Precipice: V Plague Book 9 (12 page)

Close to
thirty seconds passed without seeing any more infected.  This should have
heartened me, but I still had the problem of the fucking Russians.  With
no idea of how much time had passed since the Mi-24 had crashed, I couldn’t
even begin to guess how long I might have before they showed up in force. 
And they would be pissed when they got here and found what I had caused. 
Oh well.  No day is truly complete if I haven’t pissed off the Russians.

Turning, I
re-scanned the echoing interior with the night vision scope.  No
aircraft.  No Hummer.  No Bradley.  No Vietnam era Willy’s
Jeep.  Not even a Chevy, Dodge or Ford.  But there was something that
caught my eye.  Moving deeper I clicked on my light as I approached, very
surprised to find a Vespa scooter in an Air Force hangar. 

I checked
the door, still not seeing any infected, before kneeling and looking the
machine over.  It was battered and dirty, but the engine was clean and the
tires were almost new.  Someone had taken care of it.  I didn’t know
why it was here, but it was better than nothing.  The only problem was it
had wheels that looked smaller in diameter than my leg.  The damn thing
was tiny and I’d look like a circus clown riding it, not that I cared how I
looked.  It would move me faster than staying on foot.  If my weight
didn’t break something when I sat down on it.  This should be interesting.

The little
engine in the scooter started easily, but the buzzy sound it made as it idled
failed to inspire my confidence.  I had muscled the surprisingly heavy
machine out of the nook it was being stored in, pleased to find the key in the
ignition.  Not that it would have taken a master thief to figure out how
to hot wire it, but I was glad to not have to waste the time.

Engine
happily putting away as it idled, I situated my rifle on its sling, knocked the
kickstand up with my foot and swung a leg over the cracked vinyl seat. 
Lowering my weight, I was dismayed when the suspension compressed and kept
going.  I felt a bump when it came down on its stops.  Apparently I
was heavier than the teenage girls you normally see riding the damn things near
college campuses and in tourist towns.  Why oh why couldn’t there have
been a nice Harley Fat Boy, or even one of the insanely fast Japanese bikes?

Kicking
myself for worrying about something so incredibly stupid, I revved the
throttle, grimaced when the sound reminded me of a gas powered leaf blower,
then let the clutch out and started rolling.  I aimed for the door and
bounced over its steel tracks as I passed out into the night.  The two
aircraft were still burning and I realized I had no idea where I was going.

Remembering
seeing a small town shortly before we were over the base, I turned north and
looked for a way off the system of runways.  I wished I knew how long it
had been since the helo I was riding in had gone down.  That would at
least give me an idea of how much time I might have before reinforcements
showed up, but I didn’t have a clue.  I didn’t think it had been long
based on how fiercely the Gulf-stream and Hind were still burning from the
missile strike, but I’ve been wrong before.

The Vespa
accelerated slowly, eventually getting me up to 35 miles an hour.  I
twisted the throttle harder, but that was apparently the top speed the little
scooter was capable of with my big ass on board.  At least it felt
relatively stable.  As long as I didn’t try to turn.

It didn’t
take long to find a way off the tarmac and onto a street that paralleled the
flight line.  I continued my northerly direction of travel, quickly
reaching a four-way intersection with signs that directed traffic to the BX
(Base Exchange), Chapel and the Main Gate.  I started to turn for the main
gate but at the last moment reversed course and headed for the BX.

A BX, or PX
(Post Exchange) if you’re in the Army, is a massive store that sells just about
anything and everything you could want.  Think of a Wal-Mart Super Center
and throw in even more crap and you’ve got the idea.  Prices are dirt
cheap compared to going into town and you don’t pay sales tax, which is one
reason so many military retirees want to live close to a base.  Part of
their retirement benefits includes privileges to shop at the PX, or BX, or
whatever the hell each branch decides to call it.

The building
would be huge with about a thousand hiding places.  It was close, so I
should be able to reach it and take cover before any Russians arrived. 
And there was a good chance I’d be able to find food, water and maybe even
ammunition.  Hopefully it wasn’t full of infected.

