Welcome To The First Day

By Rory Redding

Special Forces Green Beret Rogan Dalait has just one thing on his mind: Survive the first day of the zombie apocalypse.

San Francisco, California has become ground zero for a plague that wipes out nine out of ten people and turns them into cannibalistic, red-eyed monsters bent on the destruction of humanity itself. Rogan must rescue his pregnant wife from the clutches of zombie children at the elementary school where she works and find a way to get her--and the ragtag band of survivors he picks up along the way--to a place of refuge until they can figure out their next step.

As a Green Beret Rogan Dalait thrives on war and he normally would be having the time of his life if it weren't for one tiny little obstacle: He's been bitten. Now he must battle the hunger and darkness within, wondering moment to moment if the time has finally come for him to devour the flesh of the living as one of the legion of undead permeating the Bay Area's fiery landscape.

No one knows how long he has, but until the moment he loses himself and his eyes change to blood-red glowing orbs he will fight to preserve the sanctity of love and life with a passion unmatched in anyone left alive in the new Zombocalyptic world he inhabits. Ever wonder how a Green Beret would handle the end of the world? Read Welcome To The First Day to find out!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Rory Redding
• Release date: May 24, 2014
• ISBN: 9780692227435

Rory Redding

Rory J. Redding medically retired after serving fifteen years in the US Army. He spent a total of nineteen months in Iraq from 2003 to 2009. He finished a Creative Writing degree at San Francisco State University in December 2016 and plans to make use of it by writing stories, poems, and hiphop which regular people actually enjoy.

Book preview

"Why do they have to eat people if they’re dead, crazy? Ranger Rob crowed. It doesn’t make any sense!"

See! That’s exactly what I’m talking about, Rogan agreed, nodding.

That’s not the point, idiot, Katie directed to Ranger Rob’s grinning face. She tucked her chin so she could stare at him over thin, delicate glasses. In all the old movies, they would go after peoples’ brains. I’m just saying they should stick to the traditional idea, instead of this warped super-meth-head-hundred-meter-sprinter-zombie crap. She brushed a wisp of black hair from her eyes and tucked a dark purple highlight behind her ear. The real question is, why brains at all?

That’s not the real question, Rogan argued. He shifted his torso so he could rest thick, veined arms on the table. Dark blue eyes flashed with excitement as he continued. Rob’s got it right. Why is there a need to eat anything, if they’re incapable of digestion? By their very nature, zombies are supposed to be dead, or undead—I forget if that’s vampires or zombies, or both—and we, of all people, understand that when an organism dies, it no longer metabolizes food as energy. With the gastrointestinal tract shut down, there is no metabolic activity available to break down the energy-carrier adenosine triphosphate in food macromolecules, which is what any living thing would need to do in order to derive energy to power muscular function.

Ranger Rob nodded vigorously and jerked his thumb at Rogan. Exactly, whatever he just said. Dead things don’t need food, Katie, that’s all I’m saying. They wouldn’t need to eat brains, or guts, or necks, or eyeballs, or dicks, or even Double-Dees’ sloppy funbags over there. He gestured to the pretty, dusky Mexicana girl occupying the last open spot at the table. Which, by the way, would be one hell of meal. He flicked his eyebrows up and licked his lips.

Mercedes glared at the wiry man over the glow of her iPhone’s screen. "If you talk about my tits one more time, puta, I’m gonna take this phone and shove it up your ass. She made a sound of disgust and looked to Rogan and Katie. Why do you guys even talk to this estupido boca de la basura, anyway? He’s not even part of the class, he’s just Fagersta’s little lab monkey. She slapped at Ranger Rob’s open laptop, nudging it toward the table’s edge. Go finish typing up his grocery list somewhere else, asistente puta del laboratorio. Nobody wants you here."

For your information, burrito Chiquita duh bananas of the brain, Ranger Rob rattled off as he rescued his computer from imminent contact with the concrete floor, I’m inputting your grades into the San Francisco State University Gateway DARS program. See Professor Fagersta handing back midterms there? He pointed to the medium-built blond man in a white lab coat floating around on the other side of the room. Those papers are the results of your last test. Tests which I helped grade, by the way. A mischievous grin flashed behind his scraggly, light brown beard. Can you guess what your grade was?

She scowled, her prodigious chest heaving in anger. I swear to God, you better not say it—

Double Dees. Ranger Rob cackled maniacally.

Mercedes threw a pencil at his face, swearing in Spanish when he ducked ninja-quick to the side to avoid the sharp implement. Rogan decided to intervene before the situation became completely untenable. As I was saying, he spoke in a firm voice, snatching his calculator from the angry Latina’s hand before she could draw back her arm, it makes no sense for zombies to attack anything for the expressed purpose of eating it, be they human or otherwise. He gave Katie a pointed look. The attractive Asian girl arched an eyebrow in return. Brains make the least sense to eat, since you get the least bang for your buck if you’re looking for an energy source. I get going for the heart, or liver, or just about anything with meat on it, because at least then you’re getting calories. But that brings us back to the issue at hand, which is why would something that is dead—meaning something that has lost function of all organic biological processes—decide to mob a human being and start munching? There has to be something still alive, some part of their system that is still viable, that would give them the instinctual need to eat.

Maybe so, but that’s not strictly speaking what zombies are supposed to be, Katie replied stubbornly. I disagree about the metabolic content of brains versus muscle, though. Brains have a tremendous fatty-tissue layer for cushioning, so you do get more calories per ounce from consumption than for muscle or other tissues. It’s just hard to get into the skull with your bare hands. But even that is beyond the scope of consideration for our conversation. She adjusted the collar of her tight-fitting blouse and fidgeted with a button that strained against her well-shaped bosom. They’re dead, and they eat people. That’s all there is to it.

You guys are way too serious about this, Mercedes interjected, settling back in her chair. She fished for another writing utensil from her overlarge purse. That stuff is all made up anyway. Might as well talk about sparkly vampires. At least vampires are hot. She bent her head to her lab notebook and began writing. "I know I’d have sex with a vampire. Especially if they make love like they do on True Blood. Mmmm. Dios mio. She shivered in delight. All cut up, muscles flexing, sweaty hot sex… mm-hmm." She emphasized the last syllable and stroked her pen suggestively, glancing at a tall, gangly black boy at the table next to theirs. The boy took a look at her pretty face and gulped before seeking the safety of a microscope’s eyepiece.

