A Pound of Flesh: Surviving the Zombie Apocalypse (27 page)

“Be careful out there,” Jenkins intoned,
tapping a beat on the warm roof.

“I’ll take that advice to heart,” Daymon
said, firing up Lu Lu. He glanced in the side mirror and watched
Jenkins get in the Tahoe, initiate a three point turn on the gravel
road—

then the truck disappeared in a cloud of
dust.

Chapter 28

Outbreak - Day 11

Schriever AFB

Colorado Springs, Colorado

Security pod

Taking conservative strides, almost baby
steps, Ted walked beside Airman Davis. “Why won’t you tell me where
you are taking me?” he asked, trying to anticipate which path the
compact airman was going to lead him down next.

“We’ll be there shortly. We have someone we
would like you to...” Airman Davis stopped in his tracks, put his
hands on his hips and stared groundward, searching his brain for
the word.

“
Evaluate
...” Ted intoned.

“Correct... thank you Ted... I haven’t been
sleeping much lately. I once heard someone say
you can sleep
when you’re dead
... doesn’t hold much water these days, does
it?”

“I just lost my partner... apparently
he’s
getting some shuteye,” Ted spat.

“I’m so sorry Mr. Keller, bad time for
gallows humor.”

The two men walked in silence for a few
minutes until Davis stopped them in front of the squat windowless
building which housed Schriever’s minimally staffed security
facility. “This is our destination, sir,” he said.

Ted shot him a suspicious glare. “Who am I
evaluating?”

Saying nothing, Davis pushed through the
plate glass door.

Feeling the blast of cool conditioned air
shifted Ted’s mood incrementally into the
good
column.

The waiting room was representative of any
other government building, furnished sparsely with a handful of
light blue plastic chairs and a single table filled to overflowing
with old periodicals.

The walls in the lobby had been painted a
battleship gray, the same gloomy hue as the exterior of the
building. Apparently the Navy had given the Air Force some of their
surplus paint, Ted thought to himself.

Airman Davis left Ted’s side and approached
the man sitting behind a sliding glass partition. The man, clean
shaven with a high and tight haircut, looked up from the months’
old issue of Popular Mechanic.

Davis flashed a quick salute as his superior
stood and reciprocated.

“Come on in,” the man said as he opened the
metal door adjacent to the sliding glass divider. He quickly
ushered the E-2 and the civilian inside then closed the door behind
them.

Ted noticed the air temperature once again
drop considerably.
Fucking government—
an interrogation
technique straight out of Gitmo he guessed.

“Hi Ted—I’m Senior Airman Croswell... I’m
babysitting Francis today.”

Ted furrowed his brow. “You mean Pug?”

Croswell shook his head. “He
prefers
to be called Pug... but we like to call him Francis... it pisses
him off.”

Davis made a face at Croswell then
interjected, “I haven’t filled him in entirely.”

Croswell shrugged his shoulders, as if
implying it wasn’t his problem, before he continued talking. “Let’s
just say he got out of line a bit... which led to some innocent
people getting hurt.”

Ted inched up to the one-way window. Inset
into the wall, the four foot by eight foot piece of tempered glass
allowed him to see Pug while still remaining anonymous. Except for
two metal chairs, the only other furniture in the interview room
was a compact table which appeared to be bolted to the floor.

Dressed head to toe in traffic cone orange,
Pug rocked slowly in his chair, hands clasped in front of him as if
in prayer, on his face a look of glazed detachment. Dried to black,
blood caked his swollen ears. Suspended under each eye, puffed
black bags bracketed his freshly broken nose.

Ted pressed closer to the viewing window and,
noticing the manacles securing Pug’s wrists and ankles said, “Pug’s
an asshole... I get that. Probably likes to fight judging by that
fault line of a nose, but what did he do to warrant the beating and
the four point lockdown?”

“He wasn’t playing nice,” Croswell
reiterated, then handed Ted a leather-bound notebook and a silver
pen. “You need a pipe... cardigan? Maybe a leather couch? I can
save you the time... I have already diagnosed the...” The E-2
didn’t finish his thought and wisely held his tongue.

