The Scent

Memorial Hospital, Stock Island

“It’s the driver.”

“The Uber douche-bag, Max?”

“Shit.”

Kris Stratton took the binoculars from Dean Hamilton. Sure enough... couldn’t miss the dreadlocks. It was Max, driving some sort of tricked out white van. Three choppers hammered overhead, sending the triage tents angrily flapping. There was no question that this was whatever remained of the convoy.

Three of the guards frantically waved for it to stop while they unchained two sections of overlapping fence and made an opening.

Kris looked down at her ankles where Keebs had stopped barking at the air and now looked back, tongue out. “Okay, girl, I think you’re about to go to work.”

Below Memorial’s rooftop and the little blonde girl that peered down over its edge, a door opened on the monster shuttle van, and three bodies fell out like overstuffed luggage. Each struggled to his or her feet.

Then he got out.

Asshole.

More accurately, he emerged, blood all over his head and upper torso, stepping evenly, cradling a boy with a knife sticking out of his stomach.

“Dean, go get your daughters.” Kris then smiled gravely at her dog. “C’mon Keebs.”

She ran for the staircase with Keebs toddling along right behind her.

What the hell?

The Corvette was probably a flaming ruin. That figured. Most things—people included—that went out with Cas tended to come back either broken or just plain dead. But what were they doing with Max? Max was freelance and had shown up at their gate more than once. They’d even considered using him, since he was one of the few operators that could still move on the streets, but nothing with Max was simple. Even as they waded through blood and bodies to save who they could, Kris half expected to see Max’s right hand stretched out, waiting for a tip.

It was just hard to feel comfortable giving an operation to someone who thought he was a famous rapper, and who apparently had a room hidden someplace where he tromped through a big brush pile of paper money like some sort of latter day Scrooge McDuck. What else could he be doing with it?

Third floor was a hive. “Maddy, Maddy, go find Pearsall and tell him we’re going to need the bandages from the laundry.”

“Where’s Dempsey?”

“He may already be downstairs. Check the tents.”

“Ms. Stratton....”

Kris stopped in front of Beth Ann Lonneker’s door.

The old crone stood in the entryway, buttoning a collar with tiny, precise movements. “I assume from all this ruckus that our guests have arrived.” Beth Ann had a room all to herself, since no one wanted to tolerate her company. This gave her plenty of space for the little shrine she’d made to her late husband after he died a hero, taking bullet after bullet in the Sears, and after she’d grudgingly admitted that maybe he hadn’t been so bad after all.

“I need to go, Mrs. Lonneker,” said Kris, and picked up Keebs before the dog could go after her ankles. Keebs fixed Kris with her big, trusting eyes, a look that surely said, you know you want me to. As she continued back to the stairwell, Kris said, “It looks like they’ve got a bunch of injured. You might check with my mom and see if she needs some help with dinner prep.”

Or you might jump off a fucking cliff, you nasty old hag.

Outside, she found Cas yelling mindlessly to the medical staff.

What a meathead!

A few minutes later, she was back inside with the first of the patients, now in a room in the ER.

She stopped taking mental notes for all the things they were going to need when she saw Dr. Hutchins.

Ruth stood outside the ER room, looking in. Her face said she was hopelessly lost.

“What?”

She told her.

“Yeah, Reagan was going on about this. Okay... um... okay.”

“This isn’t something I trained for.”

“No. No.” Kris held up her hand. “Hold on. I’ve got, like, five things going at once. I just need to think.”

“They’re just going to have to understand that this probably won’t work.”

“Wait... wait.... What if I get one of the phones, and get somebody on the other line to walk you through it?”

Just then, Dr. McCaffrey entered next to a gurney and the boy with the knife in his stomach.

Kris could now see it was one of the Sri’s scouts.

“You can’t take the knife out,” he said. “Not yet. Trust me. I’ve done this. We need everything ready when it comes out, because we’ll only have seconds to get the sutures in place.” He tore off his jacket. “Can someone at least find me a set of scrubs? It’s like the God-damned Middle Ages in here.”

Kris fought for his attention.

“The main thing is blood. We need enough to get him stable.” Now in another of the ER rooms, he finally looked at her. “What?”

“Your phone. I need your phone.”

“Thorpe has it.”

