Sheppard's R&R, 2052

How’d I meet my wife? Fun story.

Okay, I’m sitting in a rather uncomfortable chair while a much more comfortable-looking nurse shoves what’s either a needle or a small sword into my left arm, and injects what looks like a gallon and a half of clear blue liquid. Nanobots, meant to kill anything that doesn’t feel like it belongs in the human body.

Knowledge is power. And too much knowledge causes all sorts of problems. Men know too much about the body and how to screw with it these days.

The nurse says, “Get up, drop your drawers, and bend over.”
Nothing like a shot of something ice cold in the buttocks to make you feel like a star. She looks down at me, “You’re done until tomorrow.”
“Just get them all out of the way now.” I tell her.

She frowns, how dare a grunt question her word? She rallies with the insult.
“How many times you like to be poked in a day, soldier?”
I’m not a walking brain, but this level of cleverness I can handle, “Not half as many as you, I bet. Whatchya doin’ later?”
I’m a bit too clever for my own good, like those Arabs. They all finally got their coveted nuclear bombs, about twenty years ago. Didn’t even take ‘em an entire year to reduce the region from wasteland to radioactive wasteland. Shame the bitchy nurse wasn’t there.

“Well, I’ll be sitting,” she tells me, “which is so much more than you’ll be doing. Bend back over while I go get the next eight vaccinations.”
Oh, yeah, I sure won that argument. So she gives her butt a nice wiggle on the way out, tosses that long blonde hair just a little, bends over a little farther than she has to when she gets the vaccs out of the fridge.

What a tease. She knows as well as I do that I’m not going to be in anything but pain tonight. Tomorrow, though, I’m R&R, no more damned shots for me.

When I get back to base I’m running a fever, too sick to eat. I hit the sack, and I’m out like a light.

Of course, I wake up hungry as a Chinaman. Well, not quite that hungry; I’m not eating my buddies yet. Of course, that was what started this mess. Twenty-five years into the two thousands China decides its going to celebrate being the most powerful nation on earth by invading everybody. Taiwan, America, Japan, are all in hot water. America ends up outmanned, and outgunned, without the technological edge to defend themselves. Only thing we had going for us was high gun ownership, plenty of street gangs, and a loads of veterans to lead them. We bogged ‘em down, but we were losing a little at a time.

I remember that clear. Bombs and missiles every night. Not smart ones, either; smart is expensive. Then artillery as soon as that was within range, then the river of fleeing civilians up the Twenty-Seven when the Chinese breached the Phoenix defenses. Machines guns firing all around, torn bodies on the ground, tracers flying past my head, the screams of wounded refugees. I was five, and it was the last time I saw my parents.

Anyway, some smart college kids figured out a virus that killed rice, some brave pilots released it, and China starved. A billion people ate everything edible, down to the last panda. Then there was no food left, so they ate each other, yummy, then they all died. Their soldiers starved or surrendered. They were all men, and had no women to return to. An ancient nation died in one year.

In a perfect world, that would have been the end of it. We live in a real one, though, and Japan and Taiwan both claimed China, and India was crowded, so they decided they wanted it too. Saying all hell broke lose doesn’t even come close.

Anyway, twenty-five years down the road, here I am. Pumped full of who knows how many vaccines, receiving monthly nano-boosters to hopefully stop anything new that one of the hundred or so sides in this conflict happens to come up with this month. There aren’t countries left now, just sides. Not my problem. More pressing matters include how hungry I am, and how sore my butt still is, and how slowly the chow line is moving, which compounds both of the former issues.

I get to the front of the line, and get two fake eggs, some crispy bacon flavored things that were originally marketed as dog treats in a happier time, and a real nutrient cracker to dip in my partly real coffee.

They give us things that look and taste sorta like food, but aren’t, and things are sorta food, but don’t look or taste like it. Hopefully someday they’ll figure out how to combine the two. Right now my main beef is simply that the chow line is run by a robot, and you can’t talk more rations out of a machine.

“I hate machines.” I growl as I crunch my way through the nutrient wafer, which tastes like garbage and smells vaguely like a latrine, which may not be a coincidence, since it says right on the box it came from that it’s made from recycled materials.
One of the guys down the line speaks up, “You’re just being grumpy Sheppard, cause you got to go get your ass stuck again today.”
“Don’t. Took care of it all yesterday.”
He laughs at me, “So that’s why you been shifting in you seat so much!”
“Shut up, Dikes!” I growl. I’m annoyed because he’s absolutely right. I can’t favor either buttocks because she poked me in both. What a bitch! Then I put a smile on my face, “Which means I’m free for today, and tomorrow, which I’m going to have some fun, while you’re bent over a hospital cot.”
He’s got nothing for that. Didn’t expect him to. Dikes can shoot his way out of anything, but he couldn’t think his way out of bucket on his head.