Why does it not surprise me that you’d bone a blood-sucking dead guy, Double Dees? Ranger Rob remarked with a wry shake of his head.

Katie stepped in this time. We’re trying to have a serious, honest conversation about zombies, Robert. Don’t ruin it like you ruin every other thing we talk about.

Well, that makes it sound more legit now, doesn’t it? Rogan smiled. "A serious conversation about fantastical creatures from shitty horror movies. Totally legit scientific debate to have in a Master’s program for microbiology that meets once a week for laboratory research. What an appropriate use of our rather expensive time. He shook his head, then grew serious. But while we’re on the subject, here’s the heart of the matter in respect to zombies. He held up four fingers. They need to eat, so that means there is some part of their digestive system still intact. One finger folded. They can move, period, so that means they are using energy to walk, run, shamble, or otherwise attack the living. Another finger folded. In order to have the coordination to do any of the above, there has to be some kind of higher function in the brain going on, even if it’s only at the reptilian level, to make them want to eat. A third finger went down. They don’t feel pain—at least we’re assuming so, since you can chop off an arm and they’ll still come at you without batting an eye—but they can reach for and bite things they want to eat. That means they’ve got part of their nervous system intact, even if only enough to send action potential firing down efferent nerves to drive motor function. He held his closed fist for a moment, then held up a single digit. But the question I’d like answered, assuming all the above has to happen for zombies to do anything except lie down in full rigor, is why do they always attack people—live people—instead of just eating whatever’s handy? Why don’t they eat each other, or animals, or—I dunno—fucking tuna sandwiches from a convenience store, or whatever?"

Katie sat back in her seat and stretched, revealing a flat, rigid belly when her tight blouse shifted with the lifting of her toned arms. She sighed in resignation. Alright, fine. I don’t know why they need to eat if they’re truly dead. Or undead. She sat for a moment in thought, adjusting her bra as she settled. Maybe they’re just hungry, like little baby crocodiles. Dead baby crocodiles… hmm. She frowned and fiddled with the blouse button again.

She definitely gives Mercedes a run for her money in the breast department. Rogan did his best not to get caught staring.

Katie pushed her glasses back on the bridge of her nose, ignoring Ranger Rob’s surreptitious leer at the exposed cleavage above her shirt’s low neckline. "If you have to get that deep into zombies, then I guess you’re right about the need for obtaining large quantities of energy-transferring ATP from tissue, which—my argument is—I think you’d find more of in a live human versus a dead one. But if we accept your theory that part—or parts—of them have intact biological processes, then we still have to remember to adhere to the rule that they are dead, so some of their bodies have to be rotting meat."

Yeah, yeah! Ranger Rob agreed with a vigorous nod. You always see them falling apart in movies, with, like, fingers rotting off, and titties dragging on the ground with stank-ass nipples all torn and chewed up, just like Double—

"Tu pinche puta!" Mercedes screeched, knocking her chair over as she leapt across the table, fingers clawing for the slim man’s eyes.

The crack of an open palm echoed off the table. Mercedes froze in mid-crouch. Ranger Rob’s laughter died as he danced back, then fell still, unable to meet Professor Fagersta’s icy blue eyes. The Norwegian doctor of cellular and molecular biology—one of a number of Ph.Ds the man had, according to the various framed certificates hanging over his office desk—turned his stern gaze on each of the table’s inhabitants in turn, lingering on Katie’s face the longest. She cleared her throat and drew a hand up to cover her cleavage self-consciously, fingers coming to rest on her mouth. She could not meet Fagersta’s cold stare either, and as Mercedes made an undignified withdrawal to her chair she looked everywhere but at Fagersta’s face.

Rogan saw the effect the gelid professor had on his classmates, but was unimpressed himself. The past couple of months had revealed the blond teacher to be a petty, small man, in Rogan’s estimation. The man knew his molecular biology—I’ll give him that—but why he chose a profession that brought him into contact with other people on a daily basis befuddled Rogan. More than once, he had seen Fagersta take an almost perverse delight in humiliating his graduate students, to the point of bringing tears of shame to a number of the more sensitive students’ eyes. Fagersta did not appreciate questions, and he did not hold office hours. If you didn’t follow his lecture with a photographic memory or find a way to sneak in a prohibited recording device, you simply did not obtain the information you required to do well on exams. Students doing well on exams, it seemed to Rogan, was not a goal of particular importance to Njord Fagersta.

Basically, the guy is a Grade One Asshole, and he’s in charge of your future, Little Student. Rogan had dealt with his kind before, many times, during his service in the military. However, men and women on a power trip owing to their position of leadership, whether gainfully earned or not, were not something that he allowed to ruin his day. When bullets were incoming, how big a jerk someone was mattered very little; if they did something stupid then, like try to pull rank to get someone to do the dirty work, it usually didn’t work out so well.

Lucky for me, he seems to hate me a smidge less than everyone else.

The icy blue eyes turned to Rogan. Fagersta spoke with a soft, nearly undetectable accent. Mr. Dalait. Your data, please. He removed his palm from the table and stood with both hands straight down at his sides. Exam papers remained tucked under one arm.

Dude could be zombie himself, for all the emotion he shows. We’re still writing up the report, Professor, but the preliminary findings show that the enzymes did in fact weaken the protein coat of the virus. Rogan pointed to the screen on his own laptop, which showed a chart describing the rate at which the catalyst had effected changes in the BTR-virus infected lung tissue sample from a tumorous gelada baboon. "We surmise that with a few more trials, varying temperature among other things, we’ll be able to sneak something very small into the virus’ shell—a few packets of choice RNA, if we can get our hands on a genome sequencer—and see if we can’t get that destructive little bastard to do what we want, rather than do what it wants—"

I did not ask for you to tell me what I already know, Mr. Dalait, the blond man interrupted. Dead eyes stared without emotion. I asked for your data. I expect a coherent report on my desk by the end of laboratory. Fagersta’s slight accent put an emphasis on the second syllable, drawing out the long O sound in laboratory. He turned to Ranger Rob, who glanced up with a sheepish look. Mr. Johanssen, I expect the grades for this exam to be inputted before the students begin their next trial. As they will start that experiment within the next half hour, your work shall begin immediately. You will assist Mr. Dalait’s group with their trial. You may retrieve their culture at this time, and perhaps, for once, earn your pay. He reached for the papers tucked into his armpit and thumbed through the test sheets and scantrons. Mercedes and Katie sat up, alert, anxious.