Kris left the ER with her dog, as Fenton and his nurses scrambled with carts, and another of Sri’s scouts insisted that he could give blood.

In the courtyard, Derrick Adisa ran up, breathless.

“Dee, we’re going to need an outside op. On the fly.”

Derrick’s face dropped. “Are you kidding me? Did you hear what just happened out there?”

“What?”

“It wasn’t just two or three. It was all of them—every single one. Cops got wiped out. Reagan and some of Sri’s people went in and got cut all to shit too.”

“He seems okay.”

“Reagan?” he said with a sharp laugh. “Yeah, he’ll live.”

“Fine. Get him to go with you. No... wait... have Ricky tell him that you’re going out. He’ll come along if it’s from Ricky. Trust me.”

“Where’s Rick?”

“Probably with Reagan. If not, he might be in the tents with the other stripers.”

Derrick’s face scrunched. “Where we going?”

“They came with that Max guy, so we’re going to need cash. I’ve got an idea. Terry Miller is down in the cave rigging power to the ER. Find him and tell him we need his tools. He’s always talking about going on an op. He’ll go. Get down to the bank south of the highway. He should be able to cut his way in.”

“Bank vault? No way.”

“Not the vault, but maybe a couple of the cash drawers.”

Derrick considered, and shook his head. “If that crazy fucker needs Benjamins so bad, I don’t know why he doesn’t just hit a couple banks himself. Nobody else wants it.”

“No shit. At least he works cheap. If he decides to barter with us instead, we’re probably screwed.”

“You gonna need anything else?”

“Maybe. You know what Ruth is working on?”

“Yeah. Crazy damn world.”

“I’m going to get one of their phones and try and put her through to the mainland. We may have some stuff we need connected to that. Just check with me before you guys leave.”

Derrick left to get his gear.

He was cute and, unlike Asshole, could be really sweet when he wanted to, but if he thinks I’m going to go black like some God-damned Kardashian, then he’s in for a disappointment. Why was it always the ones she could never love that had a thing for her? But then, she knew that her prospects might be very different when this was all over. Who in the real world would want a girl with a ruined face?

Kris started for the nearest tent, and picked up her dog before walking past the McCullough brothers’ campsite and their two bulldogs, Odey and General Patton. The dogs were on leashes, but that hadn’t stopped them from chewing up bedding, clothes, and all sorts of non-metal equipment throughout the yard. She stroked Keeb’s soft hair while entering the medical tent. Not all the cops had died. She could see the captain, shell-shocked, getting treatment on one of the beds.

She had met Captain Nelson three times. The first time, he’d struck her as one of those fancy parade soldiers in the movies whose uniform was always clean and pressed, but who drove his men—the ones who actually did the dirty work—ten different kinds of crazy. But last two times, over the past few weeks, he seemed different, like an electric razor that was wearing out, and all the little parts and attachments were starting to break and you knew you were going to have to replace it pretty soon.

Weak.

She could see her mother in the next tent, with some of the other extras, fiddling with a group of newcomers. Her mother carried a water jug and methodically worked her way to the edge, occasionally looking up at something by the big palm tree on the grass. Kris followed her eyes and saw him, Asshole, under one of the shower buckets, a bunch of kids nervously standing close by.

Kris’s eyes narrowed and she thought fiercely, God, they better not be.... That would just be perfect. How typical. Get back to the real world, do a few interviews, maybe daytime television.

She would need something to go with her knew... look. Not so bright, like most of her wardrobe now, but solids, browns and grays, like something from the Vicki Lemou fall collection. It would need to be something tragic-looking.

There I’ll be, looking like a true survivor, and the host will stare right at me and say, “Kris, have you seen the Youtube video of your ex-boyfriend making out with your mother?”

That would be the ultimate disaster!

Still, how likely was it? Nobody had ever caught them doing anything. Maybe it was all in her head. Cas was weird, probably a perv, but a MILF perv? Likely. He sure was protective of her. If he got her shot in the face, he’d never get over it.

Asshole.

Her mother was all like, he’s the son I could never have, whenever she was around him, and always biting her nails when he went outside the wall.

They better not be.

Cas would tease her to death, probably joke about making her call him Daddy.

Kris shook herself out of the nightmare as Keebs thrashed in her arms, the dog’s big, soft, hind feet working their way out of Kris’s arms.

