Dead Again (14 page)

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

The civilians sat in front of Peterson, listening intently. The Mayor stood off to the side, his arms crossed tightly against his chest.

“You have shelter, protection, food, water and medicine now. You have a television signal and, if you use the connection as we have taught you, you may be able to make contact with others.” Peterson turned, lowered his head, and thought, “Do not count on the military or any other armed force arriving to help you.” Peterson’s words drifted off. He regretted this speech, felt a growing pit in his stomach. In the back of his head he knew, the chance of their survival was almost none.

The injured child with the scratches on his side raised his hand politely, as if still in his third grade class. Peterson looked at the cute young man, and his heart sank even further.

“I see a hand from a young brave man,” Peterson said is a soft, fatherly tone. “What is on your mind, friend?”

“Mr. Peterson,” came the child’s voice.

“Call him Sir,” whispered his mother.

“Sir,” the young man corrected himself. “My friend Doug is upstairs, is he okay? Are the others okay?” With the type of insight and wisdom only children have, and the unfiltered way in which they speak their minds, the kid said what was on everybody’s mind.

Peterson thought of the ten year old boy, Doug.

Why does this kid get to me so much? Peterson wondered. He remembered the old days, with Sharon, how they spoke about having a child. He wanted a son. She didn’t care.
 
Or maybe it was that the kid reminded him of his younger brother. Those eyes, are they really the same? Am I just imagining it?

The kid was the loss and suffering in Peterson’s heart and, at the same time, was his dreams and hopes that he still, even in the midst of the pandemic, couldn’t let go of. The child was everything wrapped into one. And Sharon knew it.

Peterson again looked at her, and she avoided his eye contact, as before. She knew him better than he knew himself, and from the very start, with this kid, Peterson believed she had been reading his feelings.
 

A part of Peterson was so cold. Nothing would stand in this way of the mission. Another part, when confronted with a person in need, always seemed to act in a contrary way. He was conflicted, and this conflict lived deep in his soul.

“The more of us there are, the better chance of survival we will have,” said one of the civilians, a twin brother who Peterson noticed had been very compassionate to the others from the start.

“It’s not even a consideration,” the Mayor’s voice boomed. “The likelihood that they are still alive upstairs is slim anyway. And even if they are, those things will be all over the place! We barely got inside this shelter alive. I absolutely refuse to let this happen.” The Mayor’s wife, still rocking their daughter, spoke up, “My husband is right. We’re all safe now. Opening that door again is like opening Pandora’s box. We might all die, then. What good will that do them?”

Peterson conscious was growing on him. The Mayor was wrong, the twin kid was right. The more of them, the better chance of survival they will have. Also, the right people needed to be in charge. Maybe help would come later. Maybe there would be a miracle.
I promised myself that I would give them the best chance of survival
. Peterson thought of Doug, and got lost in his mind for a moment. I owe them at least that much.

The civilians broke out into an argument. Some agreed with the Mayor, others argued to help the others upstairs.

“But our supplies are limited!” came the voice of a teenage boy whose jacket was sprayed with dried blood. “They made up their minds. Let them face the consequences!”

A wave of agreement swept over a portion of the crowd.

“But they may still be alive upstairs, fighting against those things. We can’t leave them to be eaten alive by those monsters!” a high pitch, horrified voice came from an elderly woman.

Voices of agreement supported the elderly woman’s comment.

“Boss,” Armstrong said, about to give his opinion.

“Keep it to yourself,” Peterson said in a fierce tone. Their friendship was gone, and Peterson detested Armstrong’s disobedience.

“Commander?” came
Johhny
-Boy’s voice. “Request the liberty to speak, sir.”

“Permission granted, Johnny-Boy,” Peterson now favored Johnny-Boy.

“We haven’t heard any gunshots for the last ten minutes. That doesn’t bode well. However, if any of the cops or armed civilians are still alive, they will be an invaluable asset to the survival of these folks in the long run,” Johnny-Boy gave his thoughts in an even, professional tone.

“And how about you Sharon?” Peterson caught her attention.

She looked out upon the crowd of arguing civilians and noticed the elderly, the children, the sick and the weak. She looked at the kid. “We were able to handle those things pretty well getting down here, Commander. I agree, the more survivors, the better their chances. I’m game.”