I scrape the last fake eggs from my plate, and wish I could get some more. Transistors and voice recognition software guarantee the answer to be no, though, so I don’t even bother to try.
“I hate machines.” I tell them all again.
“We need ‘em,” Dikes tells us, “They run the factories, they serve the food, grow the food, and do all the other things people used to do.”
“Yeah,” someone else calls out, “and what genius decided to put them in charge of making themselves? Trouble’s going to come out of that, you can damned well bet.”
There’s general murmur of agreement before someone points out, “We wouldn’t need them to do these things if people could go back to doing what they used to do. You know, uhm, farm and stuff.”
“There aren’t enough left,” Someone gripes.
“Like hell there aren’t, Jonas. There didn’t always used to be ten billion people, and half a billion is more than we need to do most things the machines do.”
“But we can’t,” I tell them, “because there’s only three jobs for people now days: Us soldiers, the folks who patch us up, and the folks that think up better ways for us to kill the other soldiers. Anyone who tries anything different gets killed before long.”
I shove the last dog treat in my mouth and get up while everybody’s agreeing, and toss my tray into the bin from halfway across the room.

I’m in a bad mood, yeah, and the breakfast conversation didn’t help any, but I know where to go to cheer myself up. New Paris, lovely place, built on the gutted ruins of Old Paris. The Islamics gutted the old cathedrals in their great May Cleansing. They burned the Louvre the same night the Chinese burned Phoenix. Britain was too busy fending off their Jihad to help us. The British were almost gone when the killer flu hit France. Some say it was God’s will, I say it was probably the British, but it killed off a third of the French, and the US and British forces did a good job on most the rest of them, and the rest of Paris burned.

What’s rising from the ruins, beneath the feet of the Eiffel, which is now a very large guard tower, is a lovely little boom town, with all the amenities the discerning sinner needs to scratch their every itch. Ten square blocks where you can break all ten commandments. Of course, killing is my living, so that one’s not worth bothering with.

I believe in escalation, so I decide to start small. I walk into what passes for an upscale bar in these parts. The bouncer gives me the evil eye, but can’t seem to find an excuse to kick me out. He’s got five inches and thirty pounds on me, late fifties, so obviously a veteran who’s decided to supplement his retirement. He’s the definition of the kind of guy you never, ever, give an excuse for violence to.

First thing I spot when I walk in the door is a girl with fine blonde hair flowing down towards a finer posterior. Gotta be Nurse Blondie. I set my eyes on the prize and walk over to her, only to see some other guy sit down next to her. He says something, she seems vaguely interested. They start to talking. They both order drinks, but he doesn’t even sip his. He’s paying too much attention to her, to care, I guess, and just pushes the drink towards her, instead.

She’s doing that sort of nod girls do when they don’t care what you’re saying, but it’s interesting that you’re there. I circle around to where she can see me, maybe to make sure she’s as cute as I remember before I go making my next move, maybe to find out whether or not she remembers me. She is, and even better, she does. Her eyes widen just a little when she sees me.

At that moment the guy decides to make his move, and he picks the wrong moment, or says something wrong, because she slaps him across the face. He starts to raise his hand towards her, and there’s a flash of crazy in his eyes, but the bouncer’s already there, and he changes his mind. The bouncer jerks his head towards the door, the guy leaves quick, and the bouncer doesn’t even bother to escort him. He knows he doesn’t need to. I watch the guy for a second, because his walk seems sort of wrong, but then I’m distracted by Nurse Blondie.

She looks at me, and I smile. I walk over to her, and she looks sort of like she wishes I wouldn’t. Luckily, I have quite a gift for breaking the ice. I don’t even need a fat penguin.

“It’s nice to know you’re not just a bitch to guys when you’re on the clock.”
She bats her eyelashes at me, and puts me in my place, “Honey, taking you cocky, muscle-bound, idiots down a notch is my full time job.”
I laugh, “How do you know I’m not just as smart as you, Sweet Thing? Maybe I just like explosions and loud noises.”


She allows herself half a smile. This is promising.
“Whatchya drinkin’?” I ask her.
“The most expensive thing on tap,” She tells me. I don’t even blink. I just nod to the bartender, raise two fingers, and he gets to work.

I’ve got three months of hazardous duty pay, and I know if you spend a little extra for the first sin, you sometimes get the rest of the list done up for free. Long odds on this one though.

