City of the dead part 3
Bill the dog yawned and stretched as the gloom of the distribution center became deeper toward dusk. Bill the dog belly crawled out from under the bench where he had lain and scratched an itch behind his ear with a long back leg.
He was a biggish dog. Some sort of wolf hound mix. He had a large head, short curly hair and a tail with a bit of an insouciant kink upwards that gave an impression of dandiness when he trotted. He was a good athlete. Not bouncy or frenetic like a sheep dog, but strong, reserved and powerful when he needed to be.
Bill’s greatest asset was his discipline. He knew what to do and when he had a job he did it with the single minded focus of a dedicated soldier. This was no happenstance or quirk of nature. It was a soldier who taught him, who groomed him, who raised him to be this sanguine, committed and sanguine soldier of an animal.
The pandemic had removed that good, but damaged soul from the influences in his life but the echoes of that committed training rang on within. When he ran across the old man that morning in the mist of a swamp, cooking rabbit on a low fire, he knew he had found a kindred soul. The missing piece. They were both disciplined and damaged. They fit together.
Now Bill was a mercenary in the old man’s tribe.
Bill nosed open a backpack and pulled out a mouthful of protein bars. He delicately peeled of the wrappers with a fastidious precision that was almost comical for a big dog. They weren’t the best meal he’d ever had but he knew he needed to stay fed and watered to be able to do his job well.
He’d been told to stay but he needed water. He moved silently to the door and waited for a long minute, listening with his foppish ears, letting the air with its smells filter through is nose. No humans. No activity.
Bill nosed the jimmied door open and let his eyes adjust, taking another long moment to let the pictures form and the situation reveal itself like a great sensory Pollack painting. He smelled the pool of rainwater by the drain. The dirty, wet smell of runoff. He moved to the puddle and drank his fill.
What to do now soldier. Best to get under cover and wait. If no one showed up for a few sun downs he’d have to venture out to find some other place to fill a role.
…
The leader sat on a weight bench. Apparently, this was the headquarters of whoever these people were. A Golding’s gym franchise in a strip mall. The old man leaned on Brad’s arm and squinted at the man.
What would this turn out to be? A gang? A tribe? Some sort of religious cult? Plagues always brought out the religious nut jobs. Throughout history when humans couldn’t explain something or cope with something, they blamed an angry god. Would he and Brad become some sort of tribute or sacrifice.
No way to know. Nothing to do but play the part and stay in the moment and look for the advantage and wait for the opportunity.
The first thing he noticed was the place was clean. Too clean for some random street gang. There was no dust on the equipment. Freshly laundered towels were neatly stacked on shelves. The trash cans were empty.
This level of clean demonstrated organization, discipline and focus. What kind of organization cared about dust when 90% of the world’s population had just blinked out in horrific deaths filled with blood and mucous?
“I apologize gentlemen.” The man on the bench said to them. “You caught me in my workout.”. He considered the metal dumbbell in his hand, placed it on the bench and stood up, smiling. “We all have to stay at our best, especially now, right?”
“What is this place?” Brad said, looking around the room. “Who are you people? … Sir…” he added with a last minute realization that politeness and respect was probably a good idea.
The old man let Brad ask the question. He would be able to gauge the man’s response.
“Well, young man, WE are the government.” The man paused officiously watching how they took that news.
“The government of what?” Brad asked innocently enough.
“We will get to that. Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. Let’s start with introductions why don’t we?” The man replied. “I am John Tasker, the director of the Port Authority. This industrial sector is under my jurisdiction. Who are you and why are your looting one of my distribution centers?”
Now the Old Man spoke up. “Sir, we are refugees like everyone else, but we weren’t looting. Bradley, my nephew here, worked at that facility and had permission.” He turned his head to Brad. “Brad show him your KeyCard ID.”
Brad fished the ID from his wallet. The old man couldn’t understand why Brad still carried his wallet. Habits die hard.
The Director examined the ID and spoke thoughtfully. “Bradley Martell?” Are you any relation to the Bradley Martell who was chief controller for AutoMax here?”
“That was my father.” Brad confirmed. “He died at the beginning.” And here Brad darkened, but continued, looking at the floor. “And my Mom.”
“I’m sorry to hear that son. Brad was a good businessman and a good man. We could use him now. We’ve all lost someone.”
“Well boys my judgment is that you didn’t mean any harm, and I’m going to let you off with a warning.”
“We’re free to go?” The old man asked, sounding way more surprised than he should have.
John Tasker raised an amused eyebrow. “Yes, you’re free to go.” He paused. “Once you complete a short quarantine period.”
“How short?”
“We start with 6 months.”
The old man suppressed an urge to say something stupid, reset himself and started again. “Mr. Tasker, we truly appreciate your hospitality, but what if we want to leave before 6 months?”
“Well, the ordinance is 6 months. As Director, I feel duty bound to uphold the laws. As you can see, my hands are tied. Anything less than 6 months would be breaking the law and we can’t have that. It’s a slippery slope. Once you start breaking laws it all goes to hell.”
“The other challenge we have here is that I’ve got not way to hold people. So our justice system, under the current conditions, well it’s a form of marshal law, and it very black and white. I mean, I hate having to cull the population any more than nature already has but we can’t have law breakers.”
He looked at them and some unreadable emotion passed across his face. “Maybe it’s all for the better? Maybe it’s like a fresh start?” He waved a hand. “You boys get settled and Paul here will find you a job.”
The old man had no response.
“I hope you two have the smarts to take advantage of this opportunity. Please don’t make trouble. It’s just not in anyone’s best interest.”
John Tasker turned and picked the dumbbell off the bench. He hefted it and blew out a lungful of air.
Brad and the old man were ushered out of the room.
The old man was thinking. No immediate reason to do anything rash. This was a time to watch and learn. The man John Tasker seemed to have a situation under control here. But something was off, there was a small whiff of something bad in this. But, wasn’t there a mix of bad in everything now?
He’d wait and see.
He’d wait and see…