Alpha Mike

By Bert Marshall

In a post-apocalyptic United States David Perkins, a common man with an Air Force warehouseman background is plunged into a lawless environment fraught with danger. His only option is to surrender to the aggressors, or fight back and over time he forms bonds with the only available people he can find who are not being packaged and sent north - women.

Army and Marine Corps trained women have escaped the net and join forces with Perkins, finding him to be a brilliant unconventional thinker, capable of out-smarting the enemy.

Collectively, they live off the land and begin staging militant rescues of other prisoners and escapees.

The Alpha Mike series of books are harsh, adult, filled with disaster, contagion, weather events, killing, death, tragedy, and the realities of living in a country that has been plunged two hundred years into the past.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bert Marshall
• Release date: Aug 15, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476215686

Bert Marshall

Bert Marshall lives in Baytown, Texas and is a Baytown Sun Columnist, Blogger, martial artist, geocacher, PC repair specialist, Jeeper, hiker, indoor cycling instructor, past Texas State Emergency Care Attendant, Hunter education instructor, and a USAF Vietnam Veteran with two tours (651 days in-country).

Book preview

Alpha Mike One by Bert Marshall

Published by Bert Marshall at Smashwords

Copyright 2012 Bert Marshall

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

Alone

Fog. Foggy. I am slowly coming around, but the urge to sleep is so great, I lapse into dreamland again. The same dreams. Again and again. I’m being choked by a fat bald man. I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe!

It’s nonsense I realize and jerk awake with a start. Where the heck am I? I mumble. Nothing looks familiar in the darkness and my head is pounding. My Jeep! I am trapped sideways in my Jeep and the seatbelt is cutting into my neck. I reach over and cut off the ignition and the dreamy Chill siriusXM radio station continues to play an ethereal tune. I reach forward shakily and push the button on the dash to silence it. My fingers are bloody.

Reaching carefully to my left side, I release the seatbelt catch and slide sideways against the driver’s door. Through the vine-covered windshield, all I can see are trees in the semi-darkness. My head is pounding and I understand my forehead has a pretty good knot on it from smacking against the steering wheel. I do a quick inventory. No broken bones. Standing up on the inside of the driver‘s door, I crawl out the passenger window of my four-door Jeep Wrangler Rubicon edition – my pride and my only real possession. I love this Jeep. I still can’t decide where I am or how I got here.

The insurance company is going to raise my premium for sure. I haven’t had this Jeep more than two months and I’ve already wrecked it.

Looking around, I see I am in a heavy canopy of brush and kudzu. My watch says its 11:14 am and the reason it looks so dark is the heavy kudzu vines have all but blocked out the sunshine, which I can now see high above me. Squinting my eyes against the pain in my head, I survey my Jeep. It looks like it rolled over one time and popped out the back glass and the two small windows on the side. It’s so dark inside the cab, it’s hard to tell. The four electric windows are safely inside the doors. It is lying on the driver’s side at a slight angle and I climb back up in the Jeep and into the back where I keep my extraction gear.

It is very difficult to think and I feel like I am going to be violently ill. My hands are shaking. I’m so thirsty I can’t swallow and then there is the pounding sound between my ears.

Locating a pair of snatch blocks, a tree-saver strap, and a come-along from my heavy canvas tote I keep for emergencies like this one, I mechanically go through the motions to right my Jeep. I know how to do this, I say, attaching the lead for the winch. My head is banging a staccato of steady bumps and after what seems like a long time, I watch as the cable tightens up on the winch and my Jeep drops back on all four tires with a pleasing bounce of the beefy coil springs. Opening the glove box, I drag out my first aid kit and down three Aleve tablets, washing them down using one of the many bottles of water I always carry.

It takes everything I have to keep from regurgitating the water and pills. Was I drunk? Is this a hangover? It feels like the flu. It can’t be alcohol. It can’t. I’ve been sober for over a year. I can’t get another DUI. The last two have cost me everything I have, except my Jeep and the third will send me to prison. No. I say. I don’t believe I was drinking. I can’t think straight. It’s stiflingly hot under the canopy of leafy vines.

The Jeep is setting in a deep dark ravine that leads downward and I sit in the driver’s seat and finish the bottle of water, savoring the effects of the painkillers that are already working to my benefit. I drift off for a bit and then jerk awake again. I vomit suddenly, opening the door just in time. It is very metallic tasting and I rinse my mouth out with the rest of the bottle contents, afraid to swallow more water.