The interior door opened suddenly as the
diminutive Major Freda Nash strode in, followed closely by the base
commander Colonel Cornelius Shrill who dwarfed everyone in the
room.

Nash reached her hand out and said, “I want
to thank you for accompanying Airman Davis especially without being
allowed any of the details. I’m sure you’re still mourning the loss
of your partner. You have my condolences.”

Ted shot her a skeptical look while he shook
her hand.

Colonel Shrill, who stood a few inches
taller, matched Ted’s gaze and nodded in agreement.

For a full minute no one spoke, the only
sound the steady thrumming of the air conditioner.

Ted withstood the uneasy silence by staring
at Pug. He withdrew the picture of him and William from his pocket
and handed it to the woman named Nash. “That’s Will and me in
Mexico.” Then choking up he stated, “I didn’t even get to visit him
after he was taken away and I was thrown into quarantine. A lady
soldier just wheeled him away the night we arrived... I just want
to know how he spent his last hours. To know that he got the kind
of care that I have been giving him these last few years.”

“I’m not making excuses but I’ve been told he
was very sick prior to quarantine. At first they suspected he was
infected with Omega...”

“I
told
them he was HIV positive,” Ted
blurted.

“You have to appreciate the situation for
what it looked like to our people. With that stuff going on out
there they had to take every precaution to protect themselves,”
Shrill added. “We’re in the business of protecting Americans.”

“I know,” Ted said weakly.

Nash added, “I’m sure he received the utmost
of care before he passed. We planned on having an autopsy performed
on your friend... it is standard protocol for anyone who dies while
on the base. Our problem is finding someone to perform the autopsy.
When we find a pathologist we will certainly know more. Then we can
fill
you
in.” Nash truly regretted that she was forced to
lie by omission. But the need to know why Pug had done what he did
was more important than any one man’s feelings. Furthermore, the
fact that he had obviously not acted alone made such expediency
necessary.

“Do you need any special equipment to
evaluate the prisoner?” asked Shrill. “If we have it here on base
I’ll send someone for it.”

“How about a full size MRI machine... got one
of them lying around?”

The Colonel made a face then coughed.

“Just kidding,” Ted conceded.

Shrill’s eyebrows relaxed.

“On the trip from Denver I looted...
wrong
word
. I
liberated
medicine for Will from a drugstore in
Castle Rock. I didn’t know when we’d see another so I filled the
bag with a myriad of other stuff...
just in case
. I wasn’t
stealing really. One of the soldiers at the quarantine facility
took the medicine along with our weapons when we arrived.”

“Everybody gets the same treatment when they
come onto the base... merely precautions,” Shrill interjected.

Ted smirked. He hated his time in quarantine,
alone in his own head with nothing worthwhile to read—no Freud, no
Wundt, no Watson. He continued, “I am going to need that bag of
meds. If I remember right, the shelves I cleaned out had a host of
different products. Also have the Airman find a large gauge syringe
and a bottle of water—distilled if you can find it.”

“Davis,” Shrill barked. “Go down to the
hangar and get Mister Keller’s belongings.”

“And the syringe?”

“
Ask around
...” Shrill barked.

“
Yes sir
.” The airman double-timed it
out the front door.

Shrill addressed Ted. “Can you tell us about
Pug? You came with him from Denver—right?”

After the door closed behind the retreating
airman, Ted responded to Shrill’s questions. “I spent a couple
hours with the guy two... almost three days ago. I’m being honest
when I say I
do not
like being in his presence. I mean... he
treated me like a
dick
from the moment I met him.” Ted
looked through the mirrored glass at Pug. “Shit—from the looks of
his face he got some of his own medicine.”

Shrill glanced over at Nash—a knowing look
exchanged.

