman almost had a mental breakdown as she begged for reinforcement. I quickly caught her mentioning Captain Drucker's name (barely audible between her pleas), but it was there. Drucker couldn't be bothered to send a unit out.
"There's trouble all over Penbrook, sergeant," Drucker said. "The Alphas are making a push across I-83. But, unfortunately, we have all our resources preoccupied with them not gaining more ground before Reclamation Day, or we'll lose the city before the 11th even arrive!"
"But the Alphas are already here, sir," Garcia said.
"You are already behind enemy lines, sergeant," Drucker said. "I suggest you get what's left of our men and get them out of there and rendezvous in Zone Five."
Peter and I shared a relieved look. Well, that's awfully convenient. We didn't have to fake it after all, even though we were the ones who fucked up her outpost. A part of me felt icky helping the Alphas win somehow, but I pushed that thought at the back of my mind.
Once she was done talking, she almost threw the radio against the wall in frustration, but she stopped midway and instead slammed her fist against the dresser. Her annoyance never faltered.
"You," she said, pointing a firm finger at Peter. "Talk."
Peter took a deep breath before he related the story in a matter-of-fact way like a disciplined soldier would to his superior, keeping it concise and with little emotion as possible. She never passed me a single, attentive look. I didn't know if I was still shell-shocked by the explosion or because I was battered by the shockwave, but I hadn't looked in the mirror lately. I probably looked like a ghoul covered in soot and ash with my full head of red hair strewn about like a dried-out old mop, the ends singed by the explosion.
A tightened silence hung once Peter finished recounting the events, adding a succinct version of Berry and Haskell's deaths. Garcia looked at the map once again, rage filling her eyes. I doubted she was even listening to Peter's story, and both Dunne and Kwan didn't pay attention either. Unfortunately, neither did the two soldiers guarding the door.
When you know you are fucked, you're fucked bad.
Peter glanced at me, relieved that he would not be grilled by any of the details. But, unfortunately, Garcia and her men were too preoccupied with finding a way out.
"Tell me, corporal, how are our vehicles? Have the Alphas taken it?" Garcia asked quietly.
"They took out the tires, sir," Peter said. "We...we thought of escaping through the car, but they had already destroyed it."
"Fuck!" Garcia spat.
"Easy now, Garcia," Dunne said. We'll find our way through with this."
"We're three miles from the nearest outpost, Dunne, in potentially hostile territory without any support from Olympus. We're not going to make it without those vehicles."
A lightbulb lit up in my brain. "Sir, but we do have one."
For a second, the three soldiers were confused, trying to determine if the explosion actually did a number on me. Then, it dawned on them.
"Your RV...the civilians...." Garcia whispered, more to herself than to us; a hint of a smile crept on her lips. I could see her mind turning with possibilities. "That's it. The Alphas doesn't know about it, but we can sneak to wherever the others had camped, and we'll take their vehicles. It's far better than walking 3 miles. All we had to do is walk a few blocks!"
I tried to suppress my rage. Take their vehicle?
"Where the others had camped," Garcia asked.
I played my part. I turned to Peter, hesitating at first as if asking for his permission. There was a slight crease on Peter's forehead, no doubt wondering what I was up to and why I was telling them this, but he gave me a curt nod.
I let them know I was visibly relieved. "Okay," I said.
Garcia's smile turned into a hopeful grin. "Fantastic! Show me," she said, pointing to the map. "Show me where they're at." Garcia, Dunne, and Kwan crowded around the bed, eager to know their chance of escape—to get back home.
I strode toward the bed with purpose. "They're actually over here—"
I pulled Betty out of my holster, and in quick succession, shot all three of them down.
Garcia went down first. The bullet pierced through her eye, and she crumped back against the nightstand, taking down the lamp with her.
Kwan was next. He didn't even know what hit him, too busy looking down at the map when the bullet entered his temple and out the other side. He keeled over, dead instantly.
Dunne had a split-second clarity. He opened his mouth, probably ready to beg, but I never got to hear it. The bullet smashed through the bridge of his right cheek, caving his entire face in, and he lurched back against the wall, breaking the radio behind him.
The other two soldiers guarding the door were momentarily stunned, but it didn't take long until Peter reacted. He smashed his large fist into the left soldier's face, breaking his nose. He fell to his knees, clutching his bleeding face while he screamed.
The other one to Peter's right managed to grab hold of his weapon. However, he only drew out an inch of his pistol before Peter slammed his body against him and slid the knife under his chin. Then, with one swoop, Peter pulled the knife out of the soldier's skull, flipped it around, and stabbed the kneeling soldier in the throat.
A heavy commotion thundered below our feet...
And I was ready for a fight.