“Ah, yah know how ’tis, Joe. I’m livin’ the dream!” Joe could hear him laugh at his own joke before releasing his push-to-talk button.
“You be careful. Those zombies are attracted to sound. And from what I can tell, they seem to be coordinated somehow.” Joe feared that the zombies would discover Phil.
And that would be the end of that. He thought grimly.
“Yessir!” came the perky reply. “I’m bein’ ‘bout as careful as I can be, Joe. Don’t cha worry about that!”
“Yeah, I know. It’s just that you’re out there on your own. You got no support.”
“Huh. Hey, I like ya, Joe — but I just don’t swing that way, if ya know what I mean.”
Even Joe had to laugh at that. Phil was a good, old redneck country bumpkin. But this particular country bumpkin had one hell of a spirit and sense of humor. It did make Joe wonder, though.
How he would react, if he found out that I am black...
“Hey Phil?”
“Yeah, Joe?
“I’m an African American.” He left that hanging and waited anxiously for Phil’s reply.
“Yeah, that is what they call us these days, ’aint it.”
Joe stared at the radio. His jaw literally would have hit the floor if it wasn’t attached. “You mean, you’re black?”
“Yep! Last time I checked, anyway,” Phil replied. They shared a good laugh at that.
The call ended shortly after.
Joe left the window with a small smile and a shake of the head. That Phil was quite the character. He sat back down at the radio.
OK, time to start all over and scan all frequencies.
He was nuts for doing it, but he simply couldn’t help himself. He would continue to scan every evening if he had to. It was the one responsibility that he felt he could take on without anybody judging him. But he also felt that it was important. There had to be a bunch of people out there still. People who could help them, or people they could help.
Joe stared at the radio in front of him, lost in thought.
Joe, you’re a coward. Face it. It took the people at this place less than a week to see through you. Rachel is slipping... but you won’t tell anybody or ask for help.
Joe sighed. What am I supposed to do?
He thought about what he would say. ‘Hey guys, guess what? Rachel has schizophrenia and will likely go into full psychosis soon, unless we get her some meds. So, who is up for a little road trip out into the zombie-infected world? Who is up to stick their necks out for my oh-so-popular wife? We could get slaughtered and we might still not be able to find her meds, but it should be fun!’”
He sighed again. It was more likely that his family would get run off. No, better not let anybody know the truth about Rachel or we’ll be banished from this place for sure.
But how was he going to get her the meds she needed? The stuff available at the clinic downstairs barely scratched the surface. He’d been administering a mix of medications to his wife for several days now, but they were inadequate for Rachel’s condition. They just kept her sedated, really. And the meds would run out soon, the way he was going through them.
What if I get caught?
He imagined Shelley discovering the dwindling supply of meds. How would she react? How would the rest of the inhabitants of the school react? Joe was sure that several folks would love to kick his ass out.
He frowned in distaste as he considered that and shook his head. Damn it. Why do I have to be such a pompous ass all the time?
A solution had not come to him yet. At least no solution that didn’t require him to leave the safety of the school on a harebrained expedition. He wasn’t unwilling to stick his neck out for his wife. That wasn’t the problem. The problem was that he stood little chance of success on his own out there, and he knew it.
He needed help.
Joe sighed deeply and started scanning the radio frequencies. It was one of the things he could control.
“CQ, CQ, CQ. Romeo Echo November One. Read, over.” The statement had become a mantra for Joe. He could say it in his sleep.
I probably do, Joe figured.
He got lazy and resorted to just sending pulses on each frequency instead. Almost immediately, he got a hit.
“Unknown caller, identify yourself, over.” Joe looked at the speaker as if it had burst into flame.
“Unknown caller, identify yourself, over.” The call came again. Joe scrambled to respond.
“Yes! I receive you! ... This is Romeo Echo November, over.”
A short pause on the other end.
“Romeo Echo November, I read you five-by-five. Am I correct in assuming that you are not military? Over.”
“Uh, yes. We are not military. We are a group of mostly civilians. Over.”
“Thank you, Romeo Echo November. You are speaking with Private Molson of the United States Army. I am here with a group of army personnel. We are operating under call-sign Sierra November Kilo, over.”
“Oh, Mr. Molson. ... Er, Private Molson! I am so glad to hear your voice! I—We can use some help. Over.”
“Yes, sir. We are here to help. You can call me Brian. Can you tell me your name and your location? Over.”
Joe didn’t even think twice before he answered.
“My name is Joe. Joe Collins. We are at The Renaissance School for Gifted Children. It was a supply dump last manned by a soldier named Matheson.” He scrambled briefly with some papers. “Here, I have the coordinates. Over”
“Go ahead, Joe. Over.”
“Brian, how many of you are left? Over,” Joe asked after having shared the coordinates.
“Joe, let me ask you first: How many people do you have at this school? Over.”
“We just call it the Ren, Brian. And there are nineteen of us here. Over.”
“Sounds good, Joe. We’re happy to hear that there are so many of you. Let me assure you that we have enough soldiers