Rogan sat back and laced his fingers behind his head. As with all of Fagersta’s exams, Rogan knew he’d blown it out of the water, though it had by no means been an easy test. The devious son of a bitch was fond of multiple-choice trick questions, where every answer was either right or mostly right, and you had to choose the one best answer that Rogan was positive was purely subjective, depending on the man’s mood when he wrote the test. Mercedes accepted her test with nervous fingers, while Katie drew her graded exam to her breast with near reverence. Rogan did not reach for his exam. He let Fagersta hold it out to him, then waited until the man tired of holding his arm out and set the exam on the table face up.

Bad form, doc, but not unexpected. Normal college etiquette was to keep graded exams private from other students, in case, he supposed, someone was embarrassed with their grade. Rogan could care less if everyone knew what he got on any given test. For Fagersta to leave it face up for the entire world to see his grade meant Rogan had either smoked the test or bombed it, and the professor wanted the others to know. When he refused to look away from the teacher’s face, the man simply nodded—is that approval?—and moved on to the next table to deal out despair and woe with red ink on paper.

Katie made a small sound of surprise. You got an A? she wondered as she stared at Rogan’s exam results. "Again? What’s with you and Fagersta, anyway? Why does he like you so much? Nobody gets A’s except you, I swear…."

Maybe you two are sleeping together? Mercedes suggested with a sultry smile. She let her eyes wander down Rogan’s chest, where muscles bunched beneath his form-fitting T-shirt, then gave an appreciative glance at his veined biceps and forearms. A quick tilt of her head allowed her to peek around the table at where his buttocks met the plastic seat of the chair. She held her head there as she met the man’s dark blue eyes. That would be so hot. She bit her lip.

Oh my God, now you’re tickling your clit over Mr. Special Forces sucking off Fagersta’s rotten cock? said an exasperated Ranger Rob as he sat back down at the table. He rolled his eyes. "Is there anything—anything, alive or dead—that doesn’t open up the sluice gates in your nasty panties? He gave Katie a plaintive look. Are all you science nerds this horny? Or is Double Dees just the world’s biggest-tittied whoretel?"

Mercedes snarled at Ranger Rob but didn’t attack this time. "One day, puta, I’m gonna find a way to give you AIDS. We’ll see who’s the slut then."

I’m pretty sure that makes no sense, but it sounded good. Point to Mercedes.

Ranger Rob opened his mouth to retort but Katie’s gasp gave him pause. The slender girl’s eyes were wide, her mouth forming a perfect O as she gaped at her exam. Her mouth worked a couple of times before sound made its way out. "A—a D? Are you kidding me? How could he—I studied so hard for this test, how could… why would he…." She gulped against the sob that tried to escape her throat. Tears sparkled behind her glasses but she wiped them away quickly, then folded the exam and shoved it into her backpack.

The others gave her a moment to collect herself. Deflecting unwanted attention from the troubled girl, Rogan said, How about you, Mercedes? Did you get raped on the test too? He did not find it surprising that Katie hadn’t done well on the test. Fagersta really didn’t seem to like her much.

I don’t know if the dude even likes women at all. If I were him—and if I wasn’t married to the most wonderful woman on the planet—as a perverse college professor in a position of power, I’d be doing my best to get in that piece of hotness like a Dachshund through a badger hole.

Rogan shook his head. He loved his wife dearly and would never entertain the thought of infidelity, but Katie was easily the sexiest Asian girl he’d ever seen. Heck, the sexiest girl of any ethnicity, period, regardless of the fact that she was probably almost a decade his junior. He found it hard to believe that any man could resist at least attempting to charm her, even if only with a good grade once in a while. Katie was smoking hot. The hottest girl in San Francisco, if not the entire state.

Besides Jaia, of course. Thinking of his wife’s beautiful smile made the corners of his mouth turn up. She had that effect on him even when she wasn’t around. That was why he’d—

A low C, thank you very much. You don’t have to gloat about it just ’cause you got the best grade in the class, like always. Mercedes scowled at Rogan’s smiling face. "Why does Fagersta have a thing for you, anyway? In fact—I’ve been wondering this the whole semester—how are you even in this class? Aren’t you an undergrad?"

He wiped the grin off. Oops. That probably did make me look like an asshole, smiling like an idiot while Katie’s crying over her grade. Oh well. Mental note and all that.

Indeed I am. Junior year, specifically, though I know I look like I should be teaching here instead of walking around with a backpack like the rest of you children. Not that I’d voluntarily choose to live or work in this bubble of fantasy for a city. He glanced toward Fagersta, who had just stepped away from the next table after handing back exams. Another girl was in tears. Similar to how Ranger Rob got in here, I volunteered for two years in that blond bastard’s lab, doing whatever dirty work he wanted. With the laboratory block of learning I had from the medic course in the Army, I was already pretty familiar with all the equipment, and I even showed the good professor how to use some of the more antiquated stuff since that’s all they gave us to work with in the Delta course. He shrugged. After two years, I petitioned Fagersta and the SFSU Master’s Microbio Chair for the opportunity to take advanced classes without the prerequisites. I have… well, you know, straight A’s, and I haven’t learned a damn thing in my undergrad classes I don’t already know about biology and cells. I proved that to the Chair. I also gave them the sob story about being a veteran and using the GI Bill before my tuition allotment runs out, and about wanting to be closer to my Ph.D. than not before I hit thirty-five, and boom. Second-year Master’s in microbio.

Yeah, Mr. Special Forces could be your dad, Double Dees, Ranger Rob quipped. Probably is. Weren’t you in Seventh Special Forces Group, before you went into the National Guard? All you guys do is slap around prostitutes in Columbia with Secret Service guys and make little mulatto snotbags. And you love it in Frisco, don’t lie. I saw you jacking six dudes off in the Castro last week, loving every second of it. With both hands he made circles with fingers and thumbs and began pumping his fists at his face rhythmically, tongue hanging out, eyes rolling up in his head in ecstasy.