Vera the Child Bride was sitting on the same cot with her husband, making him drink small sips out of a plastic cup.

How adorable.

A big bullet-proof vest leaned against the edge of the cot, and Karas Hamilton fingered at a series of holes in the fabric.

Vera almost spilled water all over her husband when she saw the dog. “Cleo.”

Keebs jumped onto the bed, and Vera wrapped the dog in her arms. Her husband just stared. He had one of those faces, as if he were about to cry or scream, or maybe even laugh hysterically, and you never knew from the face which way he was leaning. Still, he was sort of tough-boy cute, and maybe he was a catch for someone like Vera. But at that age? Only like one-in-something ever made it. And tied down before you even hit twenty?

Stupid.

“Hey, you two, you both look okay. They’re working on your friend right now.”

“Billy?”

“Yeah. I’ve got to run, but I’ll swing back by in a few and see if we can do anything while you guys are here.”

“You can’t,” said Stoneface, not angrily, or even bitter, just as a statement of fact.

Bet he’s a real charmer when you’re trying to share your feelings.

“Take Keebs,” said Vera, and handed Kris’s dog back to her. “Take her to him,” she said. The girl had this Dr. Doolittle thing she did with animals, a kind of silly, “What’s that, girl? Little Billy fell down the well?” ESP.

It got on Kris’s nerves, but at least she and Vera understood each other. Kris knew immediately who she was talking about. She wondered if maybe that meant that she had a connection with animals too. Maybe it was just with Keebs.

The not-a-Doctor Thorpe sat up in a cot, with no one around him, gritting his teeth like an angry animal. He looked like an old west gunslinger with his teeth grinding together. His leg was a mess. He had the phone, and in between wincing, he would talk to whoever was on the other end.

“Do you want something for the pain?” Kris asked.

“That’d be nice,” he said through a closed gate of bicuspids, running the words all together. “What you got?”

“There’s some liquor bottles on the cart in the other tent. You probably want whiskey or something.”

“Not too picky right now.”

She came back with a bottle of Wild Turkey. “I’ll trade you for the phone.”

He looked a question.

She explained what she wanted to do with it. McCaffrey had given it to him because the battery had died on his while they were fighting, and he needed to update the command center. She thought maybe she would sound crazy, or he would be mad at the interruption. She thought he would tell her to get out of his face, and that he had important Army stuff to talk about, but....

He handed her the phone.

When she talked to the people he’d been talking to, and told them the situation, they made it sound crazy, but they eventually transferred her once, and then again, and then finally to someone like her who could make things happen.

She walked briskly back to the ER room. “It’s some lady in Denver who’s supposed to be an expert,” she said, and handed the phone to a grateful Dr. Hutchins.

When she went back outside, she saw Artis engaged in an animated conversation with Max the driver. At first she thought they were arguing with each other, which only made sense, since Artis argued with everyone. When she got closer, she realized that, in fact, the both of them were instead arguing with some invisible third party that only they could see, while Max wrote on a pad of paper. She’d been through this before, and knew it would be his itemized list of expenses.

Nutcase.

“It’s stupid,” Max said.

Artis nodded. “I know.”

“It’s crazy.”

“No shit.”

“How you know it’s gonna stay dead?” Max preached in the general direction of the tents. “Nothin’ else about it makes any sense.”

Artis huffed. “You watch. They’re going to take it back with them and leave it in a morgue somewhere, and it’s going to sit up in the middle of the fucking night and start killing people.”

“What have I missed?” said Kris.

Keebs seemed to look in all directions, as if smelling something that she didn’t understand. Kris held her close.

Max stormed around the back of his van and pointed to the ground. “That.”

Kris walked up to the plastic tarp wound up like a roll of carpet. When she realized that it was a body, she bit back her gag reflex, determined to never let them see her as soft.

Never again.

“Meet the late Mr. Gray,” Artis said.

She shot a look at him. “We got one?”

“One? They got six of them.”

For a moment, she only stared and considered the implications. Then she looked again at the body in the tarp. Mr. Gray... the one who would never let anyone see his face. She couldn’t make out any features under all the plastic. “You’re sure? They’re sure?”

“We’re sure.” Cas walked up, his shirt over a shoulder like a used towel.

