Rise of the Dead (17 page)
The helicopter crew picks up some darts and chucks them at the board mounted on the wall. They talk amongst themselves, occasionally stopping to glance back at Fletcher sitting on the couch. Whatever they decide on, I am pretty sure they will stick together. If they don’t agree to go, I wonder who will fly the helicopter.
I walk toward the room where Quentin is lying down and jerk my head to signal Danielle to follow me inside.
"You okay?" I ask him, just to try and say something to engage him again. We need him now as much as ever to give us an idea what is really going on. He will know if we should stick with the SEALS and go to New Mexico, or if we stand a better chance by staying behind. We have supplies here, sure. But we'd be on our own until help arrives, if help ever arrives.
"I'll be fine, man," says Quentin. Stitch hops onto the bunk and squirms beside Quentin and pants loudly as he pets him. Quentin sits up on the bed and makes room by sliding toward the head. Danielle sits next to him, and I close the door before sitting on the edge of the cubby along the opposite wall.
"Did you catch all that out there?" I ask him.
He nods but doesn't reply.
"What do you think?" I ask him.
Quentin thinks about it a moment.
"Will we be safer in New Mexico?" ask Danielle.
"No," he says. "If what they said about it is true, the undead might be the least of our worries in New Mexico."
"So we stay," I say.
"We stick together," confirms Danielle. She forces a smile at Quentin, which sheds a ray of light through his gloom. "Family," she adds.
The word stings. These are the only people left I know in the world. A few days ago we didn't know each other. Now these people are the only thing keeping me going.
I wake up when the noise of the troops in the common area stirs me from sleep. I feel as good as I have felt for several days. Though there isn't a clock in the sleeping quarters, I guess I must have slept at least five or six straight hours. I can smell coffee and bacon, which helps motivate me to sit up on the bed. I notice Quentin has left the room already.
I was so tired I fell asleep in the camo fatigues. I undress and switch to the black uniform. The cold concrete floor motivates me to hustle. I lace up the boots and follow the inviting aromas of real food out to the common area.
The soldiers are already scraping the crumbs off their plates and into the sink. I worry I slept too long and missed out on the food.
"About time you woke up," says Quentin.
The four SEALS that just finished eating walk past me and out to the hallway back toward the storage room. I take a seat across from Quentin, trying not to covet his plate of food while I wait for my own.
"What time is it?" I ask.
"2100," he says.
"You sound like them," I say.
"Sorry," he says. "It will be easier to use military time in here. No natural light. It can get confusing whether it's night or day."
"Is there any of that left?" I ask.
"I can make more," answers Fletcher from the kitchen. "Coffee is on now."
A door on the other side of the room opens up and Lorento steps out.
"Come on," she urges the doctor, but he just stands in the dark.
"I can't leave without my pants," he says.
She sighs and shuts the door.
"Everything alright?" asks Fletcher, peeking up from a skillet of eggs he is scrambling.
"Did you see what Dr. Schoenheim did with his pants, Lieutenant?"
"His pants?" he asks, holding back a shit-eating grin. "How am I supposed to know what he did with his goddamn pants?"
"You were out here the entire time we were sleeping. Surely you must have seen him come out of the room."
"I'm a real sound sleeper," Fletcher says.
"Bastard," she grunts. She looks accusingly at Quentin and me, and then storms out into the hallway.
Fletcher walks over and drops a plate of scrambled eggs and bacon in front of me, and I thank him. I always used to order my eggs over easy, with some toast to dip in the yolk. Now, any kind of real, fresh food is beyond reproach. I pour some black coffee from a pot on the table. There is nothing to put in it but powdered creamer packets. I don't even care. I drink it black and hope it abates the slight headaches I've had from a lack of caffeine.
"Enjoy it," he says. "We'll have a hell of a time finding any more. It's MRE's from here on out." He heads to the couch behind me and groans as he takes a seat.
"Danielle get up yet?" I ask Quentin in between a mouthful of bacon.
"Still out," he says. His plate is empty, and he wipes the crumbs from his mouth with a paper napkin while he watches me eat like an animal. Quentin crumples the napkin and tosses it on the plate a leans back in his chair. He rests his hands on his satisfied stomach.
"You look like shit," he says with a smile.
