Of course they took Naked. They took anything that would be of use to them and Naked was the most useful tool here; she can warn the soldiers of danger long before they can perceive it.
I knew something was missing, but I didn’t have time to dwell on it. There were doors to lock and food to find. Food I found, but water…
Water was kind of here and there. Nemesis and I started to throw the half-drunk bottles of water we found-under cots, on desks, behind chairs, into one of those laundry carts on wheels. My brain squirmed at the Ewww-factor of all the germs and backwash that must be swimming around in those bottles, but three days without it and we won’t care what state the water’s in so long as it doesn’t have parasites. We did find a dusty pallet of unused bottles at the back of the walk-in fridge, but it’s almost a year out of date. “How many people do you think we have left here?” I asked Nemesis.
“Not sure until we start counting, but I’d say about a hundred.”
“And how long do you think we’ll last on this?” I pointed at the laundry cart about two-thirds full of half-empty water bottles.
“If we restrict ourselves to four gulps a day, I’d say about two weeks.”
“What about the punch and drinks from the banquet?” I asked hopefully.
“You mean the drugged stuff? Hard to defend yourself when you’re fast asleep.”
“Being asleep doesn’t sound half bad to me right now,” I mumbled. “I’d rather not be aware of how screwed we are.”
Nemesis sighed and looked thoughtfully into the distance. There’s no real answer to this.
We trundled the laundry cart back to Mom and gave her the bad news right before Jesse’s hysterical sobbing took her attention away. I looked around and saw a smorgasbord of expressions. Some looked ready to give up right then and there, the lack of water confirming their fate. Some looked at the nearly full laundry cart with hope, probably because they can’t match how many there are of us to how much water we need to survive. Some of the drifters looked a bit bored, like, “What’s the worry? Someone will come along and take care of us.” The ones that scare me the most are Andrew and his new band of misfits. Andrew’s the one who keeps challenging Mom, which shouldn’t surprise me considering how he behaved towards teachers back when we went to school together. If I had a bit of time I could have warned Mom about him. He now watches her every move with narrowed eyes. I plan to tell Mom all about Andrew when I get the chance because this kid will not back down no matter how much logic you throw at him. When he’s not monitoring my mother he’s staring with hooded eyes at the water, poised to make a grab for the laundry cart and fight anyone who gets in his way. His look displays distrust, like he doesn’t believe a word my Mom is saying. He’s more paranoid than Puddles and Doom, in an, “everyone is out to get me” way.
Come to think of it, where is Puddles?
Little snakes of suspicion start to weave their way through my thoughts as I make the connections between Puddles and those chosen by the General to go with him. I understand why the soldiers left most of these people behind: they’d hold them back, they’d be a drain on their supplies, and they’d be a threat to others with their careless nature and constant whining. They’re the kind of people who need to come with a warning label that reads “Bottomless pit of wants and needs.” The only thing they’d be good for was zombie-fodder. I bet they could even screw up being bait. They’re so dumb they’re dangerous, like that stupid wiener dog in the trailer park on America’s Funniest Videos, the one who retrieved the Roman candle firework and ran it back to the owners, setting things on fire all over the place.
So yeah, I understand why they left the drifters behind. And I understand why they left the ones like Andrew. His type are stubborn, thickheaded, and have minds like a steel traps—they’re constantly closed. They can’t see outside of their own skull and only focus on themselves. They don’t care who gets hurt as long as they get their way. They’re not even entertaining as an evil genius; they can do the evil, just not the genius. The soldiers would have had to constantly watch their backs with these guys, and they’ll already have their hands full fighting off the Infected.
But why us? And by us, I mean the Dumb Luck Club and my Mom and Sarah and Mr. Cromwell. We were at the top of the survival class! We’ve got the skills that can help keep the group alive! They wouldn’t have to worry about us staging a mutiny, and we’re good at doing without life’s little luxuries. At the very least we’d make decent lookouts. So why leave us and take Puddles? He contributed almost nothing to our group, and after Houston told me about his rant in that Survivor Class I missed, he seemed mentally disturbed. Yet the one thing I got from Puddles’s story, even a secondhand telling of it, is that he refrains from forming emotional attachments in favor of doing whatever it takes to survive. Maybe that included ratting out potential traitors in exchange for safe passage to the next port of calm.
Listen to me; I’ve been reading Ghost’s book so much, I’m starting to talk like him in my head.
I don’t know who to feel more sorry for—the soldiers or Puddles. Neither will tolerate the other for long. Either Puddles is ruthless and clever enough to outsmart the soldiers and make off with enough supplies to get by, or the soldiers will use his useless lardbutt as zombie bait.
Considering how much he’s betrayed us, I’m for the latter.