"I don't like this government," Ace said.
The passengers looked at Ace, a skinny man in a leatherjacket, dark sunglasses covering his eyes, and his arm draped over an electricguitar. He had been quiet for the whole ride, so when he spoke they listened.Even Slutty Rivets and Spider in the front of the vehicle stopped theirchattering.
"I think this man is right," Ace continued,pointing at the bearded man. "But I also think the time for talk is gone.Now, today, we need actions. Who are they protecting in this Coliseum?You?" Ace pointed at the man with the gray beard.
"Nah, man," he replied.
"You?" Ace pointed at Pudge.
"Do I look protected?"
"So who are they protecting? They didn't protect me.When you were hiding, trapped inside, they didn't protect you. They protectthemselves. They have the way to stop all of this, but they are not usingit."
Ace let his words sink into his passengers' brains,planting more roots, creeping, crawling roots.
"They hide in this place, this Coliseum, waiting forus to die."
The passengers' faces were angry now. The roots wereswelling in their brains, pushing logic to the side, cracking reality, andcasting Ace in a new light.
"I say it's time to take it back. If they won'tprotect us, then we must protect ourselves."
"Right on," the gray-bearded man yelled. Othersjoined in, echoing his sentiment.
Pudge straightened his glasses and looked up at Ace, whowas now standing, fever hanging on his lips. "How do we do that?"
"If they want refugees, then we will bring themrefugees." Ace looked down at his guitar and smiled. "We're going toput on a little concert. It's the last show on earth, boys and girls. Andyou're all invited."
Chapter 23: Droppin' Like Flies
The Annies were drawn by the helicopters. McCutcheon knewthat. The Annies did not sleep. McCutcheon knew that. The Annies wanted to eatlive flesh. McCutcheon knew that as well. What McCutcheon didn't know was thatthe Annies could have such a demoralizing effect on soldiers that had beenhardened by years of service overseas.
These were men that had seen and done things that mostcivilians could only begin to imagine. Yet, within the last four hours, he hadreceived note of several suicides, a major outbreak in the base, and one noticeof an entire chopper crew going AWOL, in addition to the ones that they hadlost earlier in the day.
McCutcheon could understand the chopper crew. They hadthe means, they had the chance, and they were now gone, and there was no way toget them back. He envied them. If he could get away with it, he would probablytry to make his way back to Colorado and find his wife and daughter.
What he couldn't understand were the men and women whokilled themselves in their bunks. They found one man hanging from a pipe in thebathrooms, his legs jittering and kicking as if he were alive. He wasn't though,as the two men had found out when they attempted to cut him down. You couldn'tblame them for trying to save him. It was an unfortunate situation, but thereality was that one man's selfish act had led to a mass panic resulting in thedeath of a couple hundred soldiers.
After they had dispatched the suicidal soldier and allthe victims of the outbreak, McCutcheon had to deal with an even worse problem.Two soldiers had been bitten during the outbreak, and he had them quarantined.He gave them one hour to get their affairs in order while a soldier stood guardover them, a rifle in hand. When their time was up, he collected their letters,saluted the men, and put the gun to their heads himself. They had only beenbitten, but this was the protocol now, immediate termination of thecompromised. Kill 'em, he thought. Simple bites and scratches had endedthese men's lives. Before they could turn, he had ended theirs.
McCutcheon wasn't mad. It was all just a matter ofunderstanding reality. The reality was that outside of the perimeter, therewere thousands of dead, honing in on their own encampment. Whether they knewthey were there or whether they were simply following the helicopters didn'tmatter. The end result was the same. Outside of the camp, the dead gathered,their faces pressed against the fence. Men, women, and children of the UnitedStates of America, were now his number one enemy, and they were loud.
The Terminal was filled with the constant buzz of theirmoaning and sighing. The noise seemed to cut through every sort of barrier thathe had put between himself and the milling masses. It was a plaintive sound,one that found its way inside a man's brain and rattled around, until all youcould think about were the thousands of decaying corpses that were pressed upagainst the Terminal's fortifications. He understood why a man would killhimself after listening to it for hours. Their situation seemed hopeless, andto be honest, McCutcheon's number one concern was no longer saving Portland,Oregon. It was now to do right by the soldiers under his command. They wereoutnumbered, they were under-supplied and understaffed... and they were fallingapart.
People were slipping away, either by disappearing or bykilling themselves. Something had to be done, but what?
McCutcheon sat in his chair, the voices of the deadthreading through his mind and turning his thoughts dark. The latest soldier tokill himself had done a poor job of it. Slit wrists, followed by a crazystumble through camp, during which he had latched onto several people, some ofwhom would later wind up locked in a room writing their final words to someonethey loved, who may or may not be alive or dead. At least the first guy had thecommon decency to hang himself and prevent his corpse from wandering all overthe damn Terminal.
McCutcheon sat up in his chair and pawed through theletters, his fingers still reeking of gunpowder. He hoped he wouldn't have toshoot anyone else that day. The letters were sappy, showed little creativity,and were utterly heartbreaking in their simplicity. He stuffed the letters intoa manila envelope and left it unsealed. There would be more. He knew that, andit wasn't
