Linda Andrews - Extinction Level Event

“Be nice, Henry.” Connie rapped her cane on the door three times. The knocking blended with the dying peals.

Manny spun the metal tab of his zipper until the hoodie puckered. Tell them. I have to tell them. But now I’ll look guilty.

“We can’t sit here all day.”

Connie sighed and pushed her gray hair off her forehead. “Alright, get the key from under the mat.”

“I’ll get it.” Irina squeezed around them, knelt and lifted the corner of the straw welcome mat. She held the key out to Henry before standing next to Manny.

Her warm fingers slid against his. His muscles jumped with the need to grab her hand and run away.

Henry slid the key in the lock. The tumblers turned with a soft thud and the door opened on silent hinges.

Voices drifted around him and so did something else. The odor of evacuated bowels. The signature of death. Manny swallowed the bile rising in his throat. He slapped his hand over his mouth to keep from vomiting. How could the house smell so strong if the body was outside?

Rini gasped and buried her head in his shoulder.

“Denise? Denise?” Connie stopped on the threshold. “It’s Connie. I’ve come with your supplies.”

Henry tugged her back outside and shut the door. Gray tinged his pale skin. “She’s gone to be with her children, Connie. Wait here while I go call the sergeant major.”

David zipped up the body bag. His pulse pounded at his temples. Stanley ‘Stash’ Epstein. Twelve years old. Beaten to death by a bunch of gangbangers over food. Food for fuck’s sake! There was enough for everyone, no need to steal or kill for it. Maybe humanity deserved the shit sandwich Mother Nature was about to force feed it.

At the very least, the people who did this deserved to rot in a particularly hot corner of Hell for eternity times two. Maybe longer. Stooping, he slid his hands under the kid. Plastic crinkled as he lifted the remains and cradled them against his chest. God, the kid weighed next to nothing. What threat could he have presented against anyone?

“Hey Big D.”

David closed his eyes for a moment. The kid had survived the Redaction, only to be killed for no damn good reason. None. He hoped the Marines hunted every last one of the gang and put a bullet through their heads. God knew, if one of the Aspero walked in front of his truck, he’d gun the engine.

“Yo, Earth to Big D.” Standing over the processing kits, Robertson snapped his fingers. “Come in, Big D.”

He adjusted the bundle in his arms and stepped out of his thoughts. “Robertson this had better not be about the hobbies of this month’s Playmate.”

Tsking, Robertson tucked the camera in the kit before closing it. “That babe was so smoking, no red-blooded man would have even pretended to read the articles.”

Stepping around the private, David headed for the door. He wasn’t in the mood for the dark humor Robertson specialized in. Maybe morgue duty was finally getting to him. It got to everyone sooner or later. Better to leave the room before he ripped the private two new ones.

“Big D.” He heard the rustle and grunt as the private lifted the kits. “Before you distracted me, I thought you should know that your phone was ringing.”

Well, hell. David strode down the hall. It wasn’t ringing now. Of course, that just meant he’d probably missed an important call. One demanding he deliver another package to the good doctor. Thoughts of Mavis shined a ray of sunshine into the dark hallway. Entering the living room, he glanced passed the stacks of toys to the sagging couch. Should he put the remains down and check the number?

Robertson brushed his back as he hustled by. Although his shoulders were bowed by the processing kits, he held out his arms. “I’ll take him, Big D. You see to the call.”

For a moment, David tightened his grip on the kid. He’d given him all the dignity he could. But with the call, he might be able to save the life of his cousin and the boy who’d given them both shelter. Maybe.

“Yeah, okay.” He placed the body in Robertson’s arms. His limbs felt lighter, empty. Sighing, he ripped off his gloves. “I’ll get the doors.”

“Jesus fucking Christ, Big D. He doesn’t weigh anything.” Above his mask, Robertson’s face darkened. “You think we can find a nest of those plague carrying rats and dump them off at the Aspero’s house?”

Opening the door, David smiled. The plague was a nasty way to die. And slow. Plus, the bastards would infect each other. Sometimes a brilliant idea emerged from the dark corners of the private’s mind. “We’ll see.”

“Bullets are too good for the likes of them.”

Stepping onto the carport, David opened the back of the refrigerated truck before unzipping his bunny suit and stripping it off his shoulders. The slick fabric bunched around his ankles. Using his gloves as mitts, he unwound the duct tape from around his boots and shucked off the garment. Piling his soiled clothes on the dusty cement, he unclipped his phone from his belt. He glanced at the display and frowned.

Unknown name.

Not the Surgeon General with a pick-up, which meant no Mavis. Hmm. He hit up his voicemail then entered his code.

“Sergeant Major, this is Wheelchair Henry.” The man’s voice shook. “I mean Henry, the guy in the wheelchair.”

Dread spiraled down David’s spine and his heart thudded heavily in his chest. Christ. He’d just seen them today. Did the girl’s injuries require hospitalization?

“We live off of Baseline between Seventh and Central. You were here today dropping off supplies.”

David kicked at his discarded PPE. “Just get to the point.”

A heavy sigh came over the line. “We found a body. It’s Ms. Powers. She, uh, hanged herself.”

Closing his eyes, David tossed his head back. Suicide. It was a suicide. He breathed deeply, until his heart slowed. He snapped the phone shut.

“Trouble Big D?” Robertson’s boots hit the ground as the truck door clattered down.

“Another body.” David glanced at the private through his eyelashes.

Robertson unzipped his bunny suit before peeling off his gloves and nesting them one inside the other. “The Redaction, Plague or Hanta virus?”

“Suicide.”

“If they’d just waited, Mother Nature would have done it for them.” Robertson double bagged their garments, sealed them up, and then slapped on the biohazard sticker. Opening the door a crack, he stuffed the bag inside the truck bed. “Please tell me, the DB didn’t eat his shotgun. I am so not in the mood for blood and brains abstract art.”

David pulled a lock out of his pants pocket and secured the door. “I don’t know, but we’re headed back to Wheelchair Henry’s.”

“Damn, Big D. This is a bad side of town to be living on.”

It was emptying out pretty damn fast too. At least, this one wasn’t a murder. While walking back to the cab, he unclipped his phone, called up the last number and hit redial. The phone rang once. Twice.

“Hello?”

David licked his lips. Damn, he’d reached one of the women. Not that they weren’t competent, but he’d rather deal with Henry. The ex-Green Beret was unlikely to break down crying. He couldn’t deal with tears right now. “Yes, Ma’am. This is Sergeant Major Dawson. I’m returning Henry’s call.”

“Oh, yes.” She lowered her voice. “It’s about Denise, poor lamb. I guess losing her children was just too much for her.”

He rolled his shoulders. Tension popped along his spine. Dead children. That explained a lot. Had he been the one who had collected them? After climbing into the cab, he raked his fingers through his hair and slammed the door shut behind him. There’d been so many… “Yes, I understand. If you could just give us the address, we’ll be there in about ten minutes.”