Designated (Book 2): Designated Quarantined (4 page)

3

March 2013

Broadhead Memorial Garden

Baker sat overlooking the parade ground, his back to the rose garden and the eight hundred and ninety-seven marble posts within it, the brass plaques shining in the sun with as much lustre as the day they were laid in place. He knew that behind him were two more with names from a list stretching back hundreds of years. They had died for little more than one man's jealousy and grandiose sense of self-importance.
 

Baker had no doubt that he was the focus of the man's ire and rage and was, in the other man's eyes, responsible for the death of his son. That did not change the fact that two men who hadn't deserved to die now lie dead. Turning his head, he looked at the three-foot-by-three-foot brass plate that marked the entrance to the gardens shimmering in the afternoon haze. His reddened and tired eyes drifted over the copperplate letters, reading the flowing script as he had many times before.

"Many great things are simple and can be expressed in single words:

Freedom, Justice, Honour, Duty, Mercy, Hope."

Etched beneath it all was the unit's insignia—the winged arrowhead. A symbol of the combined forces unit: the paratroopers' wings from the SAS insignia framing the edges, the SBS Spartan sword set in the arrow's centre, the Queen's crown beneath it and edged in by a curling line of parchment with the unit motto flowing across it.
 

Until Death.
 

Despite the passage of time, the changing face of war and men that wage it, one constant remained… the red arrowhead, the unit's namesake. Derek glanced down at the post beside him; the name was meaningless now, the man and his legacy long since taken by time. Just another man from another time who, like him, had answered the call and paid the final price.
 

The marble bench chilled his buttocks as, with a deep, drawn out sigh, he lifted the manila file and flipped it open. His eyes danced over the lines of closely printed script. Again and again, as the words tripped and stumbled through his mind, the names of men and women he had trained and fought beside scalded his heart.
 

Beside each moniker, the three-lettered abbreviation that he loathed with his very soul was set, its scarlet letters glaring at him from the cream pages he clutched in his hand.

Rubbing his eyes, he sighed, wondering just how many more names were going to adorn the lists. How many more pillars added to the garden before the problems of tomorrow became the solutions of yesterday.

Baker residence

Northeast London

'Last words are for fools who haven't said enough.'
 

Davies sat in the deckchair his eyes shielded from the glare of the sun. Baker cast a sideways glance at John then turned back to snapping the caps off the bottles of lager sitting on the draining board in front of him.
 

'What you on about?' Baker asked in a slightly cautious tone while taking in the seat next to him.
 

Davies chuckled as he took the bottle from Baker's outstretched hand, wiping away the ice cool layer of condensation before lifting it to his lips.
 

'It's something Rawlings said to me once when I asked him what his favourite last line was; a Karl Marx quote was the last thing I was expecting.'
 

Baker smirked as he thought through a similar conversation he and Rawlings had once had, holed up together in an observation post in Afghanistan almost eleven years before.
 

'It's not too surprising, to be honest. Rawlings was a rather deep man when you got past the sarcasm and ascorbic wit.'

Baker lifted the bottle to his lips as he watched Janet play with the gurgling bundle of arms and legs that was his three-month-old daughter.
 

'You know what Rawlings said to me right before Ridgmont vanished?' Baker suppressed the rising urge to break something as the bubbling cauldron of hate and pain boiled in his gut at the mention of the now rogue colonel.
 

Davies shook his head as he idly watched Anastasia throw a ball for Kingsley's yapping spaniel, its lopping stride making its ears flap and bounce as she raced after the ball. His eyes tracked the straw-coloured canine as it scooped the ball into its mouth and raced back to Anna, dropping the sodden tennis ball in her lap.
 

'The cheeky fucker pulled me close, lifting himself off the floor and whispered "Happy New Year's."'
 

Davies almost choked on his drink as Baker spoke, spindly lines of pale white foam dripping from his nostrils as the fizzing carbonated alcohol fought for a way out.
 

'Seriously?' Davies quizzed as he wiped the dripping foam from his chin. Baker smirked and nodded as he drank deeply from the bottle in his hand.
 