The comment makes me pause as I shove a piece of bacon in my mouth. Quentin has already taken a shower and shaved. Aside from that, he has come through this whole ordeal without looking any worse for the wear. Not even a scraped knee.
I've been nearly blown up twice. I can feel the bruises on my back, the crusty scab from a cut on my lower lip that burns as I chew every bite of food. My face bristles with stubble, and I notice the scent of my body odor over the strong smells of coffee and bacon. In spite of everything, this is the best I have felt in days.
"Thanks," I grumble.
"It's an improvement," he says. "You look kind of tough now."
"I look like I got my ass kicked, you mean."
"Well, yeah," he says. "But it looks like you put up a fight at least."
I hear white noise coming from the television and turn around to look. Fletcher flips through a few channels broadcasting nothing. Not even any test patterns or automated emergency updates.
"Thought maybe there'd be something through the satellite," says Fletcher. He hits a button then a movie begins playing.
"How are you doing?" I ask Quentin.
"Don't worry about me, man," he says, turning his attention from me to the television. "I'll be fine."
I can tell he is far from fine because we are all far from fine. We are in that place where hopelessness and misery and loss pursue us until we can't even remember what normal felt like. Even the fake gunfire on the television disturbs me. The sounds give me visions of brain matter spraying out the head of a walking corpse. It's really some movie about Vietnam. The soldiers are all smoking grass and surfing in the middle of a war zone like they were all a couple of beers short of a six-pack. I wonder how long it will be before my psyche has had enough of reality.
"How can you watch this?" I ask Fletcher.
"Only movie we got down here," he says. "You don't like it?"
Instead of making a big deal out of it, I decide to get up and take a shower. The bathroom has two green shower stalls, a toilet, a urinal and two sinks below a wide mirror. The room smells of chemicals and urinal pucks.
I grab a folded towel off a shelf above a linen basket that is nearly overflowing. There are sample bottles of generic soap and body wash from the collection on the shelf below. I strip and hang my clothes on a hook on the outside of the shower door and turn on the water. Before stepping into the stall, I reach my hand into the shower to test the temperature. The hot water stings and steam fills the room.
For a while, I just stand there. The pulse of the water soothes my muscles. I examine the bruises and cuts on my body, and they are numerous. Looking at the one on the side of my torso makes me wince. I prod it, and then grind my teeth from the pain. I probably have some bruised ribs. Hopefully, they aren't cracked. I am glad I didn't notice how bad the injury was until now. If I'd gone to the hospital with Chet, I wouldn't be alive.
I lather the body wash across my face and close my eyes. I try not to think about anybody that died. If we hadn't gone to that restaurant, maybe they would all still be alive. Maybe Melanie, Chet, Devin, and Joey would have lived if it wasn't for us. I know that's all bullshit, but I can't help but feel partly responsible. If I had only kept the situation under control, things might have been different.
I rinse the shampoo out of my hair, then cut the water. I dry myself with the towel and wrap it around my waist. I look in the mirror at the cuts on my forehead and jaw. It almost looks like road rash, but it's from a million pieces of cement that exploded in my face. The cut on my lip does make me look a little tougher. Though I am not tough enough to try my luck shaving over the many scabs on my skin.
I get dressed and head back out to the common room. The movie is still on, but I feel good enough after a shower that I do a better job of blocking it out. Quentin has joined Fletcher on the couch, and they are playing cards. I notice the clock on the wall reads quarter after ten. It feels like morning even though it is late at night. Being down in this bunker is already screwing with my connection to the world above.
"Did the rest of them leave?" I ask.
"Yup," says Chuck. "Maybe ten minutes ago."
"How can you stay behind? I thought the military was all about brothers in arms." I realize my question might have come off wrong when he slaps down a couple of cards on the table. I decide to change my approach. "Just curious what made you want to stay."
"Those guys are sticking together. I barely know them. Their pilot was killed two days ago. I haven't flown missions in years. It's just a job, okay? You feel bad you didn't show up for work this morning?"
"I didn't mean anything by it," I say.
"Nah, I'm sorry for snapping," he says to the hand of cards he's holding. Fletcher waves a dismissive hand. "Of course, it bothers me a bit. Not having a helicopter bothers me too. But I'm not planning on dying like those poor bastards back at the station."
