Roger blew his breath out hard and nodded slowly. “Yay, babysitting.”
“Shut up. And you’d better get used to it because in a few months’ time you’ll be doing a lot more of it.”
“That’s different.”
“Just say ‘yes, dear’ and I’ll let you off the hook without breaking any of your bones.”
“Yes, dear.”
Dr. Kevin McAlester jerked awake, his head snapping from side to side. He collapsed back onto his narrow bed and grimaced at the cold sweat stain soaking his lower sheet.
Kicking his legs off the edge of the bed, he sat quietly and tried to recall the details of the nightmare that had just startled him from slumber. Thankfully, his mind couldn’t recall the details.
He slowly stood and instantly his eyes were drawn to where he just knew he had killed his neighbor. He extended his foot to where the puddle of blood should be and swiped side to side.
He actually giggled when his foot found nothing.
Kevin peeled the wet t-shirt from his body and dropped it into the laundry basket. He stepped into the bathroom and patted himself down with baby powder. He had just taken a shower the evening before. No sense in wasting water.
He quickly dressed then made his way to the mess decks. He could smell it well before he entered the dimly lit area. He grabbed a tray and moved up the line. He was surprised there were so few people around. He tried to glance at the clock on the wall, but he couldn’t find one.
“We were about to shut it all down, Doc. You’re lucky you caught us.”
“What time is it? Is this breakfast or…”
“Midrats.” The cook tapped his wrist. “It’s what we put out at midnight for the guys coming off watch who missed last meal. We leave it out for about an hour then shut her down. We left it a little longer tonight because some of the chopper crews just came back to load up on more of that goop you and your people brewed up to save the world.” The cook beamed a wide smile. “Word is that if this crap works right, we’ll be able to make port in a week or two.”
“That’s good, right?” Kevin asked as the cook loaded him up on bacon and sausage.
“Damn straight that’s good. We had to cook this stuff up before it went bad.” He lowered his voice and leaned toward Kevin. “Believe it or not, even with the end of the world all around us, they still expect us to follow the ‘serve by’ dates on the frozen meats.” He shook his head in disgust. “This stuff lasts years if you keep it frozen. Instead, we have to hurry up and use it all.”
Kevin’s eyes narrowed. “What do we do once it’s gone?”
The cook shrugged. “Move on to the canned stuff. That’s when you’ll see all of the creamed mystery meats and casseroles.” His face twisted. “It’s not terrible if you toss enough salt on it, but we’re even running low on that.”
Kevin sighed and pulled his tray back. “Well, at least we have this.”
“For now.” The cook winked at him. “Hopefully we’ll get resupplied long before we have to worry about breaking out the tins.”
Kevin poured a large cup of coffee and sat an empty table. The TV mounted to the wall in front of him replayed one of the many videos kept onboard for entertainment. “The Sound of Music?” He popped a chunk of bacon into his mouth before he sporked a mouthful of powdered eggs.
He slowly chewed and watched the old film, his mind wandering to Broussard and Chaplain. Why would they abandon ship when they were about to be heralded as national heroes? Hell, WORLD heroes.
He leaned back, the powdered eggs destroying any chance of enjoying the bacon or sausage, and slowly pulled the crust from a dry piece of toast. “I don’t get it.” He popped the piece of crust into his mouth and chewed. “It makes no sense that they’d just run off.”
He glanced at the TV again then toward the cook, who was carrying the stainless steel pans from the steam table back into the kitchen. He tried to imagine a wild scenario that would call for the pair to abandon their work right before it paid off.
He paused as his mind began to stitch together a tapestry that he really didn’t like.
“It doesn’t work.” He felt himself go pale. “Oh my god. They know that the cure is phony and they baled before they could be found out.”
Kevin felt a mix of emotions rip through him. Part of him was elated that the dynamic duo screwed the pooch, but an even bigger part of him cringed at the idea of the cure failing. He glanced back at where the cook had disappeared through the door and groaned. “So many people have such high hopes hung on this.”
He fought the urge to scream, to throw up, to slide his tray into the floor as hard as he could. He took a deep, cleansing breath and let it out slowly.
When the idea hit him that he could maybe fix their screw up, it was like somebody had punched the air from his lungs. Nervous excitement coursed through his appendages and he felt his hands begin to shake.
“Come on McAlester. It’s up to you now.” He pulled the tray closer and scooped a handful of the bacon onto the toast. He crammed a sausage patty on top of the mess then pressed it down hard with another piece of toast.
He left his tray where it was and carried the sandwich and his coffee to the lab. He pushed the door open with his foot and stared into the brightly lit workspace.
“Time to make a name for yourself.”
Simon searched the store and finally found a hand-powered can opener. He spent the better part of the early evening hours opening cans of food for his troops.
He spoke to a handful of