It was only
a couple of miles before I saw the big building and its sprawling parking lot
on my left.  Turning in, I buzzed across the asphalt, steering to check
out several vehicles that were parked haphazardly, some with doors standing
open.  Stopping next to an Air Force Hummer the engine quieted to an
idle.  Before I could step off to inspect the vehicle I heard several
helicopters approaching.

Snapping my
head around I could see that there was already one searching the area of the
runways with a brilliant spotlight.  It was moving slowly, the light
swiveling as the operator worked it across the flight line.  Goosing the throttle,
I headed for the glass entrance doors, cutting the engine before hopping off
and running the last few yards, my hands on the handlebars as I brought the
scooter with me. 

I gently
laid the Vespa over on its side next to a plastic trash barrel chained to a
post.  Glancing in the can I could see a good collection of drink cups
from fast food restaurants as well as assorted other detritus.  A sharp
kick tilted it onto its side, the chain preventing it from falling all the way
to the ground.  Grabbing the bottom, I lifted and spilled about a third of
the contents on top of the scooter.

The garbage
did the trick, effectively camouflaging my little two-wheeled speedster and
making it appear it had been lying there for some time.  Another glance at
the flight line and I could see half a dozen helicopters moving about. 
Normally they wouldn’t have their anti-collision lights on in a combat
environment, but in the constricted airspace over the base it was necessary so
they didn’t run into each other.

Checking the
glass doors with my night vision scope I was pleased when I didn’t see any
infected looking back at me.  Dashing forward I tried the door, pulling it
open and stepping through as a helicopter passed directly overhead.  I was
glad I had made the decision to seek cover quickly rather than getting caught
out in the open.

Rifle up, I
scanned with the night vision scope.  There were a lot of bodies, but my
nose had told me that the instant I’d opened the door.  Continuing my survey,
I noted the BX was as cavernous as I had expected.  Row upon row of
merchandise stretched to the back wall, which was beyond the range of the
scope’s ability to see.  The structure was also very broad and I began
moving deeper as I didn’t see or hear anything to worry me other than the
Russian helos buzzing around outside.

The
adrenaline from the fight was fading, and as it left my body the pain started
to set in.  I could feel injuries I hadn’t even realized I’d sustained,
but the most concerning was the knife wound on my shoulder.  I didn’t want
to turn on a light, and blood isn’t really visible in night vision, but I could
feel it running down my left arm from where the Spetsnaz had slashed me open.

I needed to
find some medical supplies and do what I could to stem the bleeding.  There’s
no big arteries or veins in the outer shoulder muscle to worry about, but that
doesn’t mean a deep cut won’t result in a lot of blood loss.  And if the
blood loss doesn’t get you, there are all kinds of nasty infections to worry
about.  I was covered in several people’s blood and had no doubt some of
it had found its way into my wounds.

Stepping
over a couple of bodies I began making my way deeper into the store.  I
would have liked to turn my light on so I could read the signs hanging from the
ceiling that would tell me the type of merchandise in each area, but I wasn’t
about to give away my location.

Making some
guesses and a few wrong turns, I finally found myself in the health/pharmacy
aisles.  Just as elsewhere, the shelves were neatly stocked.  Not
really surprising.  The Air Force had maintained control so there wasn’t
looting after the initial attack, then when the second and third outbreaks came
they hit so hard and fast that very quickly there was no one left.  Not
good for the people that lived and worked here, but good for me.

I spent
several minutes walking up and down the surrounding aisles, making sure I was
really alone.  There were more bodies, not a lot but some, and
occasionally merchandise had been swept off onto the floor.  I avoided
these areas, not wanting to risk a misstep that would make a lot of
noise.  Once I was satisfied that I was alone I swung through the clothing
section. 

Enlisted
personnel receive their uniforms free of charge.  Officers have to
purchase theirs.  But even the enlisted often want more changes of clothes
available than what is issued, so the BX carries a good supply of just about
everything.  I quickly gathered up new items of what I was wearing, boots
included.  Yes, the blood was even inside my boots.

