Linda Andrews - Extinction Level Event

“And the CO?” Robertson coasted toward the light.

“I’ll take care of the CO when he comes back.” If he does. Although God only knew what David could do? There were too few officers to think he’d get something other than a reprimand in his file. And shooting him wasn’t an option.

They turned into the neighborhood. Weeds, plants and trees choked the yards. The scent of rot weighted the morning. Children and adults scavenged through the piles of garbage. One child of twelve picked up a rat by its tail. The creature curled its body and scratched the air before the kid chucked it into a bucket on the ground. Another child slammed the lid down.

Christ Almighty. They were eating the rats—the rats that could be infected with Plague or Hanta. The twelve-year-old scratched his arm before springing through the refuse and fishing another one out. David fingered the papers. Maybe he should hand out the flyers.

“Look at all this garbage, Big D.” Robertson slowed the truck. “If they do as Doc suggests, they’ll burn the whole neighborhood to the ground.”

Further down the road, a crowd gathered around his unit. On the ground, one man stood guard—his hands resting lightly on his M-4. Two stood in the open truck beds, surrounded by sacks of rations, their rifles in their hands. On the other side of the vehicle, more of his men would be standing guard watching all sides for a sneak attack. The group leader, Ray, had his gun on his back and a table between himself and the others. Some civilians stood by their portion of rice, wheat, beans and assorted canned rations. Why hadn’t they moved on? They always moved on after receiving their supplies.

David checked his M-4—one in the chamber and a full clip. He slung his weapon over his shoulder as the truck slowed.

The soldier in charge held his hands loosely at his sides, far enough away from his rifle to be nonthreatening, yet close enough if he needed his weapon. He faced a burly man in a ripped red flannel shirt and jeans straining under a beer gut. The citizen motioned to the soldier’s face mask then to the crowd. Heads nodded.

“Once I draw attention off Ray, I want you to text him a photo of the flyer. Understood?”

With his M-4 across his lap, Robertson tugged his phone from his breast pocket. “Yes, Sergeant Major.”

Fingering the face masks by the door, David decided against wearing one. No one seemed to be coughing. Yet. And he’d bet his monthly salary that the face masks were the source of concern. He jumped to the street, slammed the door and strode forward. The smell of meat cooking drifted over the stench. Could you get plague from eating infected rats? “Problems?”

Ray came to attention. “Some folks are a little spooked out by the masks, Sergeant Major.”

David faced Beer Gut. With his hands behind his back he signaled for Ray to fall back. There was a squeak of metal when the soldier climbed into the bed of the supply truck. A rift from AC/DC’s Back in Black came from the truck before it was quieted.

Ignoring the ringtone, David kept his attention on the civilian. He didn’t remember the man’s name but he recognized his sort. A troublemaker. He was the slob who claimed he was feeding extra mouths yet never produced the children. He’d also tried to alter his ration card. “Is that a fact?”

With a heave of his lungs, Beer Gut hefted his doughy stomach up before it jiggled low again. “If this dust pneumonia is as bad as the news says, we need masks, too. We have rights, you know.”

God save him from windbags and their rights. Still a few civilians nodded as well. So the malcontent was breeding discord. Assholes always acted up when they thought the good times were coming back. “We are required by law to wear masks when outside for more than four hours.”

“What about us?” Beer Gut’s flying squirrel arms flapped as he spread them wide. “We’re out trying to find enough supplies to live on, and our children need fresh air. Yet by your very words, you’re risking their health by not providing masks.”

The crowd hemmed in closer. David resisted the urge to swing his M-4 around and discharge it. Instead he held up his hand, not touching the man, but clearly defining his protective zone. “Only soldiers have been affected by the dust pneumonia and so far, no one in Arizona has. This is a federal law for the armed forces as we are on shift for twelve hours or more.”

A couple in the back picked up their supplies and wandered away. A group of four on the left followed. The handful of others muttered amongst themselves.

David couldn’t make out their words, but he watched their body language. Their arms hung loosely at their sides and their features didn’t have that pinched look from a moment ago. “I would recommend you allow your children out for only an hour at a time. If you or they need to be out longer, then you may wish to cover your mouth with your washable face masks.”

“Washable face masks?” Beer Gut’s face turned purple and his belly swelled like a bloated corpse baking in the sun. “I never received any face masks.”

Instead of smashing his fist through the gin blossoms in the other man’s nose, David turned his palm face up. “May I see your ration card, sir?”

Beer Gut clutched his shirt pocket. “Why? Are you going to take it? Deprive me of my fair share of rations if I don’t?”

A few in the audience rolled their eyes, gathered their belongings and strolled away.

God, he’d love to take it from the bastard then feed his teeth to him. “Sir, my men have a very long day ahead of them and there are many other good folks waiting for their rations. Now, hand me your card.”

Beer Gut tugged it out of his breast pocket and slapped the paper book into David’s hand.

“Thank you.” Ignoring the tingling in his hand, he opened the book to the first page and noted the name. Dirk Benedict. No doubt a relation of that famous American traitor. “You signed for three washable face masks on October fifth.”

“Well.” Beer Gut huffed. “Those are all gone now.”

David held the book out to him. “Then we’ll make a note and send out an extra one with your rations, next week. Anyone else need replacement masks?”

No one raised their hand.

“But that’s not fair. I should have three.” Beer Gut flicked his ration card. “Three is my fair share.”

“You had your share, sir. Now, you’re taking someone else’s.” David stepped around the man and surveyed the rest of the crowd. “As for the rest of you, find and clean your masks. Wear them if you’d feel more comfortable doing so and tune in to the emergency broadcast station, they’ll alert you if you should be wearing the masks.”

Beer Gut’s eyes narrowed to slits. “And the truck, Referman? If we don’t have anything to fear, how come you’re driving around the meat wagon?” He wagged a sausage thick finger at David. “And don’t bother lying. We’ve all heard the scanner. We know that DB’s are dead bodies.”

The dispersing crowd halted and turned back toward him and his unit. Once again ringmaster, Beer Gut preened under the attention.

David bit the inside of his jaw. If only his gun was in his hand… “As I’m sure you’ve heard on the scanner, our Marines had a hostile encounter with some gangbangers.”

The crowd shifted, their eyes darting nervously from side to side.

Good, they had remembered the bogeyman walked among them. “There were twenty fatalities. And unfortunately, this morning the bodies of two innocent bystanders who got caught in the crossfire were discovered as well. Since SAWs, tanks and flame throwers make quite a mess of flesh and bone, the authorities have asked us for help. Any more questions?”

David eyed the audience. They bought it. Hell, who wouldn’t? It might very well be true.