John wandered through the camp. Many areas were still being set up, some were already occupied. The largest tent was the mess hall, and was always easy to find. Committing to a promotion, and possibly another six months, left him confused, bereft, and hungry.
“Hey, Seth, can I get a sandwich or something?” John asked. The cook was still lining up the huge kettles he used to make the mass meals.
“Sure. May I ask you what the hell did you do or say to that Haley girl?” Seth pulled a loaf of wheat bread out of the metal trash can he used to protect the scarce baked goods.
“Why? What trouble is she causing now?” John asked while the man assembled an extra thick sandwich of meat, cheese, a rare piece of lettuce, and an even rarer slice of tomato.
“No trouble. In fact she’s been wandering around trying to find things to do to help. I even overheard her apologizing to Maryanne for disrupting the bus this morning,” Seth replied.
“Huh,” was all John said, and walked back to his camper smiling.
***
“May I ask why you chose Sam over Kevin as your shotgun for this?” Hank asked when John returned an hour later. “You usually buddy-up with Kevin.”
“Kevin is a good guy, don’t get me wrong, and I’ve been trying to give him some experience, but he constantly asks questions instead of just doing what he’s told. Sam, on the other hand, follows orders and even improvises, and that’s who I need with me for this.”.
“Okay. So there’s no trouble with the crew, I’m going to send Kevin on one of the buses as security, before you leave.” Hank leaned back in his chair. “It’s already come down the grapevine that Haley Hanson wants to stay on as a volunteer. Do you have a problem with that?”
“Nope. If she does what she’s told I think she could be a good worker. Why do you ask?”
“Because she’s already asked to be assigned to your team whenever possible.”
John rolled his eyes.
***
John and Sam sat in Hank’s office going over the maps and what little information there was about the FEMA outpost that was located five miles outside of Tallahassee, a hundred miles away.
“I still say we’re better off taking one of the smaller vehicles,” John insisted. “We’ll get there quicker and if there are no problems, we get back quicker with no need to stay overnight. If there is a problem we can help with, they can put us up. Either way, one of the pickups looks more official than my motorhome.”
“Good point. When do you leave?”
“As soon as the buses are gone.”
Sam and John stopped at the mess tent for a day’s worth of provisions and loaded them into the pickup, along with a case of bottled water and their sleeping bags.
“I sure appreciate you asking for me to ride shotgun, John. Even if this turns out to be nothing, the trip will break up the monotony,” Sam said.
“Just remember there’s a reason it’s called the shotgun seat. I’ll drive while you keep watch and have that shotgun ready at all times. I don’t like surprises.” John liked the widespread efficiency of a shotgun, but wished they had a more substantial weapon at their disposal. He saw the buses going north to Valdosta, and put the truck in gear and headed west on US-10.
***
“Do you see that?” Sam said, watching out the side window. John slowed the blue and white truck and took the side road to the orchard, parking down a well-worn road that separated two types of fruit trees.
“Now that’s something you don’t see very often, pears and oranges ripening at the same time,” Sam observed. They wandered between the rows of trees that hadn’t been pruned or cared for in too long. Most of the fruit lay on the ground, rotting. A south wind mingled the scent of the now close salty ocean and the cloying stench of rotting fruit.
“That’s not common?” John asked, easily plucking a pear from the tree. It was overripe, soft and juicy when he bit into it.
“No it isn’t. Pears ripen in September and October, and it’s now late December, perfect for oranges.”
“Perhaps it’s because of the ash cloud cooling effect,” John suggested. He dropped the pear core and picked up an orange, peeling back the partially green rind, exposing a juicy interior. The juice dripped down his chin as he savored the flavor. “I miss oranges more than I miss apples or bananas.” He filled his shirt and pockets with the juicy fruit.
“John, we can come back.” Living in Florida all his life and understanding the fruit cycles, Sam snickered at John’s excitement. “In fact, maybe we can find some containers to take some of this back with us.”
“You’re right, let’s get back on the road. We can’t be too far from the outpost.” John peeled another orange.
***
John slowed the truck when the tent city came into view. It was quiet, too quiet. Even with the heat of the day, there should have been some activity. John stopped at the Red Cross tent and got out. The canvas flap that served as a door waved quietly in the breeze and sent a waft of putrid air in their direction.
“If this were a bad movie we should be seeing zombies lumbering out of the tent soon,” Sam joked.
“This ain’t no zombie movie. Wait here,” John said, taking a deep breath before entering the tent. He pulled his t-shirt up to cover his nose and mouth, thinking he’d rather smell his own sweat and fear than what was concealed inside. On all the desks inside the doorway were boxes of surgical gloves and faces masks. Something definitely felt wrong and he scanned the room quickly.
The chair for the desk was pushed askew by the body half in, half out of the seat, frozen in mortification. Dried blood crusted the lower half of the swollen face and flies buzzed everywhere. He took the boxes of masks and gloves and rejoined Sam outside.
“Here, put these on. Double gloves and pinch the nose of the mask snug against your face,” John said. Sam did as John said without question. “Can you do this, Sam? It’s really bad in there.”
The younger man produced two sticks of gum from his pocket and handed one to John. “It might help.”
They stepped inside the tent.