An unearthly moan of agonizing pain rang out from somewhere in the crowd. It was Tag, lying on a hospital bed. Peterson felt a shot of guilt. He had been too busy to give him the decency and honor he deserved. Peterson walked through the crowd and over to Tag.

Tag’s face had pruned, and was a deathly pastel. The telltale signs of black circles surrounded his gaunt eyes. He appeared to be on the verge of death. . .and worse.

Peterson placed his hand on Tag’s arms, in a gesture of warmth and concern.

“She always liked you best,” Tag said, almost unable to speak through his pain.

“We didn’t get along Tag. I’m sorry for that. Perhaps we can put it behind us.”

Tag gave a dark, morbid laugh. “What do you want from me, Commander?”

“You’re voice, Tag. Do we try and rescue the folks who remained upstairs or not?” asked Peterson.

“Why the hell are you asking me?” Tag was on the verge of delirium. “I don’t want to turn into one of those things. You won’t let that happen, Commander. Please, don’t let that happen. When the time comes, you will do the right thing, won’t you Commander?”

“Yes,” Peterson said. He hadn’t thought about it, couldn’t. In the back of his mind he was praying that somehow Tag would still make it, even though he knew that was impossible.

In an eerie voice Tag spoke. “I only want to die once.”

Tag’s words gave Peterson the chills. “How do you want it done?” Peterson asked.

“Sharon,” Tag stated flatly. “I want her to do it. Promise me.”

“I promise,” Peterson looked Tag dead in the eyes. His word was solid. “You gave your last bit of strength to save these people, Tag. This is why I am asking you. I have decided that you have the final word.”

“Good,” responded Tag through his pain, teeth clenched. “Then I say save the damn civilians.”

With these final words, Tag lost consciousness. His eyes shut and his head rolled back.

Peterson turned and waved Sharon over.

The entire shadow team stood over Tag’s bed. Sharon stood at the foot of it, with her rifle at the ready. The civilians became absolutely silent. A pin drop could be heard. They watched on from behind.

Tag’s body twisted and his skin turned grey. Before their eyes, his faced seemed to slightly transform.

“Give him another shot of morphine,” snapped Sharon.

“It’s too late,” Washington said, amazed at what he was seeing. “He’s about to turn.”

A single tear fell from Sharon’s eye. She raised her rifle and pointed it at Tag.

Tag’s eyes popped opened. At first he seemed disoriented. Then he looked left, then right. Slowly, rigid, he sat up. It was unmistakable. He had died, and returned to life.

Sharon peered down the sight of her rifle, and with all her strength, she pulled the trigger.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Peterson couldn’t concentrate. The words of his fellow team members were muted in his head; he imagined, instead, the pain of the civilians, trapped upstairs. He couldn’t stop thinking about the boy, Doug, whose father was stubborn and had refused to follow them down. He kept flashing on the faces of all those unlucky civilians, protected only by those lame-
dick
cops. The cops deserved to go down. They wouldn’t listen to him.

But the civilians didn’t.

The civilians should have trusted him, not the cops. And most of them did; but some of them didn’t. They’d made a mistake. But they shouldn’t have to suffer for that with their lives.

Peterson had been trained to fight for people who couldn’t fight for themselves. It was in his blood. Now with his team behind him, he couldn’t allow himself to just sit down here, safe and sound, while those people up there were being mauled to death. He just couldn’t do it. Their faces shined brighter in his eyes, and the sound of their voices became almost deafening. He became furious with himself. He felt a familiar fire burning in his veins, and he knew that that only meant one thing: he’d have to venture up there and save their sorry asses.

“We’re going up,” he said and strode across the room. His team members followed behind, hurrying to catch up, and he saw determination in the faces.

“What are you talking about?” A civilian said.

“Commander, you can’t go up there!” came another voice.

“Peterson,” came Dr. Washington’s sharp voice, as he felt his hand dig into his arm. He pulled him hard, and he stopped him. His face was hard and cold. “It’s suicide. You know that. They had a choice. They didn’t want to follow us. You have a responsibility to these people down here. If you go up there, we might all die.” He leaned in closer, lowering his voice. “We can’t save everybody. We also have a responsibility to our mission. You were not authorized, Captain, to diverge on this mission to start with. Our success is more important than these people. It is more important than one thousand lives, even ten thousand. What is waiting for us in that lab may save millions.”

