Shaw’s heart is in his throat, his breath comes in short pants. His skin feels numb and tingly all over. His ears pound like drums. He’s afraid to shout for help fearing the dogs would leap and tear his throat out. Inch by inch he eases toward the tire iron. It’s a race; a slow and agonizing race and the animals will get to him long before he gets to it.
He makes his move and scrambles for the tire iron. He slips on the broken glass covering the floor. The dogs begin their attack. The German Shepherd sinks its teeth into Shaw’s leg. The taste of hot blood entices the dog causing it to shake its head violently, trying to tear meat from the bone. He screams and raises his arms to his throat just in time to block the mixed-breed from locking on. The mixed-breed, instead, takes him by the arm. The raw strength of the dogs is bolstered by the smell and taste of blood. They intend to rip him in two.
The Shepherd yelps and drops dead, a spearhead in its heart. The mixed-breed lets go of Shaw’s arm. He holds it tight to his chest, blood pours from the wound.
The dog bares his teeth and goes after the other humans who killed its mate. It leaps. Connors shoots it between the eyes. Brains splatter onto Shaw’s clothes.
“Told you not to wander off,” says Connors. He and Sergeant Hollander back out of the station and return to the Flying Fish. “We’re leaving, Shaw. You better come with us unless you want to make this a permanent residence.”
Dr. Shaw hurries after them with no intention of staying here a moment longer.
Chapter Eighteen
“None of us really change over time. We only become more fully what we really are.”
The roads and highways stand clogged with debris, rusting cars, tractors, bicycles, and a dead horse litters the landscape. The journey has worn everyone egg-shell thin, and Connors’s patience is stripped to the bone. The burden of command and the responsibility to protect the two doctors and Rose is starting to shave off his inflexible exterior skin, leaving his soft innards on display. Rose thinks it makes him appear more human, and more vulnerable.
She doesn’t like the way Dr. Shaw keeps looking at her. It reminds her of the buzzards she’s seen on the roads before they go face down into the guts of a rotten carcass. She knows he has plans for her, which take place under the sharp point of one of his scalpels. She moves to sit closer to Dr. Valentine. After a while, Dr. Shaw’s focus moves on to other things, like cleaning his wounds.
They come to a place on the highway where Sergeant Hollander asks Connors, “This is it. Which way you wanna go?”
Looking the map over, as if he has a choice, Connors considers if he has it in him to disobey the direct order of a superior. He can just show up at Last Command as pretty-as-you-please. Of course, there would be that whole, firing squad thing, he’d have to face. Nah, it wouldn’t be a firing squad. It would be hanging. Bullets are a precious resource. So, the choice isn’t as simple as all that. Does he go up Interstate 35 West towards Last Command, or does he go up Interstate 35 East into Dallas?
He rubs his face with one hand, and scratches behind his ear, pondering his decision. He can feel the sandiness of the road grit, blown in through the passenger side window, where it’s collected on his face in a thick layer. One thing he’s always believed, being in the military isn’t only an honor but a duty. Why should his beliefs change simply because the world went dead-fish-belly up?
“35 East. We’re going to Dallas, Sergeant.”
“Yes, sir. Goin’ to Dallas.” Hollander pulls the stubborn steering wheel to the right, guiding the bulky vehicle around a cattle truck full of dead steers and clouds of bloated, black flies.
Before long the way to Dallas is congested with the bodies of humans and animals alike. When you see this many bodies laying out like forgotten garbage, it’s a sign that you’re getting close to a major city. Out near smaller towns, it’s not so bad.
Connors reaches the radio. He tries different frequencies, even some old civilian frequencies the Army doesn’t use. But, no one answers from the satellite base.
“Bad sign,” says Connors.
“Maybe not, Major. Last Command didn’t answer either for a while,” says Hollander, not taking his eyes from the road as he navigates slowly around the bodies on the baking asphalt.
“No, we’re within range of the satellite base. They should be answering.”
“Maybe they’ve got radio troubles,” says Shaw.
Nature’s steadily reclaiming the highways and roads, and every other thing human beings ever built. Yellow-white clusters of ragweed work their way through the cracks in the pavement, breaking it up even more as the roots take hold.
“Look, there,” says Dr. Valentine. She still looks pale and thinner than when they left Camp Able, but for the first time, she’s wobbling on her feet. She’s pointing ahead, past the windshield, at a small settlement in the distance.
Tall chain-link fences surround what’s left of the satellite base. There are no guards posted, but there are people dressed in military uniforms milling around inside. They notice the Flying Fish almost immediately and greet it with waves and friendly cheers.
“They look happy to see us,” says Hollander.
“Keep going, keep going. Don’t stop here,” says Shaw, trying to wave away the stench, coming from the base. The sour and fetid odor wafts in through the open windows. He waves his hand back and forth but turns to placing a handkerchief over his nose instead. He screws up his face, overcome with the smell. No one likes it, but they don’t make such a big deal out of it as Dr. Shaw does.
Small fires are lit in barrels and thin, black streamers of smoke spiral into the air. The people inside are coming to the fence now, and the smell of filth and sickness strikes like a hammer on a blacksmith’s anvil, triggering Dr. Shaw’s gag reflex.
“I’m sorry, Dr. Shaw, there aren’t any trees you can hide behind here,” says Connors.
The front gate to the satellite base opens allowing them to roll inside. The gate is then closed, and it secured carefully behind them.
“Rose, I want you to get inside one of the storage cabinets and do not come out until I come for you. Now go on and stay very quiet. Do you understand?” says Dr. Valentine.
“Yes, I understand.”
Major Connors, Dr. Shaw, Dr. Valentine, and Sergeant Hollander exit from the ambulance and are immediately welcomed with open arms, halitosis, and rank body odor.
A small man, much shorter than any of the others, approaches through the tangle of living flesh and bones. He introduces himself straightaway. “Oh Lord, Lord. Welcome, welcome, one and all. My name is Ewing, and I am the leader of this small, but proud group.”
“I am Major Connors of the United States Army, Dr. Shaw, Dr. Merna Valentine, and Sergeant Hollander. The last time I heard, this base was under the control of the U.S. military. What happened to the soldiers who were stationed here?”
Ewing turns his head to the right, and to the left as if he were searching for the soldiers Connors mentioned. “Yes, it’s still under the control of the military. In fact, there’s one of the soldiers now.”
Connors spots a man of medium build, wearing fatigues that are several sizes too large for him. The name on the shirt says M. O’Riley. The only problem is, the man isn’t O’Riley, but he’s, sure enough, wearing his clothes. Connors fakes a passable smile and nods his head.
“Are we ever happy to meet you, folks,” says a thin woman with darkened circles and bags below her eyes.