John Holmes - Even Zombie Killers Can Die

“Then what?” Red asked, his hands clenched together as he listened.

“We’ll burn the island. It’s the only way to clear the zombies off of it, and I want that land. The soils are better there, and it gives us more breathing room. I don’t expect, after your little display, that consolidation will be much of a problem. And with three islands, we’ll be able to hold out indefinitely.”

“That’s might not work.” I said. “The government is going to want the land too, and our job was to figure out how useable it is for a base in this area.”

“The Army will have nothing to collect but ashes,” she said simply. “And I don’t think they’re coming. They are, after all, the ones who just turned it to glass.”

We were all silenced. With the bombing of South Hero and the death of Allen, that was one problem solved. I didn’t like the idea of some wannabe-dictator controlling innocent civilians; it reminded me too much of what LTC Jackass McDonald would have done if he’d had a chance. At the same time, it was sickening to realize that a thousand people were now dead. They’d survived four years of this shit, and thanks to one man’s blind ego they were gone. Even Brit was subdued. Hart had her head bent over her entwined hands, maybe praying. Red was staring out the windows, and Ahmed was studying the Sergeant Major with his usual closed-in look, expression unreadable. The Sergeant Major was looking at me, one old NCO giving another the time to absorb what she’d said.

I finally sighed. “Well, this mission is over.”

She nodded slowly, studying me. “To be frank,” she said. “I’ve been wondering how you managed to continue as a scout missing one foot.”

Brit stirred. “We’re supposed to be retired,” she replied, “but those asshats down at Fort Orange wanted to collect on a debt.”

I gave Brit a look that told her to play it close. “We’re here because Doc was here. I don’t leave anyone behind. After this, we’re out for good.”

“Stay here instead,” the Sergeant Major suggested gently. “I’ve got six hundred and forty two lives to worry about, more, now, depending on how many are on North Hero. I could use a few more people to patrol the walls and help with the defense. Your training is priceless, even if you don’t know this end of the lake. If nothing else, you could teach our younger ones to dodge zombies and help us when we have to make supply runs.” I hesitated. What we’d seen from our window upstairs this morning had been encouraging, but there was more to this place than one farm. She might be doing fine, but what of the other people living here? Perhaps she was no better than the General, another little dictator making a play for our sympathies. Six well-trained soldiers would give her one hell of an advantage. She must have read what I was thinking, for she straightened up. “If you doubt me, come outside. There’s more to see here.”

She led us over a dirt path from the courtyard through a little grove of trees to the main house. It was a one-story building, almost rambling in its many corners and rounded edges. An elegant deck with a round seating area dug four feet into the ground sat off the back of the house. A firepit in the center was stacked with birch wood. A grill and brick oven had been built into one wall. Climbing the stairs, we followed her into a spacious kitchen, all clean stainless steel and dark wood cabinets. Again, the sheer cleanliness of the place struck me more than anything. It was like being in the world before the plague hit, as if the world in which the rest of us existed had not touched this place. I had to remind myself that if I looked past the trees, I’d see the seawall protecting the island from external attack not a quarter mile away.

We trailed her towards a bedroom in the back, past an impressive wine collection. Brit had the grace not to just grab a bottle, but I saw her eyeing them. The Sergeant Major opened a door and ushered us through.

Doc and Ziv were laying on military-issue cots, Doc with two IVs in his arm and a bandage around his ribs. His uniform had been recently cleaned, the jacket hanging on a nail above his head. His color had come back and he clearly had a good night’s sleep. Ziv, in no more than his boxers, had one arm behind his head and was staring at the ceiling, but he got up and came to greet us when we walked in. Brit did the unthinkable by giving him a hug, although she was careful about it once she saw the bruising on his abdomen and back. His left arm was in a cast. On the other side of the room, a man in his mid-fifties was staring into the eyepiece of a microscope. I looked around. The room might not have been the island’s hospital, but I got the impression that it was the first place anyone injured found themselves. A row of shelves held glass bottles and random instruments, including scalpels soaking in some kind of solution. A stethoscope hung from a nail under the shelves, and those lights doctors used to look in your eyes and throat sprouted from a mason jar. It was a clean and serviceable room, if decidedly rustic. The chairs against one wall were all home-made, clunky but looking like they could hold the fattest person with no trouble, not that there were many fat people around these days.

The doctor stood to greet us, offering his hand. “My name is Alexander Brundage,” he said, politely.

We clustered in the center of the room. “We need to take blood samples from all of you.” She told us. “It’s just our policy. Doctor Brundage did the same to the refugees we recovered last night, before we sent them to stay with families throughout the island. It won’t take long.”

The others glanced at me but I shrugged. What would a blood sample hurt, and it wasn’t as if they’d actually see anything. The doc pulled a sterile lancet from a sealed package for each of us and pricked our fingertips. He squeezed a drop onto a slide, labeled each one carefully, then sat down before the microscope. I walked over to Doc and looked him over. After a moment, Cassandra joined me at his side. “He was beaten pretty badly,” she said, including the others who had taken seats after giving the doctor their blood samples. “The fingernails on his right hand were pulled out, probably with pliers. They may or may not grow back, so he will have to be very careful for a while. No broken bones, although he’s got a couple of cracked ribs. We aren’t sure if his eye orbit is broken, but it will be a few days before the swelling goes down and he can see out of that eye again. He’s not going to be able to eat solid food for about a week, just to save his jaw the trouble. One molar might be cracked. There’s a dentist on North Hero we’ll try to bring over to check the rest of his mouth. I’m hoping he won’t need that tooth pulled.” Doc woke up as she described his injuries, and gave me a thumbs-up.

She nodded at Ziv. “This one was luckier. His elbow is fractured but we put a smaller cast on it so he can use the arm. That shouldn’t keep you guys here more than a couple of weeks. He won’t say, but I think they beat him with a metal pipe. No lacerated organs or internal bleeding, but his spleen is enlarged and there may be some damage to his liver. No vodka for you, Soldat.”

Ziv scowled at her. “Vojnik. I am Serbian, not Russian.”

The Sergeant Major’s expression did not change, but I sensed some disdain in her tone when she replied. “Perhaps I should have guessed. I knew that accent reeked from someplace familiar.”

“What is that supposed to mean, Woman?” Ziv started up from his bed, reaching for the big knife strapped to his pack.

Before it broke out into violence, Brundage leaned back and smiled at us. “None of you are infected,” he said. “Although I’m sure you knew that. I can say that you all could use a few good meals and some rest.” I nodded. MREs did not a fat man make, and we were all on the edge of malnutrition. I was secretly hoping some of the vegetables in her garden would be ripe enough to eat, because I was sick of MRE #11, the Sammich. Man cannot live on Spam alone.