It is now 12:34 pm and I crank the Jeep, which comes alive as always, but smokes a bit. After about twenty seconds, it settles down to a deep rumble, its normal fine sound. I lean back into the seat and touch the navigation system’s screen. Feeling nauseous and exhausted, I stare at the screen trying to make sense of what I’m seeing.

Yazoo City, Mississippi? What in the heck am I doing in Yazoo City, Mississippi? I ponder, but the answer does not come. I switch the navigational system to topographical and it shows this ravine running down and crossing a two-track, or a logging road, as they call them down in the south. A quick check of my instrument panel tells me I have no alarms, so I slow roll into 4-low motion, activating the full-lockers and sway bar disconnects.

My lifted Jeep Rubicon with 5.13 gears and thirty-seven inch Goodyear Duratrac tires walks down the steep ravine like it was on a turnpike and I simply drive over any trees smaller than two inches, emerging on the road inside of three minutes.

Goldang! I say, as I pull out onto the road and look around. Nothing. Oh yeah. I say aloud, suddenly remembering where I am and why I am here – well, not here, but here in Mississippi. I’m driving to Grenada, Mississippi to see an old air force buddy I haven’t seen in ten years since we both got out of the service. How I ended up in the ravine is still a mystery and I stop my Jeep and get out surveying the damage.

Incredibly, all my windows are still intact. They were just so clean that I couldn’t see them in the darkness. The Jeep has a few scratches, but other than that, no one would ever suspect it rolled. It must have been the kudzu! The stuff acted like a giant net. I stand on the rock-solid Warn front bumper and try to rock the rig and it feels solid.

My awesome Warn 8274 eight thousand pound rated winch needs to be re-spooled, but the synthetic rope is very forgiving. I am suddenly racked with the urge to defecate and before I can take two steps, I jerk down my jeans and let loose nothing but water… and a lot of water. I feel violently ill on top of everything else and kicking off my tennis shoes, I slip out of my jeans and attempt to clean up using one of my bottles of water.

Before I am finished, it hits me again. The smell is horrible even to me and using the small cup towel I keep on my armrest, I finally feel clean. I back the Jeep up about fifty meters and get back out in the hot sun. As I step down from the lifted Jeep, I fall forward and taking five or six big steps, I hit the ground hard on my chest. What is happening? I say, getting up on one knee. My head is spinning and I retch a couple of times, still so parched I can hardly swallow.

Standing on the ground by my door, I stare at the sky as I think back to when I was getting gas this morning. I look at the indicator and it shows I have three quarters of a tank of gas, So that had to be about forty miles south of here or… I punch in the map on my navigational unit after struggling back into the cab. Canton. I got gas in Canton. I say remembering the sign. That was about four hours ago, as I drove overnight to get here, leaving Texas about 11:30 pm last night. I am naturally a night person and I can only conclude that I fell asleep at the wheel – but why am I so sick?

I check my smartphone. I am not getting a signal. That’s odd. I always get a signal. Stupid useless technology. When you need it, it doesn’t work. Off in the distance, I hear a vehicle coming and for reasons I can’t explain, I feel fear. Without hesitating, I crank the motor and wheel it back into the brush up the ravine about fifty meters and sit and watch. I jump when I hear gunfire. It sounds like a running battle, not that I know much about these things, never having seen combat. I was a warehouseman in the air force, so my combat training involved shooting a total of a hundred rounds through an M-16 rifle. That was it.

Well, I am a deer hunter, but combat? No experience at all.

Coming up the road from my left is a blue late model Ford pick-up and they are shittin’ and gittin’ as they say in the south. I would never drive that fast out here. They blow past me about fifty miles per hour and in the cab are four people – men and women and it strikes me that they look terrified. Except for the guy driving, they are looking behind them and I can plainly see a rifle and shotgun inside the truck.

The guy closest to me suddenly begins shooting a pistol at whoever is following them as they speed past.

Almost immediately, an armored desert-colored army Humvee with a turret gun speeds up the road behind them. I jump in my seat as the soldier behind the gun rips off a deafening string of what can only be .50 BMG caliber rounds in the direction of the truck. In the distance, I hear the heavy slapping sound as the big seven hundred and fifty grain full metal jacket bullets slam into the civilian pick-up truck. I cannot exaggerate my horror at this vision. Seeing stuff like this on television doesn’t prepare you for the reality.

