Redaction: Extinction Level Event (Part I) (32 page)

“Oh, yes.” She lowered her voice. “It’s about Denise, poor lamb. I guess losing her children was just too much for her.”

He rolled his shoulders. Tension popped along his spine. Dead children. That explained a lot. Had he been the one who had collected them? After climbing into the cab, he raked his fingers through his hair and slammed the door shut behind him. There’d been so many... “Yes, I understand. If you could just give us the address, we’ll be there in about ten minutes.”

“No need for that, Sergeant Major.” The woman’s voice became muffled and a door creaked. Had she shut herself in a closet so the little ones didn’t hear? “Henry will be at the gate, waiting for you. He’ll take you right to Denise’s.”

He certainly hoped the little ones hadn’t found the body. They’d been through enough. All of them had. Damned selfish of suicides to leave other traumatized individuals to find their corpses. “Much obliged, ma’am.”

“Address?” After donning a fresh mask, Robertson started the engine before shifting the truck into gear.

He closed his phone. David pressed against the seat as the vehicle lurched forward. “They’re going to meet us at the gate.”

The private nodded while steering down the deserted street.

Nearly deserted. An audience of rats watched them pass. Plague infested. If only. David cleared his throat and reached into his pocket for the remains of his MRE. The condiments pack—the Hersey bar in this post-Redaction world. With its little packets of salt, sugar, toilet tissue, gum, matches and Tabasco Sauce, it won friends and influenced people.

Robertson slowed the truck as they neared the intersection. In white bunny-suits, technicians ghosted over the scene—snapping pictures, collecting bullet casings and packaging the dead. With less than twenty bodies, they should have been done three hours ago. Either these guys were new to MA duty or they feared the gangbangers would sue.

He hoped one of them called. It would make it easier to wipe out the rest.

The Marine on duty ducked under the tape and jogged over to them. His finger remained near the trigger of his SAW as he climbed the step to be level with the truck window. “Find any more bodies?”

“Not there but we have a new one across the way.” Robertson adjusted the metal piece on his face mask.

The Marine pushed his helmet up so David could see his eyes. “Any more updates?”

David scratched his back against the bucket seat. So much for him being anonymous. Damn, his ass and everything else might get handed to him if word got back to the higher ups. “Not at the moment.”

The Marine fished out a booklet from his pocket and tore off a page. “Our CO thinks if things get bad we might need a fall back point.” He folded the paper and handed it to Robertson. “Since he grew up here, he thought your contact might want some first-hand information. It’s a private number.”

Accepting the paper, he tucked it into his jacket. “I’ll pass it along. Tell him to check his messages.”

“We all are, Sergeant Major.” The Marine jumped down and jogged back to his unit.

Robertson pressed the gas pedal and angled the vehicle around the blood spatter in the road. Slapping at the visor, he blocked the setting sun so shade slanted across his eyes. “Well that was fun. Hope whoever has the loose lips doesn’t get you shot, Big D.”

Nodding, David glanced out the window. He grabbed a water bottle from the back and chugged half of it down. His mouth still felt dry. The fancy block wall of the gated community came into view. “It doesn’t exactly take a rocket scientist to figure out I was the leak. After all, I’m the only one in contact with the Doc. My orders are common knowledge.”

The truck slowed as they approached the break in the wall for the entrance. Robertson hit the blinker even though they were the only ones on the street. “Do you think we’ll have to bug out?”

Hell yeah. He glanced down the road, seeing not the houses and street but the nuclear power plant sitting some seventy miles away. A time bomb waiting to sterilize everything in its fallout’s path. “Mavis is trying to convince the Surgeon General to organize drop points so the survivors will have what they need to reach rendezvous points.”

“God-damn-fucking-shit.” In a wide turn, Robertson turned into the entrance and slammed on his brakes.

David braced his hand on the dash before his seatbelt locked up. “Only four swear words?”

Wheelchair Henry rolled back and forth in front of the gate. He waved from almost underneath the truck’s grill before entering the code to let them in.

Robertson scratched his chin before leaning forward to rest his forearms on the steering wheel. “Four is enough. The Doc in charge seems to be a bright woman if she’s considering a strategic retreat. Of course, an ant with a fart of a thought is better than those dumb asses in Washington.”