I was in Third Group, dipwad, Rogan corrected, "before I came into the National Guard and got me some of that good Post Nine-Eleven GI Bill money. I’m only going here because San Francisco State gives the highest military allowance for housing in the nation. And the free stuff you get from the Vets Lounge, where I met your dumb ass—all the tickets to games, and free meals at restaurants, admission to Cal Academy of Sciences—it’s a nice kicker. Also, Nineteenth Group Nasty Guard doesn’t particularly care if I show up to train on a regular basis, so I can focus on school. His lips twisted in mischievous grin. What were you doing in the Castro last week, honey-bear? Actually, don’t answer that. I’ll just look it up on Grindr."

Mulattos are black and white mix, dummy, not Mexican and white, Katie snapped at Ranger Rob. She slapped his hands away from his face to get him to stop pantomiming multiple masturbation techniques. Her eyes were glassy, but no other sign she’d been crying moments ago was evident. What are you guys talking about? What groups are you part of? I’ve never heard of the third group or nineteen groups or whatever, and I’m the student body VP organizer.

It’s Army talk, Rogan answered with a dismissive shake of his head. We don’t really need to get into it right now. We need to get everything prepped for the next trial anyway. Fagersta’s all over my ass about proving we can weaken the protein coat on the virus. I mean, I understand why he—

Mercedes exploded with a loud, disbelieving guffaw. "You don’t want to talk Army-talk all of a sudden? All you two ever do is talk about Army stuff! This one—she jabbed a finger at Ranger Rob—with all his, ‘Rangers are the best thing on the planet, Rangers give unicorns their wings, blah blah blah.’ Even you can’t get him to shut up about the stupid Ranger regimen."

Rogan laughed. The pretty Latina had done a fair imitation of Ranger Rob’s rapid-fire speech pattern when he was excited about something. Which, as Rogan thought about it, was almost always when he was talking about the four years he’d served with Second Battalion, Seventy-Fifth Ranger Regiment out of Fort Lewis, Washington.

Fuck you, Double Dees, Ranger Rob scowled. "Rangers are what give unicorns their wings. Way more of them get into CAG than gay-ass SF guys do. Delta Force is almost all Rangers, but we let a few Green Beanie queers in every now and then so we have free Girl Scout cookies year-round. He stopped a moment in thought. And for the free blowjobs."

You’re disgusting, Katie said.

Rogan leaned forward and rested thick arms on the table, all trace of humor gone. He stared at the former Ranger without blinking. You want to say something about Green Berets giving BJs again? he asked in a low voice.

Ranger Rob blanched at the fierceness in the Green Beret’s tone. Jesus, chill out, dude. Don’t become a panty-twister like these two sluts. He gestured at the girls.

Oh my God! Mercedes exclaimed in angry disbelief. Is all you guys ever do is talk about sucking each other’s dicks and killing people?

"This coming from the expert on gargling fat ballsacks!" Ranger Rob yelled, eyes wide, pointing both hands at her like blades.

Rogan forced his anger to subside while Mercedes and Ranger Rob duked it out vocally. For a small moment in time, he had been on the verge of throttling the wiry man, and visions of mangled bodies—bodies I mangled—flashed in his eye. He took a deep breath, banishing the flood of images from battles in Iraq and Afghanistan that threatened to do a hostile takeover of his brain. He could withstand as much smack-talking as the next man, but the sacrifice of his fellow Special Forces brethren over the last two wars had bred a deep, instinctual need to defend the honor of the Green Beret if he felt the name had been truly besmirched. Ranger Rob was good at getting under his skin in that regard, but he was no different than every SEAL he’d ever met.

Well, most of ’em, anyway. More than a few missions in A-stan and The ’Raq had involved one or the other, either Green Beret or Navy SEAL, saving each other in a bad spot. Not often, but even once was enough. He owed blood debts to SEALs—and Rangers, for that matter—and he would never forget that.

He spoke into a lull in the fighting. We don’t just talk about killing people. Katie had teamed up with Mercedes against Ranger Rob, but all three quieted when Rogan looked up with a serious expression. We’ve also had in-depth discussions about various ways to defecate during combat. That’s not for nothing.

See? Nobody ever thinks about that in the movies! Ranger Rob chortled. You’re in the middle of a four-hour firefight, but you ate that dirty haji’s dog-falafel that morning, and boom! Chocolate rain, assholes! Katie and Mercedes rolled their eyes in concert. And we never even got into combat jacks in this class. There’s still plenty on the table to talk about, not just how many dirty hajis we’ve both slaughtered.

Do I even want to know what a combat jack is? Rogan asked.

What, Special Forces? You never jacked it in a firefight? Man, me and Colby had a competition going—

Are you guys seriously going to talk about masturbating while you were in the process of killing people? Katie asked in a barely audible tone. Right now? Seriously?

I don’t know about Rob’s little group of bandits, Rogan said with both hands raised, but in the firefights I was in we didn’t have time to jack each other off.

C’mon, dude, I already told you we did a lot of cordon security for Delta Force, Rob complained. That’s how I know that it’s almost pure Rangers in the CAG Squadron. I’m not shitting you. All Ranger, all day. Rangers lead the way!

Yeah, yeah, sua sponte, carpe diem, and blow me, Rogan muttered, unwilling to get into another verbal confrontation over Rangers versus Green Berets. He wasn’t sure he would be able to keep himself from killing the man.

Mr. Johanssen. Doctor Fagersta was suddenly at the bearded man’s side. Ranger Rob jumped. "I believe I asked you to retrieve the culture of viral experiments for Mr. Dalait, Miss Delacruz, and… Mizz Wong’s next trial. The professor sniffed in Katie’s direction, then gave Rob another dead look. Or would another dock in your pay be preferable, so you may remain engaged in your current conversation? Which—as I know you to be in the ‘undeclared’ undergraduate major study category—is a conversation sure to have absolutely nothing to do with cellular and molecular biology, and therefore no place in this environment."