It is an incredible display of military might and the muzzle blast off the large weapon shakes my Jeep, even though I am a good fifty meters off the road and to the side. As the Humvee races by my location, I note the soldier is in MOPP gear. Trained in the use of mission oriented protective posture gear myself, I realize that the soldier probably expects to be traversing a toxic environment. What tha …? I say slowly, drawing out the partial word.

My Smartphone still has no signal. I slowly back my Jeep up the ravine, going deeper into the darkness and wait. The longer I sit here, the more nervous I become and sliding out of the driver’s seat, I exhaustedly work my way up the ravine on foot and climb through the heavy vines along the bank, attempting to attain a view of the soldiers and the truck. As scared as I am, all I can think about is how thirsty I am.

I’m afraid to drink, as I become nauseous the second I do.

In the distance, I can hear people talking and the sound of truck doors slamming. A few minutes pass and I hear the distinct sound of the military vehicle leaving. It is returning the way it came and I freeze and strain my ears for additional sound. That is when I smell it. It is a mixture of burning diesel fuel and bodies – I am sure of it. It is the most sickening smell I’ve ever experienced and I scramble up and over the bank to evade the smoke and smell. Just as I step out, my foot slips in the red clay and I slide back down the ravine a good thirty feet.

I feel nauseous and my stomach heaves violently as I empty out more of the water I drank thirty minutes ago. Holy crap! I say realizing I might be contaminated by something. With almost uncontrolled panic, I scramble further up and around the smoke and come out close to the place my Jeep left the main highway. I am gasping for air, as I am not remotely in the best of physical conditioning.

The road is a major highway and I peer out of the brush at the empty road. Not a danged car…

I sit and wait for ten minutes, renewing my strength and squeeze the roll of fat around my midsection unconsciously. At thirty-four years of age, I shouldn’t have it. I am a good thirty pounds overweight. Screw it. I say, thinking that is the least of my problems right now. As I am about to step out on the highway, I hear a noise that makes my blood run cold. Heavy machinery is coming and it is coming fast. I turn and stumble into the bushes, just as an Apache helicopter flies right over my position.

A limb whacks me in the face cutting my cheek and knocking me flat on my back. I lay there in the dirt and pine needles, feeling nothing, as my fear masks all other feelings, and stare ahead. I see the snapped limbs and tire marks my Jeep made.

I have found the place where my Jeep went off the road! I stand unsteadily to my feet for a better look and fall a good two feet through the kudzu and crash heavily on my back, knocking the wind out of my lungs. I can’t breathe and I feel horribly panicked. That does it! I just quit smoking! I say aloud, not being able to catch my breath or think clearly.

I don’t even know where my cigarettes are, or that I haven’t had one in three months. Slowly huffing and puffing my way up the steep kudzu covered red clay bank, I finally push my way onto a game trail well north of where the smoke is coming from and dripping with sweat and itching all over, I walk bent over toward the dread-filled spot where I think the truck may be. I’m scared shitless. My hair, if it were long enough to stand up, would look like a Catahoula cur hound’s back approaching a feral hog.

With every step, I seem to be going slower. I’ve never been this scared in my life. Each step is placed at a more deliberate pace until I am almost frozen with terror. Once again, I hear a helicopter screaming toward my location and I fall flat on my face in the weeds and roll over, wrapping them around me. The kudzu is my saving grace once again, as the chopper hovers fifty meters off to my left, then zooms away and disappears. I realize I am holding my breath and I gasp for air. Sitting up is difficult and I find I have to unroll myself to get free. I am covered with itchy plants, sweat, and misery. It seems the whole world has gone crazy.

I take a quick look at my watch. 2:59 pm Wednesday, June 1st.

I left my house May 30th… What happened to Tuesday? I was in the ravine for thirty-six hours? I feel very tired, thirsty and for the first time, hungry. I sit down right there in the field of vines and lay back, so overcome mentally, that I fall instantly asleep. At my feet, a copperhead snake crawls over my twenty-nine dollar beat-up Payless tennis shoes in search of a frog, but I know nothing of its travels.