Peterson stared at Washington.
The logical damn prick may be right
, thought Peterson,
put my decision has been made.

“I’m with you,” Cash suddenly said. “I’m tired of sitting this basement. There’s no action. Let’s go off some more of these fuckers!” he said with a full-sized smile, and locked a fresh clip of ammo into his CAR 15 assault rifle.

“I’m with you, sir,” Johnny-Boy said again.

Johnny boy was pleasantly surprising Peterson. He been coming into his own all throughout the mission, and Peterson was amazed at how fast he was transforming from a rookie to a veteran soldier.

Peterson scanned all their faces, and saw them staring back with a mix of fear and anticipation. It was as if they were all staring death in the face.

He had to assert his command.

“We’re all going up,” he said, mustering his most authoritative voice. “It’s not a command. Those of you he want to stay behind,” Peterson looked at Armstrong, “go ahead and do so. If you follow, you will answer to me by the numbers.”

They all stared back, and nobody dared say a word.

“I’m not going,” Dr. Washington said. “I’m not a combatant. I don’t have to go. And I won’t.”

“Nobody invited you,” Peterson spat back. “You’re not part of my team.”

Washington retreated, meekly.

“There are civilians up there,” Peterson said, to the rest of his team. “If they are still alive. they won’t be for long. Whoever is alive, we will bring back. And then we will lock down this bunker for good.”

“What about the cops, sir?” Armstrong said. “They didn’t go along the first time. What if they get in our way now?”

“I’m betting that they failed, and that they’ll be in bad shape by now,” Peterson said. “They’ll probably see us as the second coming of Jesus. But if they don’t, and if they get in our way, we waste them.”

His team stared back in silence.

“But what about
us
? The people down here?” came a whiney, pleading voice.

Peterson turned and saw the Mayor standing there, now sweating and looking very nervous. He fought his best fight, and now he knows he has lost. “Like Dr. Washington said,” the Mayor continued, “you have responsibilities to all of us. You can’t just leave us alone down here. You have the firepower. And if you go up there, some of them might get in here. We need you down here. It’s—um—” he cleared his throat, “—very unfortunate that some of our town members might not survive up there. But we have to think of the others now.”

Peterson smirked at him. He hated politicians, always looking out for their own skin, and this guy was no exception.

“I’ve heard the people out Mayor, even though civilian law means nothing now. I gave you all that much. You can’t make up your minds, so I have made it up for you.”

Peterson turned to the growing crowd of civilians flocking around them, and addressed them directly, in a loud voice.

“I want the armed civilians watching our back as we exit this staircase. Some of you have rifles. You will provide suppressing fire, and secure the door behind us as we leave. When we return, we’ll bang three times. That’s our signal. You open it when we do. Wait at the top of the staircase. If we don’t come back within the hour, consider us dead. And then don’t open it for anything.”

“But you can’t bring the other people down here!” the Mayor yelled. “There’s not enough food and medicine for all of us!”

Peterson shot him a look of disgust.

“You are one pathetic human being,” he said, steely cold.

Peterson turned on his heel and marched across the room, heading for the staircase. He hoped to hear the sound of all his teams boots following him, hoped that all of them, even Armstrong, would be on his heels, and he hoped that the civilians would also be following, taking up their guns, ready to unbolt the door. But he couldn’t risk turning and looking. That would indicate a lack of confidence in his command. So he strutted, hoping they would follow.

They did. He could hear their boots right on his tail, and knew that this would work. As he headed up the steps, he could hear the boots heading up behind them, single file, along with the clicking of guns being prepared.

They opened and passed through the cast-iron door and then ascended the staircase. Reaching the top, he rested his shoulder against the final door, listening. Finally, he turned around and looked.

The staircase was already filled with his people, and civilians, ready to follow orders. That was one great thing about the shadow team: they might all disagree, but at the end of the day, they acted like soldiers. And like good soldiers, they would follow orders.

Peterson turned and looked the civilians in the eye. Good old Cowboy was along for the ride as usual, and so what the tough-ass biker Hatchet. He felt that they would be up to the task of fulfilling their duties.

“Don’t forget,” he reminded, “we open the door, you shoot anything that may get inside, and bolt it behind us. Can you handle that?”

“Yes sir,” they responded in unison.

Peterson turned and surveyed his team one last time. He felt good.

“Let’s cause some hell.”