Jeff Carlson - Plague Zone

When they were within a hundred yards, Cam saw two more soldiers with their weapons leveled. Even closer, he helped Ruth and then Ingrid over an uneven wall of earth and rock as Bobbi climbed over herself. The soldiers themselves stayed back.

“We need water,” Cam said. “Do you have bottled water?”

None of them directed him to the creek. Either they’d reached the same conclusion about watersheds or they’d seen someone infected by drinking from it. “There are storage tanks,” the first man said, pointing back at the greenhouses. “We’ll get you inside in a minute. The lieutenant wants to talk to you.”

“We’ve been hiking all night.”

“The lieutenant’s gonna talk to you first.”

Another soldier was already striding across the nearest catwalk. That she was a woman was evident despite her old-fashioned gas mask, jacket, and the rifle slung over one shoulder. She was slim, with no breasts to speak of, but her walk was female and her dark hair fell in a mane very much unlike the rest of her. Her uniform was perfect to the button — dirty, but perfect — whereas her hair suggested a rebellious streak. It spilled from the back of her mask like a flag.

There was something familiar about her, Cam thought, and when she spoke, he knew, even though her voice was distorted inside the rubber mask. “Najarro,” she said, glancing from him to Ruth. “I just had to see it myself, you fuckin’ traitors.”

It was Sarah Foshtomi.

Ingrid went for her M16. Foshtomi’s tone was bitter, even hateful, and the older woman wasn’t so exhausted that she missed the threat. “No!” Cam shouted, but Ingrid stepped in front of Ruth with her assault rifle, growling, “You can’t hurt her!”

Cam grabbed the barrel of Ingrid’s weapon and jerked it skyward. At the same time, Foshtomi’s men snapped up their own rifles. One of them caught Bobbi’s arm. Everyone froze — and then Foshtomi laughed.

“Put ‘em down,” she said. “Let’s talk.”

The greenhouse reeked of bell peppers and onions. It was a good smell, and Cam had never been happier to remove his headgear. His bare skin reacted to the warm air as if he’d entered a sauna, soaking in the pungent scent of the crops.

Foshtomi led them through alternating rows of bushy green pepper plants and the onions’ short stalks. The hundred-gallon tank in back had been pumped full three days ago, so it was safe. Foshtomi’s unit had opened the plumbing at the base of the tank, using a spigot to fill their canteens and cooking pots. The floor was damp with it. Cam only managed to let the women drink first by sheer force of will, shrugging out of his jacket as Ruth and Bobbi splashed water from their hands into their mouths and faces. Ruth coughed but didn’t stop. Ingrid drank more slowly from one of the cups left beside the tank.

“You’re wounded,” Foshtomi said, staring at his bloody side. “Let me see what we can do about that.”

“Ingrid’s hurt, too. Her foot.”

She took her walkie-talkie from her belt. “This is Foshtomi. I need a medic in Building Six.”

“Roger that,” the ‘talkie answered.

“Cam,” Ruth said. “Drink.” Curly wet bangs hung over her clean face, which was full of contradiction. Her brown eyes were both soft and penetrating. For an instant, she refused to look away from him, even though he could see that she was afraid of what he might say. They hadn’t been this close and unguarded since before Allison’s death, not even when they made love, hidden in the starlight.

They were bound so deeply together. Cam didn’t want to be angry with her and he tried to show it. He touched her arm as he moved past. Then he bent and gulped more water than he should have in five huge uncontrolled swallows. His stomach flip-flopped. He nearly threw up. But it was good. It was so good to be alive and lost in the sensation of the water’s cool liquid perfection.

“If you have to pee, just go on the plants,” Foshtomi said, as blunt as ever. “They can use the nitrogen. Or there’s honey-pots in the back. We’ll get you some food and stitch you up and then I’ve got to figure out what the hell we’re gonna do with you.”

“Thank you,” Cam said.

“Yeah, well, I don’t have to like it.” She looked at Ruth as she said the last part. “Are you responsible for this new shit?”

“She’s trying to stop it,” Ingrid said, and Ruth shot her a grateful look.

“So it was some other fuckin’ genius this time,” Foshtomi said. Her dark, oval face was unforgiving. “You’re conscripts, all of you. Is that understood?”

“Yes,” Cam said.

“You follow orders. You’re all privates — even you,” she said, pointing at Ruth. “Legally, I have that power under the new Constitution. We’re still under martial law.”

They used to be squadmates. Sarah Foshtomi had been a member of his Ranger unit, a corporal like himself and the only woman in the group. That was why she talked so tough, overcompensating for her size and gender. Apparently her style had seen some success. Foshtomi must have continued to serve with local forces, that much was clear. She’d even made lieutenant. Had she been stationed here or had she run to Willow Creek with other survivors? It didn’t matter. Cam knew she could be a powerful ally.

Suddenly that good feeling gave way to woozy-headed nausea. He slumped to the floor beside the tank. Satisfying his thirst only made him more aware of his tired muscles, his aching feet, and his hunger. He could have slept. He said, “Are you in contact with anyone?”

Foshtomi shook her head. “There are no landlines out of here and the atmosphere’s totally fucked. I’ve got some guys trying to patch into a satellite.”

“Okay.”

The women settled down around Cam, except Foshtomi, who wasn’t good at sitting still. She stayed on her feet, glancing toward the greenhouse door as if that might hurry her medic. In fact, she was probably glad to have Ruth to rally around, because until now her troops had lacked any purpose except to hold on and wait.

“How much fuel do you have?” he asked.

Foshtomi stared at him. “You came on foot out of the mountains, right? So maybe you don’t know what it’s like in the cities.”

“Greg and Eric are dead,” he said, meeting her bluntness with his own. The two Rangers had been her squadmates first. “They stayed with us all this time, Sarah. They died last night.”

“I…” she said.

“Our whole town was infected. There were hundreds of them, Sarah. Greg bought us enough time to get out.”

“Eric was my husband,” Bobbi said.

“I’m sorry.” Foshtomi’s gaze went from Cam’s face to Bobbi’s to Ruth‘s, but Ruth unzipped her backpack and took out her laptop with that old, stubborn focus.

Cam nodded to himself, admiring the same dedication that had infuriated him in the aspen grove. Ruth would never give up. Not if they gave her time. Her fingers rattled on her keyboard and Cam said, to Foshtomi, “If you have enough fuel, we can try to seal those Humvees. Make a break for it.”

“Where you gonna go?”

“Grand Lake.”

“You’re crazy. There’s a million fuckin’ zombies between here and there, and we think the Chinese took the base anyway.”

Zombies, he thought. In a different life, Cam had loved those corny old movies. Maybe it was strange that his group had never called sick people anything except “the infected.” They were zombies in every way that mattered, lethal, stupid, and relentless. But they were family. Cam’s group hadn’t fought anyone except their own friends and neighbors. Foshtomi’s battle had been larger, more impersonal. Zombies was a way to make the killing easier, reducing the infected to caricatures instead of real victims.