Spying a
shopping cart, I piled the clean gear into it and headed back to the medical
supply area, snatching several more items off displays along the way.  It
took me a few minutes to find everything I needed, each item being added to the
growing pile in the cart.  Finally, I was ready and headed to the pharmacy
proper.  There was a locked door next to a counter and after scanning the
shelves full of prescription drugs I reached over and unlocked the door.

Pushing my
cart through I headed to the back, finding the pharmacy manager’s office. 
It was small, but it had a door and no window.  Pushing the cart into the
space I took the time to collect some prescription items before going in and
softly closing and locking the door.  Removing the light from my rifle I
turned it on and placed it on the desk on its butt, pointed up.  The
ceiling tiles it shone on were white and I blinked in the sudden brightness.

Shoving the
desk against the wall I cleared its surface and laid out the items I
needed.  I leaned my rifle up against the edge and took the rest of my
weapons off, placing them within instant reach.  Easing my battered body
into the padded desk chair, I stripped, beginning with my boots. 

Naked, I
moved to the far corner of the room.  I had several bottles of hydrogen
peroxide and a tall stack of clean, white hand towels.  Starting with my
head I poured the liquid onto my skin and scrubbed with the cloths.  I
needed to get all of the blood off me so I could find the locations where I was
injured.

Gashes and
nicks on my face, neck and head burned, but there didn’t seem to be anything
that was too serious.  My nose, not only broken again but split open from
the blow, was the worst damage I could find above my shoulders.  Gingerly
I probed, surprised how far out of alignment it was.  No wonder I couldn’t
breathe through it at the moment.

Taking a
deep breath through my mouth, I held it, gritted my teeth and pressed hard with
my thumbs.  There was a grinding, crunching sound from within my skull and
the pain blossomed anew, making me grunt and squint my eyes shut as tears
sprang up.  Blood began pouring out of my nose and across my lower
face.  I shoved two, thick gauze pads up my nostrils and cleaned around my
mouth and chin, hoping the pain would back off soon.

Continuing
on, I hissed when the peroxide flowed into the cut on my shoulder, bubbling
fiercely.  I gave it a moment before patting it with a towel and gently
scrubbing the skin around the cut.  I was still bleeding, the white cloth
coming away stained a bright red.

I kept
going, cleaning my entire body.  Knuckles were skinned on both hands, and
there were about a hundred places on my upper body that were sore to the touch
and would become purple bruises.  My nose ached and when I bent to wash my
legs and feet it threatened to explode and take half my skull with it. 
But I survived, panting through my mouth and popping a handful of Tylenol and drinking
an entire bottle of water once I finished.

My entire
arm was once again covered in blood and I moved back to the desk chair. 
Reaching into the cart I pulled out a magnifying makeup mirror, fumbled with a
package of batteries that would power the built in light, and positioned it on
the desk so I could get a good look.  The cut was over four inches long
and ran across the thickest part of my outer shoulder.  The edges of the
wound had pulled apart and I was able to see into the underlying tissue. 
I couldn’t spot any debris that would cause a problem, but flushed the wound
out again with another pour of the peroxide.

Wrapping one
of the towels around my bicep to absorb the blood that was flowing down my arm,
I sorted through my supplies until I found a suture kit.  Peeling the
cover off, I left it sitting on the desk and prepped a couple of syringes with
lidocaine I’d taken from the pharmacy.  Gritting my teeth, I began
injecting all along the perimeter of the wound, directly into the exposed flesh
beneath the skin.

It hurt like
hell each time the needle went in, but it didn’t take long for the whole area
to start going numb.  I probably overdid it, using way more than was
needed, but I’ve had stitches done without anesthetic before and I wanted to
make damn sure I was ready.

While I
waited for the lidocaine to take full effect I readied the needle and
thread.  Next I adjusted the flashlight by propping it on a small book and
bracing it with a bottle of water.  It was shining directly on my shoulder
and I had a clear view in the mirror.  Picking up the instrument that held
the needle I took a deep breath and began sewing.