David chuckled. “I can assure you, Mavis has more than one thought in her head.”

The truck inched forward, crowding the opening gate. With a backward glance over his shoulder, Wheelchair Henry shot through the gap. He continued rolling across the street and up the curb. By the time Robertson guided the truck into the neighborhood, the older man was parked on the porch of the house catty-corner from the entrance.

With expert maneuvering, Robertson turned, jockeyed, and then backed the truck into the driveway. He killed the engine, but kept the refrigeration running in the back. “With as many meat packages we’ve picked up today, I’m glad I restocked the truck.”

David grabbed a package of gear and tossed one to the private before jumping to the driveway. “We’ll do a quick assessment of the scene before we interview the witnesses.”

“Sure thing, Big D.” Robertson’s boots hit the ground. They slammed their doors together and strode to the back of the truck.

Wheelchair Henry set his chair’s brake at the end of the porch. “We all found her. But I’m the only one who went inside when she didn’t answer the door.” He dragged a hand down his craggy features. His lips were a slash across his face when they reappeared. “Them kids have been through enough, and to find her the first day they’re here. The woman is just damned inconsiderate of others.”

Letting the old man vent, David unlocked the latch before rolling up the truck’s gate. Cold air washed over his skin, bringing along with it the smells of waste, blood and decay.

“She acted like she was the only one who’d lost someone, lost their kids.” Wheelchair Henry swiped at his eyes. “We all lost someone.” For a moment, his eyes clouded over. “But we don’t give up. We don’t kill ourselves. There are so many other folks in need. So many kids without parents.”

He slumped in his seat and bowed his head.

After removing one of the scene processing kits out of the truck, David rested his hand on the other man’s shoulder. Muscle pushed back against his palm. “I don’t know why anyone takes their own life, sir. I do know that sometimes people just get lost in their own pain and can’t seem to find a way out.”

Wheelchair Henry sniffed before vertebra by vertebra he sat, shoulders squared in his chair. “Not everyone’s cut out for war. And this damn flu waged a nasty war on us all.”

“Amen.” Robertson yanked the gate closed and latched it. He didn’t bother locking it. Everyone knew by now that valuables wouldn’t be with the bodies. They were always bagged and tagged separately.

David stepped into a brand new bunny suit and zipped up the slick material. Grabbing a roll of duct tape from his kit, he sealed off his ankles. “Can you call the others back while we do a preliminary check of the scene?”

“I’ll get them.” Wheelchair Henry released the brake on his chair. “They should be done delivering the rations to the others.”

Robertson snapped his gloves over the end of his sleeves then picked up the camera. After flipping the screen, he hit the record button and the lens cover retracted while it protruded from the camera body. He focused on the house front, recording the address while taking in the condition of the front facing windows. “Sergeant Major David Dawson and Private First Class Casanova Robertson recording the death of Denise Powers of Six-Four-Two South Mayflower Drive.”

David donned his own gloves while Robertson droned on—relating who found the body, how it was reported and the presumption of suicide. After the private finished scanning the porch and the gravel in front of the windows, David entered the house and caught sight of the remains hanging in front of him. A rolling office chair lay on its side not too far from her. The smell of excrement seeped through his face mask. He paused, listening to the buzz of flies.

The skin between his shoulder blades itched. Her head was at the wrong angle. It seemed to be broken, not at all consistent with a slow strangulation implied by the chair. “Damn.”

Brushing his arm, Robertson paused next to him. “Mother-Fucking-shit-eating-cock-sucking-no-balled-bastards.”

“Exactly.” David closed his eyes and counted. One. Two. Three. Why couldn’t things just be simple? Five. Six. Was it too much to ask? Eight. Nine. Ten. “I’ll check the back door. Maybe we’ll get lucky and the murderer will have left a bloody fingerprint behind.”

Robertson snorted.

A man could dream. After the private panned the open space, David walked to the back. Damn. French doors. He tried the knob. And locked. Had the killer gotten inside another way?

“You think Wheelchair Henry and the others knew?” Robertson focused on the chair.