I must have slept very hard, as I woke in the total darkness of night and checking my watch, I see it is 4:11 am and I’m colder than I can remember being in a long time. I stand up and can see pretty well, as the horizon is lit up like a Christmas tree, all orange and red. Something is burning. I weave around a bit feeling nauseous and throw-up again. I am unsteady on my feet I realize, not that I have excellent balance or anything, but I am having serious issues on top of everything else. I take two steps backward, trying to take one step forward, like I am a drunk trying to fool a cop.

The game path is visible if I walk slowly and stopping every so often to listen, I make my way down to the logging road and what is left of the Ford pick-up. It is still smoldering, the interior holding most of the embers. It looks like ten kinds of destruction. I’ve seen sights like this before in the movies, but it is destroyed without a salvageable part. Walking around to the far side of the truck, the moon creeps out from behind the edge of the cloud covering and reveals the most horrifying spectacle I’ve ever seen.

There are the remnants of burned human bodies. The four men and women I saw just hours ago being chased by our military no doubt. Once again, I find myself retching, but this time there is nothing left to give to the earth and I dry-heave again and again and inexplicably begin to run. I have to get away. It is a man’s worst nightmare and I am living it. Inside my mouth is the taste of iron and I realize I have bitten my lips. I am losing control as I stumble forward and tripping, I crash heavily onto the ground and slide in the clay and dew-laden grass. I have tears of despair and fear running down my face and I hold onto the ground like it is my mother, trying in vain to make sense of the world around me.

----

My neck is burning. No, it stings! Fire ants! I jump to my feet and rake my neck and face. Looking frantically around me and at my arms, I see nothing except red clay on my hands and realize it isn’t fire ants that are heating me up - it’s the sun. I am still where I collapsed last night and a quick glance at my watch tells me it is 8:42 am and I ascertain I am up the two-track from the heinous burned truck and body site. Dang it, Bubba, you got to go back and you know it. I say aloud and hearing my own voice is somehow comforting.

Looking back where death is very real, I take a deep breath. Listening for danger, I begin the slow walk back. I am surprised how far down the trail I went, having no recollection of the distance. I must have walked for almost a mile before the truck comes into view – or what is left of it. I am so thirsty; all I can think about is water and my Jeep. I have a whole case of water in the back. For the first time, I look myself over as I stop to listen for danger.

I’m wearing a pair of faded and very red clay-stained Levi’s, a black Dickie’s t-shirt with a pocket, a ball cap from the Alaska Pipeline project my sister sent me, and my cheapo Payless twenty-nine dollar tennis shoes. My wallet, multi-tool, etc. is in my Jeep. I have three quarters and a nickel in my pocket and on my left wrist is my nineteen-dollar Casio watch. I am filthy, sweaty, I itch, and I have to take a crap.

Summoning up as much courage as I can, I walk back up to the truck. I’ve never been a particularly brave person. I avoid looking at the twisted black-charred bodies and look all around the area for signs of, well, anything. As I turn away from the grisly sight, the sun glints off of something in the grass about twenty feet from the bodies. Walking over, I see the weeds have been pushed down by someone and stacked up are the personal effects of those in the truck, including a Mossberg 590 pump shotgun and a bandolier of shells! I recognize it as one used by police departments across the country and this one has a sling.

When I pick it up, a badge falls off the pack it was resting on. I look at it and it is a deputy sheriff’s badge for Yazoo County. Inside the bag are the ID and personal belongings of two men and two women and another badge like the first, but with a different number.

They were cops and their wives… I say to myself and the thought causes me to clutch the shotgun to me and check the action. Fully loaded, I mutter. Grabbing the bandolier and the shotgun, I run over into the woods and I eject the shells and inspect them. It’s holding six triple-aught buckshot shells and the bandolier with another twenty-six, with twenty-four empty slots… That is a lot of shooting. I smell the barrel and it has the telltale smell of spent gunpowder.

Listening carefully, I sneak – that is exactly what I am doing – sneaking, I realize. I haven’t crept like this since I was a kid playing army, or maybe hide and seek. I have the creeps and this is not a game on a good day. Returning to the pile of gear, I rummage through it and find a treasure trove of usable items. Two large folding knives, a pair of Glock 23’s in .40 caliber, forty-eight rounds of ammo, a Snickers bar that is melted, which I messily eat immediately, a package of Certs, and four condoms. I saw a survival guy on the Discovery channel use one to hold water.

There is no sign of the rifle I remember seeing one of the guys holding.