"We're just as dead down here," I say. "It'll just be a slower death."
"Fuck that," he says. Then he tilts his head back from Quentin. "What you got?"
"Straight," says Quentin, displaying his cards on the table.
"Son of a bitch," grins Fletcher. He tosses Quentin a can of beer.
The warmth of the shower dissipates, and I can already feel the soreness returning. I shuffle over to the open couch adjacent to the others and stretch out across the length of the cushions.
"Your deal," says Fletcher handing Quentin the cards. "You want in?" he asks me.
"No," I say. "I don't gamble."
"We're just playing for the rest of the beers," he says. He grabs a six pack of beer off the floor and tosses it beside me on the couch. "Come on. Play a hand."
I look over and see a couple of cards lay at the edge of the table. I pick them up. A six of hearts and a nine of hearts spread out in my hand.
"Check," I say.
"Let's make it two beers this round," says Fletcher. He puts one of his five remaining cans on the table. Quentin adds a beer, and then I add one from my cache as well.
"Blake," says Fletcher. "I don't know about you, but I don't have plans to die down here at all. It's not as bad out here as it was in the city. It's spread out. We can move around. Hell, we can probably go out there and pick up anything we want."
Quentin places three cards on the table facing up. Side-by-side appears a six of clubs, an ace of hearts, and a jack of hearts. They both look at me, awaiting my play.
I only have a pair of sixes, which is pretty terrible. I do have four cards towards a flush, though, and with two cards coming, I've got coin-flip odds of making my hand. I decide to see the next card.
"Check," I say.
"I'm feeling lucky," says Fletcher. He adds another can to the collection on the table.
Quentin tosses his cards aside, giving up. He deals another card. The king of spades.
"Say you're right," I say. "Then what? We hide down here until the apocalypse blows over?"
I try not to let my face betray my reaction to the cards on the table. With only one card left, the odds are pretty bad that I will make my flush. My pair of sixes doesn't have a good statistical chance either based on the other cards in play. I take my time to hopefully convince Fletcher I am contemplating a raise.
"Check," I say.
He looks at me a moment. Then he puts the rest of his six pack in the center of the table.
"I'm all in," he smirks.
"Fuck," I grumble, then toss my cards down.
Fletcher slides the cheap beers over to his side of the table.
"What did you have?" I ask him.
He flips his cards over to reveal a four of clubs and an eight of diamonds. He beat me with nothing.
"Nice bluff," Quentin laughs.
"Sometimes life gives you a shitty hand," Fletcher says. "We're all stuck with a real shitty hand too, but I'm not about to fold. The only way we have any chance is to play this out as though we think we are going to win anyway."
"Alright," I concede.
"If we're smart, and we're patient, we can survive this," he says. He looks over to Quentin, who nods in agreement.
Door hinges squeak, and I hear the sound of paws running over the concrete floor behind me.
"I think he has to go out," says Danielle.
I turn around and see her squinting into the light.
"I got it. Come on, pooch" says Fletcher, abandoning the deck of cards in the table. He scoops up his cowboy hat and places it on his head. He pats his leg, and the dog follows him toward the hallway. "There's some coffee and a plate for you on the table, doll."
Once he is gone, Danielle asks, "Did he really just call me
doll
?"
It's one of those stupid questions that isn't really a question. The only time someone asks a question like that is to make sure you notice something they thought was important.
"Breakfast is on the table, doll," I smirk.
Danielle rolls her eyes at me, which, for a second, reminds me of my wife. I stop smirking and avert my gaze. I can only pretend that reality didn’t happen for so long. Eventually, some random thing reminds me that those parts of my life were real and that I'm never going to see any of it again.
"It's cold." Danielle stands next to the table, picking at some bits of scrambled egg with her fingers. "How long was I asleep?" she asks.
"We ate a couple hours ago," says Quentin. "It's around eleven, probably."
"In the morning?"
"At night," he says, then he gets up from the couch to turn off the television. He could sense it is still bothering me.
I get the urge to look around the installation a bit more. There doesn't seem to be much to do other than driving yourself crazy thinking about things you'd rather not think about. I don't care for ping pong. Maybe there are some books or something around here someplace. Anything to keep me from dwelling on the thoughts I want to avoid.