Linda Andrews - Extinction Level Event

David inhaled cold air, heard the soft whistle as it slid between his teeth. Easy. Obviously, the kid was a little shaken up. Probably the first time he’d had to fire his weapon since basic. “You said the base was attacked.”

With a high-pitched laugh, the private shook his head and glanced up at the sky. “Not us.”

He strangled the steering wheel. Whatever the kid saw, David seriously hoped he’d get around to sharing it with him. And soon. Some where, out there, Patient Zero waited to be collected.

Apparently just realizing he was laughing alone, PFC Folgers stopped chuckling mid-note. “The Marines were attacked in South Phoenix. Non-com just came out of the night, shooting and throwing fire bombs at their tank. Pea shooters and flaming bottles of alcohol against a tank.” He shook his head. “What douche bags.”

His words percolated through David’s skull. Non-coms killed, not from the Redaction but by simple lead poisoning. Hot damn! The day was looking up. Shifting mental gears, he began to compile a list of supplies they’d need for the pick-up. “How many killed?”

“Twenty crispy critters.” The private rubbed a red zit on his chin. “Another twelve injured.”

Not a bad kill ratio. Of course, the liberal media wouldn’t see it that way. But damn, what kind of dumb ass attacked the very people protecting them and keeping order? “Did we lose any?”

“Nah.” PFC Folgers stepped away from the Humvee. “If you listen to them tell it, bullets bounce off Marines.”

David lifted his foot from the brake and the vehicle drifted forward. “Yeah? Well, private, here’s a bit of advice. You can tell a Marine is lying when his lips are moving.”

Chuckling and shaking his head, the soldier stepped back.

David felt the corners of his mouth lift. Damn. When was the last time he’d laughed? Forever. Certainly tonight was no trip to the funny farm. He checked the rear-view mirror before turning toward the motor pool. Still, maybe he should pencil it on his calendar. Laugh every day at… He pushed up his sleeve and consulted his watch. …at five-forty-three a.m.

Best of all, it might just drive his men nuts.

After pulling into the Humvee’s assigned spot, he killed the engine and pulled the keys out of the ignition. Pinching the corner of Mavis’s flyer, he slid out of the driver’s seat. The plywood door to the motor pool tent banged against the ropes tying it down as his boots hit the cracked asphalt.

And speaking of his men…

Robertson hitch-stepped toward him. Cupping his hands around his mouth, he shouted across the four feet. “Yo! Big D, it’s about time you got back from your hook-up with the Doc.”

“I came as soon as I got the word.” David tossed his keys at Vegas. Catching up to Robertson, he slapped the paper into his gut. “Make a hundred copies of this, will you?”

The clerk caught them on his clipboard before dumping them into his waiting palm. “I just need you to sign here, and you’ll be good to go.”

Catching the pen swinging from the chain attached to the metal clip, David scrawled his name in the highlighted spot.

“What’s this?” Angling the paper toward the sun, Robertson held it up to the light. “Plague. What plague? I thought we weren’t supposed to mention the Redaction’s return.”

“That’s the flu.” David tucked the pen under the clip and wiped his sweaty palms on his pants. “We’re talking about the Plague, as in the Black Death.”

Robertson’s eyes widened so much the whites shone brightly in their sockets. “No fucking way! Where the hell did that come from?”

Vegas stood on tip-toes to read over Robertson’s shoulder. “Rats. These things are carried by rats?”

“And what is a Hannah virus?” Robertson bounced on the balls of his feet. “It better not be some damn STD.”

“Hanta virus, dumb ass.” Vegas cuffed Robertson upside the head. “It’s from rat urine. You must be having really kinky sex to be using that.”

After dodging another hit, Robertson drove his elbow into the other private’s gut. “Don’t act like you know anything.”

Last thing he needed was their pissing contest turning into a junior high wrestling match. It had happened before. David cleared his throat and flicked the back of the paper. “Copies, Robertson. Double time.”

“Yes, Sergeant Major.” He crumpled the paper against his forehead and then dashed inside the motor pool office.

“Anything I can do, Sergeant Major?” Vegas clasped the clipboard behind his back.

“I’ll leave a copy with you to pass on to the other bases.” David eyed a rat dashing across the sidewalk. Its tail slithered over the concrete before it disappeared into a drainage ditch. “Fax, email, or carrier pigeon. We need to disseminate the information as quickly as possible.”

“Yes, Sergeant Major.” Vegas glanced at the tent. “I’ll get right on it.”

Of course, he would. They all would. No one wanted to pick up more corpses than absolutely necessary. David eyed the mess hall. Did he have time to grab a cup of Joe before heading out? The big refrigerated truck was still here. He checked his watch. If he’d gotten the call thirty-three minutes ago, his men should have been locked and loaded within fifteen. At the Redaction’s height, they had collected more than twenty bodies before lunch. “What’s the status of my men?”

“Out on distribution duty, Sergeant Major.”

“Distribution duty? We have bodies to pick up.”

“The CO ordered them to leave.” Vegas raised his chin and stared over David’s shoulder. “He said that you and PFC Robertson could collect the stiffs. He waited until they left before he departed for leave.”

David clenched his jaw. He just bet Asshole had seen the men off. No doubt, he wanted another five-finger-discount on the supplies. “Double check the rations.”

Vegas grinned. “Already did, Sergeant Major. I’m sorry to say, a bandit has made off with the last of those ladies shoes, but glad to report that we’ve found ten boxes of rations that had been reported as missing earlier.”

“I found the missing rations.” Robertson strutted toward them. He waved a copy of the information at Vegas. “But I’ll deny all knowledge of ladies shoes under pain of death.”

“I’ll get right on this, Sergeant Major.” Vegas snatched the paper out of the air when Robertson let go of it.

David nodded before heading for the big refrigerated truck. “We ready to go, Private Robertson?”

“Absolutely, Sergeant Major.” Robertson veered toward the smaller one.

Obviously the lack of sleep was affecting him. David whistled and jerked his head to the big truck. “That one won’t hold twenty bodies.”

“Twenty?” Robertson opened the door and tossed the papers inside. “What you smoking Big D? We’re collecting two.” He held up two fingers. “Two, not twenty. An old couple who died of suspicious causes.”

David skidded to a halt. Two. Suspicious causes. He jiggled the phone in his pocket. Perhaps this was the day they found Patient Zero, after all.

Sunnie’s moose slippers slapped the kitchen tile. Coffee. Must have coffee. Rubbing her scratchy eyes, she shuffled toward the red light. Thank God the electricity had come back on. Yawning into the crook of her arm, she lifted her mug from the rack in the sink and set it on the counter. Warmth radiated from the glass coffee pot. How old was it?

She sniffed the steam above the dark brew. Reasonably fresh and… Hazelnut. Her favorite. Brown drops spotted the laminate counter as she filled her mug. What a night. Swiping her tongue over her teeth, she added powdered creamer to her mug. Gad, she’d forgotten to brush her teeth before going to bed.