'Yep.' his reply coming in a short gasp as he rapidly swallowed the mouthful of lager. John shook his head and set his now empty bottle down on the table between the two chairs.

'Should've seen it coming, really.' Baker laughed, his voice tinged with a deep regret. All he had left of one of his oldest and closest friends were reminiscences; the fickle mistress of his memories, and through it all he knew, if they were allowed to, even those would be lost over time.
 

Kingsley dropped to the floor, his dreadlocks bouncing off his shoulders as he thumped against the hardwood decking, bottle in hand.
 

'Ay up, lads.' He spoke choosing to ignore the fact that Baker had jumped slightly at his appearance. He shifted, his legs stretching down the steps of the decking, flip-flop covered feet nestling in the green grass of the lawn. Leaning backwards, he set his elbows against the smooth, dark timber, the bottle still held loosely between his fingers.
 

'You hear about the new acquisition?'
 

Baker glanced down at his friend, his curiosity mildly piqued. 'Which one?' Kingsley lifted the bottle to his lips before replying. 'Armoury.' Baker nodded before consciously realising Kingsley couldn't actually see him nod.
 

Davies glanced quizzically from one man to the other as he listened to Baker's reply.
 

Kingsley stood up. 'Want another?'
 

Baker chuckled as he drained the last of the amber liquid and tossed the bottle into the bin.
 

'Sure, bottle opener is on the drainer.'
 

'So what's this new acquisition then?' Baker smiled at the look on Davies' features. His lined and battle-worn face torn between annoyance and a childlike eagerness to know.
 

'Secondary sidearm… Anna recommended it. Seems the Russians have been having a lot of trouble with the "Newer" Infected. Same problem the Yanks had in Vietnam with the introduction of the old style 5.56.'
 

Davies nodded. 'You mean with the whole Viet Cong getting hit a couple of dozen times and getting up again.'

Baker nodded and carried on speaking. 'Anyway, it's one of the latest Smith and Wesson revolvers, fires either a .410 shotgun shell, 45ACP, or the 45 Colt round. Despite the six-round maximum capacity, this thing is like holding a cannon in your palm—blows holes through just about anything.'
 

Davies snorted derisively. 'I doubt that somehow. Nice gun though. Seen it before.'
 

Baker grinned at Davies. 'Thought you'd say that; you know this is the one favoured by Floridian alligator hunters.'
 

Davies' eyebrows rose as he thought through the implication of Baker's words. 'No wonder they call it the Governor.'
 

Baker grinned as he pushed up from the chair and went down the four steps to his lawn; the bottle hung limply from his fingers as he made his way towards the barbecue. The scent of sauce-covered steaks wafted over him as he reached forwards, lifting the top cover clear. Smoke swirled up, filling his throat as he wafted his empty hand to clear his vision.
 

Setting his drink down on the tray table to his right, he picked up the oak-handled tongs. Reaching forwards, he slid the stainless steel plates of the flat-headed tongs along the grill, watching as the steaks lifted and bulged. He gingerly flipped the inch-thick slabs of meat over, listening to the hiss of melting fat as it dripped free and landed with an oily splat atop the glowing coals.

A slim arm encircled his waist as a miniature hand batted at his shoulder; he smiled as he felt Maria's petite fingers ensnare the cotton of his tee shirt. Shifting the tongs to his other hand he twisted, lifting Maria from Janet's arms and bouncing his little girl on his forearm as her hands closed around the collar of his shirt. A soft yawn left her as she nestled against his chest.
 

'Looks like she just made herself at home.' Derek smirked as Janet lay her head on his shoulder. 'How long you got free?'
 

Baker's shoulder sagged as he set the steaks onto the waiting plate and turning, his daughter slumbering against his shoulder, cast his gaze slightly downwards, his eyes locking onto Janet's. The drifting swirl of fear, pain, and sheer fatigue weighed heavy in his eyes. Lifting her hand, she traced her fingers along the edge of his jaw.
 

'We don't know; none of us do, with the way things are...'
 

