Private Stenson had told her while they shared a sleepless night over a cup of coffee that it was the first time he had ever heard his father cry. His father had told him to stay where he was, that he was doing something important. There was nothing for him at home, and that “home” was already dead. One sister had been bitten and the other had vanished. The family was going to attempt to barricade their farm and try to hold out as long as possible, but he had some rat poison on hand “just in case.”
Private Stenson had an insight beyond his years that he shared with her that night. He had said, “Every soldier has a story. You have meatheads and geeks, jokers and gun nuts, but everyone came from somewhere. Everyone has a family, friends, a neighborhood, and if you’re still here, doing your job, it’s not because of the army, duty, or even the bond you share with the men and women around you — it’s because you realize that this is all there is. There isn’t any hope for Bum-fuck Nebraska any more than there’s hope for San Diego. You can’t make a difference fending off looters or the walking dead from some postage stamp of a hideout you’ve carved out for you and your family. You make a difference by surviving, now, where you are. You add yourself—mind, body and soul—to the entirety of the strength that humanity has left, and you pray that that strength will one day be enough to take the world back. I understand the guys who left… believe me I do… but I also hate them. They killed themselves and weakened the rest of us in their absence. Everyone has a story, and if you’re still here, you realize that where you came from is gone, and where you are is all that matters now.”
It was a long-winded “live in the moment” kind of solider-philosopher’s story, as much truth as it was a way to deal with the guilt of abandoning his family to their fate. They finished their coffee and attempted to fill the remaining hours with whatever work they could find. She reflected a bit on her own story. Her husband was trying to save humanity in the American fleet somewhere. She was trying to save humanity here in the DDC. She hadn’t heard from her sister or parents in months, and—now that civilian communication lines were all but completely gone—she doubted she ever would again. These people… these seventy-nine remaining civilians, soldiers, and medical personnel… they were her family now.
Kelly quietly stepped around cots, beds, and those who were camped out on the floor in sleeping bags and under blankets. A guard nodded silently to her as she entered into the adjoining clinic that housed even more sleeping refugees. After weaving her way through the slumbering figures, she finally arrived at the stairway to the second story. As she was ascending, Nurse Jeffry was descending to replace her in monitoring the nighttime DDC.
“Liam?” he asked in a whisper.
“We moved him. There are four others you’re going to want to monitor, but make sure and check on Private Stenson in the quiet room,” Kelly answered.
After they passed by each other, Kelly reached the top of the stairwell and entered into yet another living area — this one designated for young children and their families. Here, mothers and fathers lay with their toddlers and babies, trying to get as much sleep as they could. Cribs and playpens sat next to folding beds filled with parents who were tasked with keeping their children as quiet as possible.
Kelly’s eyes turned to Dr. Thomson’s office, where his silhouette was framed by the streetlight that shone through the large second story window. She tiptoed over, closed the door quietly, and stood next to him, looking out over the front of the DDC perimeter.
The DDC was in a horseshoe-shaped strip mall on a natural rise, its back facing the city from a steep rock cliff. The front parking lot was about the size of a football field, and it was fenced in and reinforced by sandbags. Wooden guard towers had been erected at each corner, and the shadowy figures of soldiers behind their machine guns sat motionless inside them. Just outside the fence and well beyond it into the surrounding commercial district, small groups of ghouls wandered about the area. The DDC had done its best to appear as lifeless and deserted as the rest of the city, as not to attract hordes that would deplete ammunition and supplies. The fence had endured its own hell and every link was rusted, tortured, bent, or broken — but it held as the very last line between the living and the dead.
Dr. Thomson, official head of the DDC, stood unconsciously twisting his wedding ring around his finger. He was in his sixties: a worn and wrinkled old man in a white doctor’s coat. “The storm stopped,” he mumbled.
Kelly slipped into her professional doctor’s skin. “Liam’s in the quiet room. Nurse Jeffry is looking after the other four.”
Dr. Thomson remained silent for a moment before answering. “Nurse Jeffry has been cutting. He’s hiding the scars, but they’re there.”
This time, it was Kelly who took a silent moment before answering. Dr. Thomson had confined himself to Tierrasanta DDC since it was placed under his supervision and every moment of his waking life had been devoted to the people — patient or staff — and ensuring they were fed, healthy, and safe. He had the foresight to think long-term and he had contacted his wife and family months ago to bring them in. As refugees from across the city poured into the DDC, he waited for them to be among them, but they never arrived. He had utilized every contact he had to locate them, but no one was able to find any information. His only facts had come from a convoy driver who had taken a detour to his home. The driver had said that the door was unlocked, there were no signs of the family, and no indication that anyone had packed to go anywhere. Since then, Kelly had never seen Dr. Thomson sleep, and the task of maintaining the DDC had worn heavily on him.
“What should we do?” She asked, knowing there was nothing to be done. The DDC staff was very good at maintaining the illusion of clinical professionalism — but every one of them was as emotionally crushed and physically drained as the people they cared for.
“His fiancé was killed. He’s a broken man. There’s nothing that we can do,” Dr. Thomson replied. “We need him to keep doing his job. My wife is a counselor. She would know what to do… she could do a lot of good here.”
“I’m sorry,” Kelly replied.
Dr. Thomson nodded and continued to twist the ring on his finger while staring out the window.
Kelly Damico stood next to Dr. Thomson for a while, trying to imagine the headlights of a family sedan driving toward the DDC. It would pull up, and Mrs. Thomson and their kids would pour out before the guards rushed them to safety. Dr. Thomson would light up and embrace his family. Whatever happened in the coming months wouldn’t matter. He would have his happy ending.
That happy ending would never come, however, and—in all likelihood—Dr. Thomson would never know what happened to the people he loved. His story was as depressing as it was typical of the broken souls who lived within the DDC.
She fished in her pocket for her cellular phone as she turned away from Dr. Thomson. She couldn’t remember the last time she heard her husband’s voice, and though she hoped he was safe somewhere in the fleet, their inability to contact each other was maddening. She carefully hid the glow of her phone as she typed a text message that her husband would never see.
“I love you, Henry.”
Chapter 4
Sergeant Miguel Ramos checked his mounted gun’s ammunition for the hundredth time. Side arm, rifle, ammunition, aid kit, ammunition, grenades, flash-bangs, ammunition; he checked every detail, every conceivable thing he would need on this mission. He checked his seat buckle, he checked his sights, he checked his helmet, and he checked his dog tags. Then he checked everything again. His pre-mission routine was almost ritualistic — if there was any miniscule detail that might better the convoy’s chances of coming back alive, Sergeant Ramos would find it and incorporate it into his pre-mission routine. After countless operations, he had become nothing short of obsessive.