Fagersta leaned in almost imperceptibly, studying the former Ranger as though he were a particularly notable fecal specimen. It is interesting to note as well, Mr. Johanssen, that both myself and the Dean have received not one single complaint—formal or informal, whether written or in person—about your unorthodox behavior during class. This is a graduate program for molecular science, so one would wish to believe that serious future scientists would find the intestinal fortitude or, at the very least, human resolve to take personal issue with your reprehensible mannerisms. It seems that such is not the case. It is my thinking that those who are content to be the sheep upon which the wolf may prey are deserving of their lot in life—his blank stare was reserved solely for Katie Wong—and can expect me to allow the natural order of this dichotomy to continue. Social Darwinism reigns in my realm. That, and only that, is the reason you have not been forcibly removed from the campus on any number of occasions. Now, unless anyone with a true set of testicular organs desires to take issue with what I have said….

Katie looked away; Mercedes studied a scratch on the lab table’s surface; every other student eavesdropping on the professor’s oration found themselves deeply interested in the data on their computer screens. Rogan observed it all with bland indifference. Ranger Rob would know if he pushed Rogan too far. Otherwise, if everyone else was too scared to complain about the man’s inane antics or overly crass pattern of speech, Rogan felt much the same as Fagersta in that they deserved to suffer the consequences of inaction. This was not the only class he’d taken the last three years where loudmouthed morons shattered the desired quiet classroom environment with their phone conversations in class, sidebars about who is having sex with whom, and music or games played without headphones or regard to volume and how it affects others who are there to learn. He had not made many friends during his tenure at SF State because he was the only person who confronted said sociopaths with cutting sarcasm and outright threats, but in the last three years, he had been the only one to ever do so in his experience.

Sheeple with a paralyzing fear of actual confrontation. That about sums up the population of San Francisco State University, folks. Anyone can get away with being an asshole in class because no one has the guts to be uncivil to an uncivilized creature like Ranger Rob. Luckily, we have an understanding, he and I. At least, Rogan thought so. It had never really been an issue. Ranger Rob occasionally prodded the sleeping giant but was always careful to pull back before he awakened Rogan’s anger. Cunning as a damned coyote, that one. Guess that’s why I kind of like him.

Nope, got it, moving. Ranger Rob hurried to the large incubator in the corner of the lab. Fagersta waited at the table without saying a word until the former Ranger returned with the latticework of metal mesh that contained the vials of the baboon’s infected lung tissue. No one else spoke until Ranger Rob made an unnecessarily violent sweep of the table’s contents to clear an open spot for the tray.

Rogan had moved his old, worn Copenhagen tobacco tin out of the way prior to Ranger Rob’s arrival, but it still ended up on the floor with everyone’s lab notebooks, calculators and pens after Rob’s stunt. Aw, dude, what the hell? he complained, trying to reach around the man to retrieve his can from the floor. His efforts were blocked by Fagersta’s body as the professor stepped onto and past the items on the floor. Katie’s calculator crunched under the blond man’s heel. Fagersta paused only to stare at the Asian girl’s face for a sign of reaction—she tightened her lips but said nothing—before moving on to the next table.

God, what an asshole, she muttered under her breath.

Rogan again reached for the tobacco tin but was brushed aside by Ranger Rob. Dude, Rogan warned. Seriously. Don’t make me fuck you up.

I got it, I got it, stop crying, Ranger Rob said. Jesus, you’ll make preggo-tits start lactating with that noise. He picked up Katie’s calculator and lab book and placed it before her. She looked up at him with curiosity. I just, um, the former Ranger mumbled, I think that was messed up, you know. Sorry about that. He’s— He gauged the professor’s distance from the conversation, and decided on a different tack. I have an extra calculator in my bag. I’ll get it for you after he goes to the next table.

Katie stared at him, speechless, and nodded.

He bent to retrieve Rogan’s tobacco tin—he declined to pick up Mercedes’ stuff—but stopped short of handing it over. He gave Rogan a questioning look. Why do you even have a can of dip if you don’t dip, dude? He rolled the tin back and forth between his hands. I’ve never seen you with a chaw in. And I’ve never seen a spitter, either. What’s in here? He popped the top of the tin off.

Don’t— Rogan said, but it was too late.

As long as he doesn’t spill it....

Ranger Rob sniffed at the contents, his nose wrinkling in distaste. What is this, dude? Mud? You got mud in here?

It’s dirt, dickface, Rogan said, attempting to grab the can. It’s for good luck.

Ranger Rob snatched it away, spilling a fair amount of dirt in the process—right over the vials of cooked BTR virus, some of which had the caps removed. A pile of plastic tops sat on the table between Katie and Mercedes. Not so fast, eh there, Special Forces? he laughed.

"Pinche puta!" Mercedes screeched at the same time Katie flew off her seat to cover the open vials with her hands, shrieking in protest. Rogan whipped a hand over Ranger Rob’s wrist and held it with an iron grip, then deliberately applied pressure on the lab assistant’s hand until he could feel bones grind together. Rob released the tobacco tin with a cry. Rogan caught it with a deft hand before any more dirt spilled from it. He set it down on the table, thought for a moment, then applied more pressure to the back of the Ranger’s wrist, bending his hand inward toward his inner forearm till it was nearly inverted.

Ranger Rob howled in pain. Ahhh! You’re gonna break my wrist, dude! Let go! Let go, please!

Rogan held his grip but stopped applying further pressure. Say please again.

Rob cried out in pain. Please! Please let me go! Seriously, my wrist—it’s gonna break!

Rogan leaned in and spoke so soft that Rob had to strain to hear his words. Say please again. The Green Beret pushed Rob’s hand inward, and he howled louder. "This time, Robert, I want you to make me believe you are asking me for something, actually asking me. Because—Robert—I don’t mind if you ask me for something, and I grant you permission to do that thing. But I really, really—he cranked on Rob’s hand and the Ranger fell to his knees, near tears—do not appreciate when someone takes something of mine without my permission. He gave Rob a pleasant smile that held no hint of sympathy or compassion. Do we understand? Remember, say please."

Please, yes! I understand! Please. Let me go, please. I won’t touch your shit again, I promise. Please, my wrist.

Rogan looked up and saw the entire population of SFSU’s graduate program in microbiology staring at him, frozen, gripped by the scene unfolding before them. Katie looked stricken, while Mercedes had an interested expression on her face. Most of the rest of the room’s inhabitants appeared alarmed and confused, but no one moved or said a word.