There is money and jewelry, but I have a feeling this will be useless, so I leave it and grabbing a brown fleece hoodie from the pile, I make my way back into the kudzu with the intention of finding my Jeep. It is amazing how one candy bar can boost a person’s energy level, but I am still so thirsty I am either going to get water or die! I walk for about ten minutes and slowly climb up the ravine and there in the shadows is my Jeep and water. Thank god! I exclaim as I force myself to drink slowly. One hour later, I am vomiting out of control and all of it is brown chocolate-colored water.

All I can figure is I’ve been exposed to something that is causing this reaction. I immediately begin hydrating, finishing off three bottles before I again vomit. This time though it isn’t as severe and I begin drinking again. All told, I’ve downed twelve bottles or half of my water supply and this time I hold it down. Ten minutes later, the diarrhea begins and now instead of vomiting, I am losing everything out the back end. I am miserable, but I am alive and that is when I remember the package of beef jerky in the glove box. I weep inexplicably. Other than the candy bar, it is my first food in three days.

----

Once again, I sit up and am confused as to my whereabouts. I am in my Jeep and it is quite cool. I pull the hoodie over my shoulders and am immediately warmer. It’s a size small, probably belonging to one of the women. Her feminine odor is still lingering in the material. Poor woman. It reminds me of my girlfriend – or ex-girlfriend. Dang women. I ponder her for a moment then remember seeing her with another man while she was supposed to be at work. Can’t trust anybody. I say aloud, recognizing this is truer now than ever.

A glance at my Casio tells me it is 2:11 am and it is pitch black in my ravine hideaway. I am still very tired and I ease back into the seat and fall off into dreamland, my stomach making enough noise to normally keep me awake.

One, two, three helicopters fly over my Jeep waking me suddenly. As fast as they come, they are gone and I realize that if I were to drive my Jeep, there is no way I could hide fast enough to evade detection. That is, of course, if I was being targeted. I have no idea what is going on, but it is not normal. That is for danged sure. Today, I have to move… or tonight. One thing is for sure and that is my navigational unit is still working and Yazoo City is only about four miles from my present location.

If I stay on the trails on the east side of 49E, I can pretty much work my way into town for a look-see. As I look at the navigational unit, my hand runs over the Mossberg shotgun like an old friend. I am no survivalist, but I sure as heck don’t plan to be a victim either. For the one-hundredth time, I take the firearm in my hands and work the safety on and off.

Creeping along in my Jeep, I crest out on a hill overlooking the small city and its buildings are essentially unlit. I am hoping the tree cover is enough to hide me from the light shining from a few structures. Across the road from me is a house and it is dark as dark. I have to have food. I am so hungry my stomach is growling constantly. My plan is to hide my Jeep and approach the place on foot after sun-up. If there are dogs or people here, I want to see them before they see me. In the dirt drive is a gray fastback Mustang of maybe the early 70’s era, but well taken care of. It looks to be in better shape than the house.

Lifting the loaded shotgun out in front of me, I ease out of the brush and cross the road, looking both ways four times. Not a peep or noise has come from the property since I arrived three hours ago. Slipping up next to the house, I peer inside. Nothing. Crossing the porch, I make a creaking noise and freeze - terrified. On the door is a note.

Kids: Gone to Biloxi with the National Guard. Mandatory evacuation due to the sickness. House is locked. Nana

The sickness? What in the heck does that mean? I say and twist the knob. It’s locked all right, so I look under the door mat. Nothing, so I reach up above the door and as I thought, I find a hidden key. I unlock the door and step in just as a pair of Blackhawk helicopters fly by a couple of blocks away. I know they can’t see me, but I freeze in my tracks, fighting the urge to flee. I am paralyzed. I stand perfectly still for what feels like five minutes resisting the strong desire to pee. I am no hero, but what choice do I have?

Stepping further inside the house I am immediately impressed with how still and vacant it is – almost creepy. I make my way on tiptoe to the kitchen and dig through the cupboards, grabbing anything and everything edible and set it on the table. I know better than to open the refrigerator, as the house has no electricity. Opening a number of drawers, I find a spoon, knife, and fork – and a can opener! Walking quietly through the house, I shake two pillows loose and use the covers for rucksacks. Setting the canned goods and a box of crackers by the door inside the pillowcases, I look for anything else of value that may help me survive.