She looks at me for a moment, a measuring glance, and then says, “I know I’m smarter than you because I’m a Messerschmidt baby.”
“Well, then, there’s a twenty-percent chance you’re an idiot.” The Messerschmidt inoculation is bad stuff; it’s a viral cocktail derived from a natural virus that was found to cause autism in children. Messerschmidt was a bright nutcase who figured out how to increase the intelligence of children dramatically, although about one fifth of those given the treatment end up permanently retarded. It should probably be illegal, but it’s not; we need just as many smart people as any other side.
She gives me three quarters of a smile, and suddenly looks vaguely interested, “You aren’t a complete idiot, after all. Why are you out shooting people instead of designing things to shoot them with?”
I shrug my shoulders, “I was for awhile. Then  I realized it wasn’t for me, and I went off to play soldier.”
“You just didn’t want the sedentary life, or what?”
“Eh, I went to college because I had something to prove. That a war orphan could do as much as any other guy. I proved it, then I realized I didn’t care about it.”
She looks even more interested. Gives me an intense stare.
“So you just up and left?”
“No.” My sister, the brave girl who’d carried her little brother through a maze of machine gun bullets and screaming refugees, had died in a missile blitz and I went looking for revenge. But that’s not good dinner conversation, nor anything I want to share. The conversation falls quiet, but not in a bad way.

So I’m looking into these deep blue eyes, sipping something that tastes way too expensive, with my back to the door when I see something reflected in her eyes that doesn’t belong. The guy who she slapped is walking back in. I turn in time to see him pull the gun. The bouncer is turned around, doesn’t see him.

The guy shoots him twice in the back, steps over him and aims the gun at the girl. I don’t like it when guys try to shoot girls I’ve just spent lots of money on. Especially before I get anywhere.

“Die!” He yells. Back at you, I think.

I throw her out of the way, pick up a steak knife, throw it at him as I dive for the floor. It hits his leg, he howls. His shots go wild, over my head, and Blondie’s. He’s crazy now, so furious he’s frothing at the mouth.

A knife in the leg won’t stop him. Doesn’t need to; the bouncer has somehow gotten back on his feet. I don’t know if the gunman feels his shadow, or just the tug of his gravitational field, or what, but he spins around surprisingly fast for a guy with a knife sticking out of his leg. He screams as the bouncer catches his gun arm and snaps it with a noise like biting into an apple. The bouncer’s right hand flies to the gunman’s chin. The crazy sonofabitch bites a chunk right out of the bouncer’s hand. A mistake.

The bouncer shoves hard up and to the left. There’s a snap, and the gunman falls to the ground, very dead. Like I said, the bouncer’s not the sort of guy you give an excuse.

He’s hurt, though, and my blonde nurse starts to run over towards him. I catch her hand, and spin her around like she weighs nothing at all.
“What?” She asks, “He needs my help!”
“Three things,” I tell her, “What’s your name, can we pick this up again later, and what can I do to help?”
“Diedre, and  I think I owe you,” She gives me the first genuine smile I’ve seen on her. It looks good, but it fades before she continues, “and put pressure on his wounds while I try to rig some sort of bandage. And tear a strip for him to wrap the hand injury in.”

We work until the medics arrive, and we’re both covered in blood. That’s nothing either of us isn’t used to, but there’s a chill in the air, and we both feel it. She shivers, I toss her my jacket, which is blood-free since I checked it at the door. She smiles and leans in.
She asks me, “Do you mind walking me home?”
“Not at all.”
She smiles at me, “Thank you so much. This has really put me out of sorts. I could tell there was something wrong with the guy when he sat down, but I had no idea he’d try to shoot me just for slapping him!”
         I shrug my shoulders, “People are nuts. If they weren’t the last remnants of the human race wouldn’t be watching robots do all the things we enjoy while we fight over political and religious ideals among the ruins of dead nations. Besides, you have a getting under a guy’s skin.”
         That  wasn’t a complement, but I realize a moment after I say it that it could be taken as one. Accidentally smooth, I’m just brilliant. She gives me one of those soul searching looks her deep blue eyes were designed for, and says, “I really appreciate you walking me home. If you’d like to borrow my shower to rinse off all that blood, I wouldn’t mind.”
         I decide I’m okay with accidental smoothness under the circumstances.
         “I don’t know,” I say, “is there room for two?”
         Not even accidentally smooth, but, hey, she laughs, the first time I’ve heard her do that, and tells me, “We can certainly find out.”

         Next morning dawns, and there she is next to me. I roll over to look at her, and her eyes open. She reaches over and nibbles my shoulder. I joke with her, “You coming down with zombivirus or something?”
She giggles for a moment, then stops, quick like.