In the back of the lab, by the incubator, Fagersta smiled. It never reached his eyes.

***

Nah, he didn’t say anything. Rogan burped and took another swig of his beer. After I let Ranger Rob go, Fagersta just moved on to the next table and berated them for a while about their data. Everyone else just sat back down and started whispering like gossip girls. He paused, a mystified look on his face. "You know what the craziest thing was? After class, out in the hallway, I caught Ranger Rob giving Katie a hug. Like a no-shit, non-rapey, honest to goodness hug. And she ate it up. It was so odd, I mean— he shook his head in wonder. Whatever. Just goes to show, women love assholes. Unbelievable."

He leaned back into his chair and set his lager before him on the dining room table. Toby shook his head and stroked his bushy goatee, a grunt his only reply. Rogan poured a few fingers of whiskey into each of the four shot glasses arrayed on the table, then passed one to Toby and one to Jejo in turn. The fourth sat at the empty chair to Rogan’s left, where an open but otherwise untouched wheat blonde stood, condensation running down its sides.

Time for a shot. He lifted his tumbler in the air. "To good friends and better men than we shall ever be. May they rest their heads in heaven’s beds for all eternity. Salud." He clinked his glass with Toby’s and Jejo’s and swallowed the fiery liquid in a single, smooth gulp.

Whoa! Jejo choked. His round face reddened and he removed his square-framed glasses to wipe at his eyes. That’s some powerful stuff. What’s it called again?

Do all Filipinos get so red when they drink? Jaia gets a little rosy-cheeked when she’s drunk, too. "Macallan. The Macallan, to be exact, and smooth was the word you were looking for, not powerful. Eighteen beautiful years of age, and totally legal now, so it’s not rape when you make love to this teenager. Rogan set his glass down and poured another shot. This counts as the one mulligan you get for not remembering its hallowed name. Do not let there be another. Amen."

Remember that bottle of Johnny Walker Blue that I had waiting for you in your locker when you got back from Iraq? Toby smiled. He tapped Jejo on the shoulder. That was the best shot ever. I was on the first plane back, and Skitz had to wait for the second plane, which came back into the States two days later. First thing I did—after kissing the ground as I got off the plane—was find some JW Blue so we could have a victory shot when Skitz finally got to the demobilization station. He sighed, nostalgic. Seventeen months of deployment, two extensions, and a shitload of death and destruction. Best shot ever. I’ll never forget that whiskey.

Rogan handed out glasses of Macallan, and they drank to the memory of one-hundred-and-eighty-dollar bottles of scotch. After another bout of choking, Jejo asked, So is that when you decided to go from military police to Special Forces? Right after coming back from Iraq?

Sure was, Rogan affirmed, sipping his beer to relieve the burning whiskey in his throat.

That seems—I don’t know—kind of crazy, Jejo laughed. "You just left a warzone—both of you—and you immediately decide to join an organization that guarantees you will go back to war? Who does that?"

Speaking of crazy, Toby was a madman over there. Rogan tipped his beer up for a clink against his fellow veteran’s glass. He got a tattoo on his arms for each one of the dudes he killed in ambushes. Toby gave a tight smile behind his gray-streaked goatee and nodded.

Jejo stared at Toby’s massive forearms. From wrist to biceps—which was as far as he could see before the huge man’s shirt cuff blocked the view—every square inch of exposed skin was covered in an intricate mural of tattoos. The Filipino man swallowed, then adjusted a stylish sports coat over his rotund belly nervously. Really?

White teeth flashed from the cavernous depths of his bearded chin as Toby laughed. No, not really. He clinked his beer against Jejo’s, who almost dropped his surprise. When the chubby Filipino heaved a relieved sigh, Toby remarked, I ran out of room, so some of them didn’t make it on my arms. Most of my back is covered too.

Oh my God, Jejo whispered.

Rogan laughed and raised his glass. To the American Bastard of Baghdad, Mister Tobias Carl Queeth the Third! The two Army veterans swallowed the remnants of their beer, then slammed the bottles down and fist-bumped with both sets of knuckles. As Jejo took a weak swig off his ale, the conversation taking place in the corner of the dining room caught Rogan’s ear.

"Say spoon."

Ffoon.

"Say special."

Ffecial.

A tittering of laughter came from the children’s play table in his comfortable Redwood City home, where his wife and niece practiced proper pronunciation. The sounds prompted Rogan to look over at the duo, eyebrow raised. His wife was chuckling at the four-year-old’s inability to pronounce the compound sp sound in her ffeech.

Um… speech.

"Say spotted spittoon," his wife coaxed, a wide, happy smile lighting up her beautiful face.

Ffotted thfthitTOON, his niece crowed, giggling as Jaia released gales of laughter at Mouthpiece’s bungled attempt at simple adjectives and nouns. Jaia turned to Rogan, broad grin in place, triumphant. As she said nearly every time Mouthpiece accompanied her father for a visit, Rogan knew the pregnant Filipina loved her niece—whom she referred to as her nene—more than almost anything in the world. Rogan stared at Mouthpiece, unsmiling, then lifted two fingers to his eyes. He pointed his index and middle finger at Mouthpiece’s eyes, then back at his own, and made a cutting gesture with his thumb at his throat. Jaia stared daggers at Rogan. She put her small body—all four-feet-eleven-inches—between her niece and Rogan, breaking line of sight, and gathered the child in her arms for a vigorous, comforting hug.

Mouthpiece wrapped her short arms around Jaia’s slim upper torso as far as she could reach while Jaia made joyful exclamations of love for her niece. The little girl poked her head around her aunt’s arm and made eye contact with Rogan. With Jaia’s attention otherwise occupied, Rogan tossed the four-year-old a wink. She winked back, jutting both thumbs up from tiny fists behind Jaia’s back, and gave him a huge smile. Rogan returned the thumbs-up, then coughed and turned the gesture into a stretch when his wife turned to glare at him again. I wish you wouldn’t pick on her so much, Woobie, she admonished. She’s just a little girl.