Imagine my surprise when I find two cylinders of propane and a small Coleman stove in the garage! Just as I am about to leave, I look in the den and to my great relief, I find four boxes of twelve gauge shotgun shells setting out, as if someone planned to use or take them and number fours, like you use on turkeys – or humans. My haul is heavy and I carefully lock the door back and looking around, I run awkwardly across the road, down into the woods and stuff everything inside my Jeep. I plan to bivouac right here, using the house as a supply point while I figure out what is what.

I know one thing, the deep forest green paint of my Jeep was a sound choice after all, considering the circumstances, but I’m going to have to spray it with a dull paint of some kind to retard the shine. I remember seeing cans of spray paint in the garage at the house. Opening the tailgate, I crank up the stove and heat a can of pork and beans. Along with the crackers and water, it is a feast.

I eat very slowly, savoring each bite and as I do, I am aware of the sound of distant machinery. Probably helicopters and these days helicopters scare the crap out of me. I never in the six years I was in the air force thought our own military would be used against us, but seeing the soldier in the Hummer shoot those cops and their wives is enough to make me think I would be treated just as harshly if I were seen from above, or on the ground for that matter. Every little noise makes me jump now and I am constantly looking over my shoulder, or grabbing the shotgun because a shadow passes over me.

I hate living like this, but what choice do I have? Heckfire, if I were home - fighting with my girlfriend - when it all went down, I’d probably be dead or locked up in a FEMA camp somewhere. FEMA camps. I heard the stories like everyone else, even saw some footage on youtube.com, but I shrugged it off as if it were something else. I shake my head side to side not believing any of this is truly happening.

The day is slowly creeping by and I fight the urge to vomit. Whatever it was that made me sick is slowly passing, or so I thought. Suddenly sick to my stomach, I sit down on the ground heavily and vomit again, spilling the precious food onto the ground. With the foul beans and crackers not two feet from my dirty face, I sob in pitiful despair.

Interlopers

I wake again and now it is dark. Damn! I complain, sitting up and realize I am behind my Jeep. My rare curse shows the depth to which I’ve sunk. Realizing I had been startled by a mechanical noise, I jump and snatch the Mossberg up close to my body. I try to hold it like they do in the movies, but I’m not sure I am doing it right. About sixty meters ahead of me I can hear people talking, but I’m not sure what they are saying, as the low rumble of a car engine running is making the words sound muffled.

Forcing myself to move, I creep in the bottoms toward the voices. Spider webs rake over my face pushing me into a state of near panic. I hate spiders and just as I peer over the small berm, one crawls on my face. I claw at it and all but yell out. Adrenaline shoots through my system like a bolt of white-hot lightning and I breathe in sharply trying to control my fear. The thought crosses my mind that I am not the strong man I thought I was.

Let’s go, Bren! I hear a man yell and car doors slam as the Mustang spins its tires in the dirt and lurches forward. The car fishtails left and right and all but hits a tree close to the road and speeds off away from town. They did not turn on their lights and I step out onto the dirt road and listen as the car disappears around a bend in the road. They must have heard my approach, as noisy as it was. They panicked – exactly the way I would have.

On the ground are a number of supplies, evidently taken from the house! There is an old single shot shotgun, a sleeping bag, some groceries, insect repellent, clothes…and toilet paper! Oh my god! A twelve pack of toilet paper! I immediately grab it, leaving most everything else and retreat back into the woods. I am so happy to find this that I stumble in the darkness and fall headlong into the bushes, scraping my arms and face in the dark. My shotgun slides out into the darkness and I spend five minutes looking for the black weapon. I am almost in a total panic when I feel the smooth stock up under a decaying log.

Making my way back to my Jeep, I climb into the safety of the interior and after applying mosquito spray, I fall into an exhausted sleep inside the hot, humid cab.

Sometime around 6:30 am, I awaken and walking a short distance, I relieve myself properly, using the luxury of clean toilet paper I found last night. I am paranoid enough to hide evidence of my toiletries.

I feel a lot better and opening a can of albacore tuna, I eat all of it and drink the oil, along with crackers. My stomach is screaming in objection and I begin belching. In between belches, which are increasing in duration and frequency, I am fighting nausea, but by god, I am starving and I realize my jeans are literally about to fall off my hips. I refuse to vomit and after about a hundred fishy and nauseous burps, I am able to hold it down.