Shirtless. Always shirtless. Any opportunity and off it comes. Asshole.

“This is... this is huge.”

Cas shook his head. “Not really.”

Her face crinkled. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“One of them was a new one. The one in the Republic convoy got away during the fight. She’s full-blown. The dragon is still out there, and he’s still got at least four others. If we get the weapons as promised, if we can find him.... But who knows when that’s going to happen? I’m thinking we still have at least one more bloodbath ahead of us.”

“So?” she said. “They can die. Six at once. You don’t think that’s a good sign? I mean, how did we get these?”

He told her—the ones that he knew—slow and deliberate, including Mr. Gray. He wanted to see her tear up, or maybe get sick. She knew, and she would not give him the satisfaction. She set her chin and flexed every muscle in her face that she could find, holding everything steady.

Artis laughed hard. “Sliced his dick open. Holy shit!” Then he considered. “Hey, wait... how many got exposed?”

Reagan shrugged. “Five I know of off the bat. I’ll get a hard count from one of the Republic guys later. Might be as many as ten. No way that girl isn’t infected.”

Great. Just great.

Where were they going to isolate ten different people at the same time? They were going to have to use the outbuildings. The others would hate it, but that was reality. Kris hadn’t even gone inside the building since the day after Nurse Ambrose had killed each of the nine remaining patients in the middle of the night. They avoided it as if it were haunted. Maybe it was, but they needed the space.

Ten separate isolation units.... Jesus.

She took the driver Max’s itemized list with her when she went back inside the main building. Cas could prance around half naked and live out his little action hero fantasy all he wanted, but she knew the truth. No one trusted him anymore—not to lead. Every time he went out, he always barked at the others not to use their remaining bullets, to save everything for the worst of the worst.

Worst of the worst. Like it could get any worse.

Would the Sears fiasco even have happened if they hadn’t taken his advice and spread out all over the place in housewares? They might let him wrestle with all the infected he wanted, but they would never put him in charge again.

Cas couldn’t plan a weekend on a lake boat.

She looked over the list: twenty bucks per passenger, eighteen total, one-eighty for interior blood removal, eleven dollars for a....

A five-hour wax coat? Two hundred for exposure to ‘wack-ass disease’?

He’d even hyphenated wack-ass.

I’m trapped on a bizarro island with a bunch of maniacs.

When all the plans were made for the rest of the day, Kris sat outside the ER room where Dr. Ruth performed the surgery. When she was done, Kris brought Keebs into the room. For a while, Kris thought the patient would not regain consciousness, and that Vera the Child Bride was just an idiot.

But eventually it happened. The patient lifted its head and saw that Keebs was now resting by its stomach, and Kris knew: he was going to be all right.

That night, she returned to the roof after Sandra Wainscott told her she had to see the water for herself. Sandy was right; it was beautiful.

Whatever not-a-Doctor Thorpe had told them, they’d hit the Armstead Confine with missiles earlier in the evening. They now had over a dozen little boats driving the surrounding waters, setting all sorts of floating debris on fire. In the north channel alone, she could see two separate streams of flame streaking out from gunships, and fires on the water’s surface burned in all sorts of shapes and sizes.

It would all be over soon. The Army would give them guns, and they now had their secret weapon.

It was going to heal. It was going to live.

No thanks to Asshole.

No, it was due to the fact that when Cas had first started yelling at everyone with what sounded like a lot of nonsense to a group of people who—let’s just face it—were all just collectively tired of his bullshit, Kris had managed to take his ravings and turn them into a coherent plan. Again.

The dog. Maximus. Save the dog.

When Ruth Hutchins had finished with the veterinarian in Denver, and Maximus, splinted and bandaged, had looked up at Keebs, and Keebs had looked back with that look that certainly must have meant, it’s going to be okay, me and Kris have you now, then she knew they had won.

Because, as Kris learned later, when the girl came to check on her friend with the knife wound, Vera the Child Bride had seen something that had changed it all. She had seen the way that the dog had growled at the Twos. Then she had seen it growl like that when anotherone—which they had not seen before—approached.

Maximus could recognize them, and Maximus was a trained tracker.

Now, when she and Keebs and the doctors got Maximus back on his feet, they were going to find The Dragon and the rest of his little band, and they were going to end this. There was no hiding anymore.

Maximus had the scent.