Rogan stared back, both eyebrows raised, as if confused by his wife’s tone. Jaia sniffed, then turned back to her niece, set her face to glow-mode, and continued with the language literacy lesson. Mouthpiece dropped her hands before Jaia could see the four-year-old had been making faces at Uncle Rogey while her back was turned. Rogan grinned and turned to accept the beer Toby had opened for him.

Okay, MP, Jaia said. "Let’s begin again. Say… spic."

Ffiiiiiick, pronounced Mouthpiece with care. She fidgeted with the hem of her yellow sundress even as she giggled at her tita’s excited encouragement.

Wait. What? You want her to say what, now, wife?

Jaia’s pearly whites flashed from her pretty face at Mouthpiece’s matching grin, her smoky brown eyes glowing with the excitement of teaching. "Spic. Sp-sp-sp-spic, she drew out the word, demonstrating the mouth shape one needs to form in order to pronounce the compound letters. She looked over at Rogan when she felt the pointed silence coned in her direction. Her smile faded a little. …You know, ‘spic-and-span.’"

Jejo began to chuckle as he caught onto what Rogan meant. He finished his beer and settled back in his chair to watch as husband and wife hashed out the particulars of the English language.

What? Jaia frowned. She has trouble with enunciation, and I’m trying to help her before she goes to kindergarten like this and gets made fun of.

Wife, she’ll get a lot more than made fun of if you teach her to say that in the middle of boat-sketching hour the first day of school. She’ll end up in the principal’s office.

What are you talking about? Jaia asked, exasperated. She turned to the short, big-bellied Filipino. Jejomar? I know he’s making fun of me, but I don’t understand his cryptic comments. When Jejo laughed louder and Toby joined in with a deep baritone chuckle, she snapped, Don’t you dare take his side again, Jejo! He’s always making fun of me like he makes fun of everyone, and all you ever do is laugh. You’re supposed to support me, Jejomar Castro Punongbayan. We’re blood, dammit. Your sister is supposed to be more important to you than your brother-in-law.

For a kindergarten teacher, you sure let a lot of curse words out in the presence of small children, Toby teased. His chair creaked as he shifted his bulk forward to rest muscled forearms on the table. The small Filipina and the huge ex-soldier were almost as close as brother and sister—Toby’s wife Julie and their seven-year-old daughter Hailey were like a sister and daughter to Jaia as well—but they fought playfully about as much as they sat and enjoyed each other’s company. Toby shared Rogan’s penchant for ribbing the little Filipina at every opportunity, probably, Rogan supposed, because it was so easy to get her back up. Her anger could flare into the heat of the sun if she was pushed too quickly, though, even more so since Rogan had gotten her with child five months ago. He decided to cut off her angry retort before she could start in on the big man and cause her blood pressure to rise to an unhealthy level.

Here, let me try a couple of literacy phrases, okay? His face lit up as he turned to his niece, all smiles, crouching down in his roller-chair as he scooted closer to the play table. Jaia pursed her full lips, unsure where this was headed. He adjusted his close-fitting jeans so they wouldn’t ride up his crotch. He preferred cargo pants when he had his druthers, but the price of admission for marrying the most wonderful woman on the planet was he wore whatever she wished. Who else am I supposed to look good for anyway? He gave his wife a loving look, studying her full lips and long eyelashes, before giving his niece a gentle poke in the belly to get her attention. Jaia frowned, suspicious.

Dude, he addressed the little girl, do me a solid and say, ‘slant-eye.’

Flant eye, parroted Mouthpiece. Jejo, at the dining table, let out a loud guffaw.

Rogan! Jaia smacked him on the shoulder. Don’t!

What? Rogan’s face took on a wounded puppy appearance. It’s an italicized ‘I’, what’s the big deal? Dude, back to his niece, say, ‘chink.’

Oh my God, knock it off! Jaia rolled her eyes.

Chink! yelled Mouthpiece in perfect imitation. Her father’s laughter increased in volume as he clutched his rotund belly in delight. Jaia’s eyes narrowed in her brother’s direction, but the look of displeasure served to make him laugh even harder. Toby’s giant laugh rattled windows in the kitchen.

What? Rogan was wide-eyed innocence. "It’s a part of a chain! Don’t you want her to learn to ff-ff-ff-ffeak correctly? Yo, dude—"

Whaaaaat, duuuuude! shrieked Mouthpiece with a huge grin on her tiny face, understanding that Daddy was laughing and Uncle Dude was smiling at her, which he almost never did when Tita Jaia could see, so fun times must be happening, and she participated best in fun time events by being extraordinarily loud. I’m, I not saying, dude, I—

Dude! Rogan snapped his fingers in front of his niece’s eyeballs to attract her attention. Focus, dude. Say, ‘slope head.’

Alright, Rogan, I get it! Enough! Jaia had, just now, gotten it, realizing she had been attempting to send her favored niece to school on the premise that she kick off her school career by using a racial slur directed against Mexicans. The word spic wasn’t generally accepted as kosher phraseology at Glen Park Elementary in San Francisco, where she worked and insisted that MP attend when she was of age. The south-city school had a heavy Latino presence. That wasn’t what I meant, and you know it.

Slope head? It refers to people who like to ski, wife. Rogan shook his head at the tiny, doll-faced woman sadly. I don’t know what you meant by whatever you’re talking about. I’m just trying to help prepare duderotomy here for her sure-to-be wonderful first day of school. Yo, dude, say ‘wetback’—

"That’s it, Woobie! I said I get it! Leave us alone, now, and let me play with my little nene. You get back to work. Jaia turned to Mouthpiece. Come on, MP, let’s go into the kids room and we’ll read a book, so Uncle Rogey can concentrate on his homework like a good little boy, and not just drink with the other boys. Do you want to read a book with Tita?"

Mary-Paulie wanna read with Tita! I have four, six books that Daddy is read to Mary-Paulie when MP is good and…. Mouthpiece’s voice dampened mercifully as Jaia led her into another room to read and practice ffelling words.

Jejomar was wiping his eyes in the dining room. I don’t know how Jaia didn’t realize what she was saying to Mary-Paulette. It would have been disastrous if she’d blurted out ‘spic’ her first day at school. Affable Jejomar always laughed at Rogan’s racist jokes, a trait that endeared him to Rogan greatly. He knew racism wasn’t Rogan’s problem, it was that he couldn’t resist saying inappropriate things at exactly the right time, or wrong time depending on how you looked at it. That was important because Rogan almost explicitly made ethnic epithets and pejorative statements about Asians when he was around Jejo and Jaia.