Airman Croswell straightened a stack of loose
papers, clacking them on the pass through receiving counter before
handing them to Ted, who immediately noticed the forms for what
they were: standard government medical boilerplate used in the
battery of psychological testing which soldiers in basic training
all the way up to higher level security clearance personnel were
routinely subjected to. Paper waste—one of the few things the
United States government had perfected—and it appeared the habit
was proving to be a hard one to break. Before the world went to
shit, Denver and Colorado Springs had a large number of active duty
and retired military, and a large part of Ted’s practice involved
testifying in court, offering clinical evaluations and his
professional medical opinion to help lawyers secure for their
clients the largest service-related disability payments they were
due. To say he had an intimate relationship with the type of
paperwork he held in his hand would have been an
understatement.

Pug lifted his head. He appeared to be
looking at his reflection in the mirrored glass. His mouth began to
move. Ted tried to make out what he was saying, but the fact that
his lips were puffed and split made reading them, even minimally,
virtually impossible.

“That room has got to be wired for sound. Is
there some way I can hear what he’s saying?” Ted asked, keeping his
eyes on the subject.

“Turn on the microphone Airman Croswell,”
Shrill ordered.

“He’s been repeating the same thing since he
was brought in... hasn’t changed much. Something about Mighty
Mouse,” Croswell proffered.

Pug’s voice burst from the recessed speakers
mounted in the low ceiling. “
Here I come to save the day. Here I
come to save the day. Here I come
...” Then in a small voice he
said, “
No I will not be quiet. You shut up Francis.
”

“I won’t be needing these,” Ted said,
thrusting the blank forms back to the airman. “The lawyers are all
dead anyway. Anyone have a pen light?”

“Will a mini Mag-Light do the trick?”

“It will have to do,” Ted said, taking the
small black aluminum flashlight from Davis.

“I can’t in good conscience unshackle the
prisoner for you,” Croswell proffered.

“Nor would I let you,” Shrill added
gruffly.

“Someone gonna let me in to see public enemy
number one?”

Freda Nash said, “Airman...”

Croswell hit the buzzer.

Concern evident in her voice, Nash said, “Be
careful,
Mister Keller.”

Ted made a face, pushed the door open and
stepped into the interview room. The smells hit him at once. Feces,
sweat, and fear—thick on the circulated air.

Hearing the door open, Pug produced a wan
smile. “Who are you?” he croaked.

“I’m Dr. Keller. I need to look at your
eyes.” Then, shivering, he yelled towards the one-way glass,
“Someone kill the
A/C
please.”

He went to a knee and with two fingers held
open the lid on Pug’s battered left eye. It looked like a broken
red yolk, and blood had invaded the white. Holding the LED light a
few inches away he panned it horizontally back and forth. Pug’s
pupil didn’t react to the invading light like it should have. “Who
did this to you?”

“Daddy did,” Pug said in a gruff faraway
voice.

Ted furrowed his brow and asked, “Who?”

“
Daddy... he hurts us. Baaad
.”

“You’re all right now, Pug,” Ted said,
suddenly struck with empathy for the smart ass road dog. “Your Dad
isn’t going to hurt you now.”

“I know...
Mighty Mouse
won’t let
him.”

“Who’s Mighty Mouse?” Ted asked, as he
checked the other eye.

“I am. And I can fly too,” he said in a
convincing little voice. Then, looking like a defeated bantam
weight fighter, his head slumped forward.

“The nice man Davis is bringing you your
medicine. Do you usually take pills or get a shot?”

“Yellow pills please.”
Here I come to save
the day
.

Ted knelt with his arms at his sides in a
non-threatening manner and asked, “What happened to your
pills?”

“Francis lost them.”

“Where did you lose them Francis?”

“At the big black man’s house. I killed
him... then I stole his truck...”

“Do you feel remorseful about that?” Ted
asked.

“I shot him.”

“Did he hurt you?” Ted asked, his voice going
soft.

“Dad
hurts
me. He hurts my
privates
.” Pug drew his stunted limbs in as far as the
restraints permitted.

The intercom spared Ted from having to ask a
follow up question. A female voice said, “Airman Davis is back with
your medication Mr. Keller.”

“Have him bring it in please.”

Davis stepped in, shielding his eyes from the
hundred watt bulb with one hand and with the other passed Ted the
bag.

Ted rooted around in the large plastic sack
and brought out a rectangular white cardboard box labeled Geodon
(Ziprasidone Mesylate).