“No. The idea of suicide pissed him off. Learning that a murderer had gotten into his world would have made him livid.” No soldier like the perimeter breached on his watch. David pulled down a vertical blind slat and peered outside. Mud spotted the concrete. Hot damn! The perp had left tracks on the patio. Not many, true, but it might be enough to ID the bastard. “Robertson, Santa left you a present on the patio.”

The private shifted his attention from filming the kitchen to glance at David. “I told you I was good, Big D. The ladies must have told the Red One just how good I was.”

“You’re confusing the Naughty and Nice lists again.”

Robertson finished panning through the kitchen and headed toward the patio. “You mean they’re not the same thing?”

“I’m going to check out the upstairs before our witnesses arrive.” Crossing the room, he eyed the pictures on the wall. Art mostly. Had the grieving mother purged the family photos as a means to cope? Unlikely, Wheelchair Henry had indicated that she wasn’t coping. So what happened to them?

“Sure thing, Big D.” Robertson untaped a small measuring tape from the side of the camera. “I’ll get the footprint recorded then meet you up there.”

Taking the carpeted stairs two at a time, David quickly reached the loft. Boxes filled the open space. A bunny peeked over the edge of one. He wrinkled his nose. That was a different smell. Not alcohol precisely, but kind of sweeter and fuel related. Perfume, maybe. It wasn’t exactly an appealing scent. But then again, what did he know. The stuff probably sold for hundreds of dollars an ounce at Macy’s.

Crossing the loft, he headed for the double doors of the bedroom. A king-size bed took up most of the space. Blue light flickered from the TV hanging on the wall. His gaze skimmed around the room. Single glass of wine, half full. Nearly empty bottle of wine. Mussed bedcovers. All the weird wood cut signs of encouragement were upright. So, no signs of a struggle.

Did that mean she knew her murderer?

Or had she been too drunk to wake up?

He’d make sure to request blood alcohol levels. Grief drove lots of folks to the bottle. Of course, there weren’t many who had any booze left. He made a mental note to check for a wine cooler.

“Sergeant Major, we’re back.” Wheelchair Henry’s thready baritone entered the room.

“Be right down,” he shouted back. Walking forward, he followed a cable from the wall-mounted flatscreen to a Blu-Ray player sitting on a dresser that had seen better days. He eyed it and the matching nightstand. The things were probably designed to look like they were flea market rejects. With his gloved fingers, he picked up the open DVD case and checked the cover. Joshua’s birthday party. Nothing like a dead kid’s birthday party to lift your spirits. Returning the case to the dresser, he spied the face down picture frame.

Could he get lucky twice in one day?

He turned it over. Man, woman and two kids in a posed portrait. Not from Wally world either. So if Mom and kiddies were dead, where was Dad? He eyed the blond hair, the blue eyes and the smirk. The perfection set David’s teeth on edge. He might be the kind of guy to blame his wife for the death of the kids.

Taking the photo, he headed out of the room. The neighbors would know. Especially if the guy was as big of an ass as he looked. His footsteps echoed on the steps.

“Hey, Big D.” Below, Robertson peeked over the top of his camera. “Can you right the chair for me before I run out of memory.”

“Sure thing.” David angled back toward the front of the house and the hanging body. Only the shadows of his witnesses could be seen through the door. “Ready?”

“Ready.”

He carefully set the chair upright. A good foot and a half gap separated the woman’s feet from the chair seat. “With the casters, she couldn’t have stood on the back rest to slip the noose on.”

Robertson nodded before clicking the camera off. “And let’s not forget that her neck is broken.”

Yeah, there was that. “You begin processing while I do the interviews.”

“Toss the kits inside, will you?” The private ejected the SD card from the camera. “There’s not enough room on this one for the photos.”

David waved with the picture frame on his way out. “Will do.”

Tucking it under his arm, he tugged off his gloves, making sure to tuck one inside the other. Not that he’d touched anything dangerous. He hoped. He just found it hard to write with them on. When he stepped onto the porch, all eyes turned toward him. “Be with you folks in just a minute.”

Wheelchair Henry nodded. The women didn’t move. The boy paled.

Now that was an interesting reaction. Given the state of Stash’s body, David would have thought the kid would be a little more inured to death and violence. Then again, maybe no one should grow accustomed to violent death. There should be some innocence left in the world. Crouching next to the kits, he removed his electronic pad then set the bags inside the door and partially closed it.