I’m hoping your daughter puts out a couple of the phrases I was trying to teach her, Rogan smiled wryly at Jejo. It’d be the best if she ended up in your sister’s kinder class. He raised his eyes heavenward. Oh, please, Lord, let the sun shine on me when that time comes around. Thank you ever-so-much, Jesus, Joseph, and Mary. He made the sign of the cross.

Oh, good one, Jejomar congratulated sarcastically. I’ve never heard that before. His rotund features echoed his sister’s in that his smooth skin and boyish face made him appear fifteen years younger than the forty-one he’d lived. As it was, with his bald head and stylish clothing he could easily snag a woman ten years his junior and nobody would bat an eye. Unlike when Rogan and Jaia were together out in public. He towered a full foot above his wife’s small frame, and though she was two years his senior at thirty-four, it seemed when people saw them together they assumed he had ordered a Fresh Off the Boat illegal off the internet when she was eleven years old and just now let her out of the basement to go for a meal at Jollibee’s.

I feel the need to keep ’em coming, but I’ve got work to do, so I won’t. For now. You’re welcome. Rogan grinned. Remember, I’m not racist, I’m—

—just an asshole, Jejomar finished with him, laughing. Most American citizens—i.e. white folk—were just polite when they were introduced to Jejo, figuring he had an ethnic name. It was, in a way. Only Filipinos would name their child after the combination of the first syllable of the name of each member of the most holy of families to ever visit Bethlehem. Rogan abused the Filipino tendency to create unique names for their children as often as possible.

Come on, Skitz, Toby drawled with a smirk, we all know you’re not going to finish that paper tonight. What’s it for, again? Your lesbian class?

Not just lesbian, though there are more of them than gay dudes, Rogan agreed. He looked at the title of the unfinished essay on the open laptop before him and quoted, ‘Coloring Queer: Imagining Communities in the San Francisco Bay Area.’ Ah, you’re right. I’m not in the mood for more queer history tonight. Other than listening to you and Jejo recite the time you proposed to each other—that story never gets old.

Wait, you’re serious? Jejo asked, consternated. You really have a queer history class?

Yep. SFSU-mandated higher education requirement. I didn’t think I’d get anything out of the class, which is why I tried to find the one with the most lesbians. At least I’d have something nice to think about while I sat in class, right? But to be honest, the last few months have taught me about a world of terrible shit concerning what the gay community has gone through the last forty or fifty years. It’s not pretty. I never really thought about it before going to SF State, but society in general are a bunch of assholes toward gay people. It’s messed up.

You’ve never thought that society was full of assholes? Toby asked, deadpan. Really, Mister ‘I Hate Everyone and Wish the World Was Full of Zombies So I Could Shoot Everyone in the Face Legally’?

I don’t hate everyone, the Special Forces veteran returned, wounded. All I’ve ever said is I’m glad I learned how to fix people who are hurt, so I can treat my family and friends, treat the people who matter to me. Everyone else can suck a huge boner.

Wait. Jejo slapped both palms on the table. That’s not what I’ve heard from my sister at all. All she ever talks about is the time you helped that little kid who broke his arm on that bicycle trail—

Or the time you pulled those old ladies out of their car when it flipped over and caught on fire, Toby chimed in with a grin.

Or the time you saved that guy’s life when he had a heart attack in the middle of Costco, Jejo said with a nod. I don’t believe the hating-everyone thing for a second. You’re a good man, Rogan. Everyone knows it. Hell, even my evil mother likes you, and she doesn’t like anybody, even her own children.

Whoa-whoa-whoa, Rogan held up both hands. You guys need to knock that shit off right now. First of all, he pointed a finger at Jejo’s face, "that little kid flipped over right in front of us on the riding trail. It was either drag his little ass out of the way or leave him to blood-clot the rest of the riders on the path. There was no altruism involved. Jaia was screaming at me to help him anyway, so that doesn’t count at all. In fact, she screamed at me to help those old ladies and that fat-ass dude at Costco, too. She’s the only reason I help people I don’t know. For the most part, I hate everyone in San Francisco. If they were zombies, I’d happily shoot them all between the eyes, even that little kid."

He paused, then grew somber and set his beer down. In an instant, his eyes were a thousand miles away as he stared at the table top.

Toby saw the look in his fellow veteran’s eyes and spoke. You want to talk about it?

The Special Forces veteran shook his head after a moment, not meeting Toby’s eye.

Talk about what? Jejo asked, looking back and forth between the two soldiers.

Toby’s gaze drifted down to his beer. A full minute passed in silence. Toby glanced up to see Rogan hadn’t moved, and his eyes still had the thousand-yard stare. He spoke in a soft voice. I haven’t asked because you never offered, Skitz. But I’ve always wanted to hear about how… about what happened when you, you know… got the Medal.

Jejo heard the emphasis on the last word, but looked confused. The Medal? You’re talking about the one in the lockbox in the garage?

Rogan gave his brother-in-law a sharp look. What do you know about that? How’d you see it?

Jaia, the Filipino answered simply. She wanted me to see it. She’s very proud of it, and very proud of you, Rogan. But she said she doesn’t know the whole story, just what’s written on the citation. You never talk about it with her. But I read what’s on the citation. He stared at the veteran’s face without blinking, then barked a laugh. It’s incredible. I can’t believe you did all that, and that you lived through it and are here having a beer with us. It’s…. he fished for words, but found nothing to express his astonishment. He repeated, It’s incredible. Amazing. I’d love to hear about it in your own words.

Your journalistic instincts kicking in, then? Rogan asked, sarcastic.

No, not at all, the short man returned without taking offense. I’m curious. I think it’s probably an amazing story. It has to be, if the citation is even close to accurate. My beat covers the financial world, but I still pay attention when news channels flash up ceremonies at the White House honoring soldiers, ever since Jaia married one. But when the President read your citation… unbelievable.

Hold up, Toby warned. "It’s not really cool to ask about stuff like that. And it’s especially not cool to hint that there’s inaccuracies in the government-sponsored written record of the events