Linda Andrews - Extinction Level Event

But he’d be damned if his men would pay the price.

“Gather the troops. We need to have an impromptu pow-wow.”

“Well, shit!” Robertson pressed on the gas. “Here I was offering you curb-side service to earn a few brownie points, and you go and decide to work through your crank-atude.”

“That’s not a word.” David lifted the trash bin from its place of honor between the two-bucket seats as the truck eased into the motor pool.

“It should be cuz you’re cranky on top of your BMOB attitude.”

Sometimes Robertson had a point. Not that he’d tell the private; the planet could barely contain his ego and everyone else. David bit the inside of his cheek to stop his smile from getting too wide. “Just go round up everyone within ten before my crank-atude turns into your latrine duty.”

“Yes, Sergeant Major.” Robertson took his hand off the wheel to snap of a half-assed salute.

He covered a yawn. For a moment, the motor pool blurred. God, he couldn’t remember ever feeling this tired. Ten minutes seemed an eternity away. “Just park the truck.”

Robertson pulled into the space, shifted into park then killed the engine. “Ten minutes at the gate?”

“Yeah.” David hopped to the ground, chucked the trash into a nearly full dumpster, and then returned the empty bin to the truck. Grabbing his weapon, he slung it over his shoulder and headed for the rendezvous point. His body ached and his eyes drifted closed. Damn, he was worse off than he thought if he was trying to sleep while he walked.

Robertson jogged out of the motor pool, the other men in the unit behind him. The group scattered like billiard balls as they passed the supply tent.

He rolled his head on his neck. The tension eased slightly. Just another ten minutes and he’d have eight hours.

Provided Mavis didn’t get a delivery.

Then he’d have a half an hour’s drive to her house. His head cleared for a moment. And maybe this time she’d offer him a bed to sleep in. Hers would be nice.

But he’d take the floor as long as Lister stayed away.

“Sergeant Major.” A young private wearing a stained apron shot out of the double doors of the mess hall. He shoved a Styrofoam cup at David, before shaking brown droplets off his hand.

“Thanks.” David eyed the soldier whose apron obscured the Velcro name on his jacket. He recognized the face but the name… Nope. His brain had circled around the need for sleep and didn’t seem inclined to allow any other thoughts out. At least he remembered what he planned to tell his men.

Kind of.

Footsteps crunched behind him just as the door to the mess banged shut. The soldiers who remained on base fell into step around him.

Great. It’s a fricking parade led by a sleep deprived non-commissioned officer and his coffee cup. He took a sip, before opening his mouth and fanning his tongue. His cup of very hot coffee. Good thing the media no longer considered them news worthy. David eyed the gate and watched the guard stutter in his back-and-forth march, before focusing on the coming troops. Poor kid. He probably thought he was in for a public dressing down.

Colonel Asshole loved public dressing downs.

Gave the prick something to look forward to.

And it completely obliterated morale.

He really had to take the man out of commission. But how? His brain offered up solutions that wouldn’t work with the current laws of physics. Walking between the barracks, he shook his head then checked his watch. Seven more minutes, until he could sleep.

Seven eternal minutes.

He yawned, blew on the coffee and then took another sip. A degree below scalding. He repeated the procedure as he walked. By the time he reached the gate only a worm of brown oozed in the creases of the cup. Still hadn’t made a dent in his sleep requirements.

Once upon a time, he’d been able to go four days with two hours of sleep per day. Once upon a time, he’d been twenty. Getting old sucked. He crumpled the Styrofoam in his fist. Then again, it beat the hell out of the alternative.

“Sergeant Major.” The private’s eyes widened as he came to attention.

David returned the salute. “Relax. We’re having a pow-wow, not a dressing down.”

The young soldier nodded and his shoulders dropped just a hair, but his grip on his M-4 tightened until his knuckles shown white.

Clasping his hands behind his back, David eyed his men and counted heads. He’d just finished his tally, when he spied Robertson jogging over. The rest of the soldiers on base stood at ease in a semi-circle around him.

Robertson squeezed through the crowd of thirty-three men before handing David a half-empty coffee cup. Brown streaks on the side indicated where the rest of the liquid had gone.

David nodded his thanks before handing the crumpled Styrofoam off to the private. “Before I begin, I need to know if anyone is sick. Feverish, muscles aches, running nose, sore throat. Anything?”

Heads shook. His unit glanced around, catching each other’s eye, before shrugging and facing front. No one moved, shuffled aside to leave the infected alone and isolated like in the beginning of the Redaction.

Maybe it was because no one was sick.

Maybe it was because they’d decided whatever happened they’d stick together.

The chef’s assistant raised his hand.

David’s heart thudded before falling silent. Not one of his men. Please, God, not one of his men. Especially when he couldn’t remember the man’s name. “Yes, Private.”

“Sergeant-Major, I have the black scabs. I thought it would be enough to cover them while I cook, but if you think I might be a hazard…”

“You’ll be fine.” David glanced at his coffee cup. The brown liquid jiggled against the white Styrofoam. He felt like he’d just dodged a bullet. Too bad the shooting had just begun. “Apply antibiotic ointment and keep the bandages on while cooking.”

“Yeah.” Robertson nudged him. “And quit trying to get out of KP duty.”

“Or at least think of a better excuse.” Michaelson jostled the chef’s assistant’s other side. “Scabbies are no reason not to do your duty. Robertson’s practically one big VD vending machine and he still shows up to work every day.”

“Hey!” Robertson reached around the cook to punch his fellow soldier. “I’ve been free of the drippie-burnies for weeks now.”

Michaelson punched him back. “Yeah, that’s ‘cause you’re still on antibiotics.”

The cook scuttled out of the way as the two men began to grapple. Others backed up. Here and there money changed hands as the men took sides.

David scraped his hands down his face. He was too damn tired for this. “Enough!”

The two sprang apart. Robertson drove his fist into his palm. Michaelson pointed to his eyes then to his opponent.

“As I was saying, the plague has arrived and no one has told the civilians.” David caught and held the gaze of his unit leaders. “They will be scared, then they will become angry. They’ll need someone to take it out on. Since our fearless leaders are cowering in their well-stocked bunkers, we will be the face of our government. We will be the objects of their anger.”

Michaelson shifted to the front. “Is the Doc hiding? Or wasn’t she allowed to since her niece is infected?”

“Mavis turned down the Surgeon General’s offer to evacuate to a facility.” David paused. It was a damn foolhardy decision. Sunnie would have gotten the best medical attention the world had to offer. He’d never been prouder of Mavis’s show of solidarity. He damn well hoped it didn’t cost her niece’s life. “Her niece is under the care of a Corpsman.”

“The damn Navy?” Michaelson spat, a few muttered. “What’s wrong with an Army medic? She’s already got an Army liaison.”