“Did you notice anything unusual about the shooter last night?”
It only takes me ten seconds to figure out where she’s going with that, “Hydrophobia, frothing at the mouth, biting. Shit.”
I ask her, “The bouncer, do you know where they took him?”
She shakes her head, “Probably the hospital, but I’d bet your left nut he went home as soon as they patched him up.”
We both roll out of bed and dress quick like. As we head for the door, I grab her, and kiss her. She smiles for just a moment, then nods, and we walk out. I take the rear; better view.

Zombivirus is no joke. It has the same epidemiology as the rabies it was developed from; variable delay of onset, hydrophobia, loss of motor control, transmission through biting or aerosol, and near one hundred percent fatality, but it’s designed to have a greater effect on humans, make them uncontrollably aggressive. Hence the name. The Japs have always had a way with biowarfare, and they cooked up a clever one. After China died, the three main players in the region we Taiwan, Japan, and India. Japan beat Taiwan with its navy, blockading the island, but they didn’t have the numbers to hold back India, so they took a leaf out of our book, and used a virus to do the job.

They sprayed it in aerosol form, and India dissolved into chaos overnight. Mothers tore out the throats their children, brothers killed each other, and anyone even suspected of being bitten was burned alive. The plan was to kill all the dogs and pigs and people carrying it, and wipe out the disease, once the war was one. It just didn’t happen that way.

So then here we are, running towards the hospital, to find the bouncer. Deidre runs in, talks to the guy at the front desk. At first he shakes his head, then he looks frightened, reads something off his log book, and starts yammering into a phone, and she comes running out to me, leading me down 2nd Street.

“I’ve let folks know what’s going on. Rhabdoviruses can take months to reach the brain depending on where the victim is bitten, but the hand only takes a day or so, sometimes. We’re probably too late to save him, but we might get to him before he spreads it!”
“Diedre, don’t even think about it!” I tell her.
She looks at me and actually rolls her eyes!
“Sheppard, shut up and hurry!”

I just nod and keep going. As we round the corner I can here screams from the third house down. Just to be sure I look at her, she nods. She’s out of breath, I’m not even winded. Soldiering has a few advantages.

I don’t stop at the door, I just run straight through it. I won’t say it doesn’t hurt, but the door loses, that’s for sure; it’s nothing but splinters after my shoulder slams through it.

I feel my feet slide out from under me. The tile in the doorway is slick with blood. The body of what was probably a woman lies on the ground. As I pick myself up I hear someone upstairs scream, “Mommy!” So I take off, scrambling up on all fours, leaving bloody hand and shoe prints as I go. There are two other sets; one from a man a fair bit smaller than me, the other set much, much, smaller.

I don’t have to break down the next door because someone else already has.

As I turn into the room I see a girl. She’s covered in blood, hopefully her mother’s. A giant man is hunched over her, saliva dripping from his mouth, frozen as if fighting his rage.
She’s mouthing at him Daddy, daddy, no! Even if she survives, she’s going to have to be a tough girl to ever recover from watching her dad kill her mother, then try to do the same to her. Someone else’s problem. I kick his left kidney. Hard.

It doesn’t seem to really faze him much, just shift the object of his attention. Yeah, I went and gave him a damned reason. His gaze is dumb, the virus is turning his brain into soup, a little at a time. Bill isn’t home right now.

I yell at the girl, “Run!”
She doesn’t.

Deidre’s in the room, though, and she runs over and grabs the girl, pulling her out the door.

Bill lifts all two hundred twenty pounds of me right off the ground. He pulls my head back and makes a bite for my throat. I shove my arm in his face. His teeth sink into it. Shit. Deidre sees it and screams. Bill tosses me through the girl’s closet door, lengthwise. It hurts. I lay there, stunned, but Bill’s after Deidre, and I think I may be beginning to like her. I struggle to my feet. Bill grabs Deidre’s arm and pulls her towards him, but I leap onto his back, and throw my arms around his neck.

I put him in a choke hold. He roars, but it comes out as a squeak, he tosses like a rodeo bull, slams me into one wall, then through another. Blind, helpless rage. Then he falls to the ground. I don’t release him for another minute after that. I’m not taking chances.

Next day I’m laying in the same uncomfortable cot again, but now there’s a comfortable nurse on my lap whispering in my ear.

“So, the treatment for zombivirus is a series of twenty-two shots over two weeks and another week of observation, so I’m afraid you’re going to be stuck in town for awhile.”
“Any way I can get a more comfortable bed?” I ask.
She smiles, kisses me, and tells me, “I think I might be able to talk the doctor into releasing you under the care of a health professional.”
My turn to smile, “This might be a fun vacation.”
“Not tonight, babe.” She tells me, as she stands up. “Sorry, but you’ve got to get the first six shots out of the way. Now bend over, so you can get it over with.”