This is the beginning of my recovery, and, except for a few more bouts of diarrhea, I am clearly making progress. The nausea lingers, but the vomiting has stopped.

It’s time to return to the house, so I check the shotgun and then thank God I did - the muzzle is packed with mud from last night’s fall. I need to find a cleaning kit. I take a stick and dig the dried mud out and using my multi-tool, I do a fair job of getting it all out. My stomach has settled down and I’m hungry again. I’m just not ready to start the burp thing again, so I retie my mud-caked shoes and head out slowly for the house one hundred meters to the west.

I arrive just as the sun is peeking over to trees and I wait and watch. The car is gone, but so are the supplies! I panic and ducking down, my mind races wondering who took it and when. Well, it had to be during the night and possibly by Bren and the man who yelled out her name, but maybe not. My stomach is doing the rumbling thing again and it sounds pretty loud to me. I can’t make up my mind between retreating and looking at another house – which is risky, or going across the road and foraging here again.

My mind is made up for me when I detect movement from my right. A man, a very sick man, is walking or staggering down the road. I only thought I was sick- this guy is far more ill. His clothes are tattered and heavily stained. He’s dragging his feet, and swelling has distorted them horribly, as well as his hands. On top of this, he is talking or moaning and I watch in horrid fascination as he makes his way down the road, passing maybe fifty feet from me. He has soiled his clothes in the back, possibly many times and looks to be at deaths door. The wind is at my back and I silently thank the Lord for that, as he is certainly infected with something.

He pays no attention to the house and after possibly fifteen minutes disappears down around the bend where the car disappeared. Now, I am really scared. I’m scared into inactivity. I sit on my legs and wait and watch. One hour passes when I hear heavy footsteps coming from the south and six soldiers in MOPP gear come double-timing it down the road. I am well back and their eyes are on the house as they run by. The sixth man is carrying a light machine gun and it is obviously heavier than the other men’s M-16’s, as he is lagging behind.

Hold up, Sarnt! Hold up! He yells, stopping about sixty feet down the road off to my left.

McCartney! Let’s go. On your feet, you fat-ass REMF.

I recognize military acronym, as I had been a rear echelon MF’er myself. McCartney must not be a line soldier, or maybe he is simply National Guard and out of shape.

Just give me five, Sarnt. I’ll be okay. Besides, that guy ain’t going no-wheres. We can bag and tag him and get back in time for chow. You know it and I know it. The Sickness slows these folks down where anyone can catch them.

Okay, McCartney. I hear you. Take a knee, men, but stay alert. Bravo Company reported activity in this area the last three nights. Hey, wasn’t there a Mustang over there two days ago?

Yeah Sarge, a 1969 California Custom. One of the men says as they check their weapons. It’s rather difficult to hear them through the headgear of the MOPP suit.

Hey, Sarnt. Can we take the pro mask off? Word is the disease has already run its course. If you ain’t sick, you ain’t gonna get sick.

Sure Lumus. Take it off and if you’re wrong, we’ll kill your ass tomorrow. The army sergeant says flippantly. Alright, saddle up. Move out.

I watch as the squad heads off at a fast pace and shortly disappear down the road. Without hesitating I dash across the yard and finding the door unlocked I scrounge everything I can carry and blast out across the yard and slip through the brush leaving little or no evidence of my passing. Over my back is a bed sheet and about fifty pounds of food and gear inside it – plus four cans of flat black spray paint.

It was very evident that the two people I scared had been inside the house and obviously had intimate knowledge of the building. There was no forced entry: the key was taken from the hiding place. Certain drawers were open, as if they knew exactly where to look. I wonder if they are only slightly affected by the sickness, like me, or if they will succumb to it like the man I saw. One thing is certain - they are jumpy and most likely on the run from the soldiers. After seeing the soldiers shoot the four people in the pick-up, I feel the same way.

I stop and think for a moment. Those troops have to be from Camp Shelby, the only major army post in Mississippi. That would indicate they are spread very thin. I tap the coordinates into my navigational system and see Hattiesburg is over a hundred miles from Yazoo City. I would be willing to bet that would be the squad I just saw is a good portion of the military strength in this town. No wonder they are afoot. As I sit I hear distant shots. One, two… then a third. Setting my loot in the backseat of my Jeep, I grab my Mossberg shotgun and work my way back toward the road, more sure-footed now that my balance is partially restored.

I