He trailed off as he set the platter down on the garden table. A lump caught in his throat as he turned, his eyes scanning the chairs set around the table. His friends and teammates stood, despite the two empty seats none of them dared go near. The hand-carved names on the backrests were enough to deter them all. Baker let his eyes trace the scrollwork, the hours he had put into carving the twenty-two original seats and the seven additions that adorned his garden. Swallowing hard, he brushed his lips against Janet's forehead and moved past her.
 

'I'll put Maria to bed; the monitor is on the table.'

Janet smiled at him as he spoke. 'I know, you Muppet; I put it there, remember?'

Derek smiled and walked away, passing Kingsley and Davies as they made their way towards the table.
 

****
 

Derek sat, leaning forwards, his elbows resting limply on his knees as he stared out over his garden… from the carefully crafted borders that scalloped the lawn's edge to the centre rock garden and its sprawling range of miniature mountains.
 

His soul weighed heavy, pulling him down into the decking beneath his feet. He felt... tired; tired of living in a world filled with death and people so foul that they felt the need to inflict the most grievous of harm upon those they had never even met. Tired of the need for men like him, the ones who put themselves in the way of those willing to harm others in the name of misguided fanaticism and xenophobic hatred. The ones willing to lay down their own lives to protect their fellow man.
 

A soft snort left him as he pondered the words bouncing in his skull—a few measly lines from the lips of a man more world weary than he.
 

"Derek, nothing in this world can show the true nature of man better than war and nothing in nature wages war on its own kind, other than man; so, by our own nature and design, man is destined to exterminate itself and has done so ever since we crawled out of the swamp. You, me, and what we do is all that people have done for thousands of years—police the edges and skim off the crap that floats to the top. Sometimes I wish something would come along and give us all a good dose of chlorine and be done with it. Fuck natural selection; this damned gene pool went stagnant years ago."
 

A soft, sad, and weary smile tugged at his lips as he watched the wind stir the branches of the small conifer trees standing sentry at the foot of his lawn.
 

Janet stood, leaning in the doorway of their French windows, watching her husband. She idly toyed with the simple band of gold that encased her finger, turning the smooth polished surface over the soft skin of her finger. She stood vigil as he sat. Something tickled her mind as she watched him, a feeling so faint and brief that it was gone in seconds… like smoke through her fingers as she reached out to grasp it. The cold touch of the unknown rippled down her spine and she shivered. Hugging herself, she stepped out onto the deck and padded quietly towards her husband.
 

Her soft steps kissed his ears as she moved closer. Dragging his hands over his unshaven, weatherworn features, Derek spoke.
 

'I don't know if I can do this anymore.'
 

Janet froze, her feet stiff and cumbersome as her legs wobbled, leaving her teetering on the precipice of what lay before them. She shuffled forwards, her words falling dead as she tried to piece together some semblance of a normal thought.
 

'Do what?'
 

Derek clambered to his feet, his body a dead weight as he forced his world-weary frame to its full six foot three inches. His eyes bore into her, their hollow, empty gaze eating through her.
 

'I thought I could stop this, keep it in check, just push it under the carpet and go on like it never happened. But I can't; I can't keep pretending I'm okay.'
 

Janet just stood, watching and listening as he spoke, his gaze never leaving hers. Her heart trembled with fear, willing him not to utter those few words that she knew would bring her whole world crashing down around her.
 

'Every time we go, someone comes home in a fucking box. I used to be okay with it, squash it down, and push it away. Thinking of you made everything okay again. Thinking of how life could be without all this shit in the way. You, me, and Maria. But...'
 

He trailed off, his mind awash with the dancing images of places long past and faces just gone. Janet took a tentative step forwards, her slim hands reaching for him, he stepped away as her fingers brushed him. She left her hand lingering in the air for a moment before slowly letting it drop.
 

'It just doesn't work. Nothing works anymore; every time I close my eyes, I get the same damned nightmares. I put on a face when I wake up, pretend everything is going to be all right, that I can keep going; but I can't keep it on anymore; it hurts to wear it. It feels like I'm a stranger in my own damned skin. I just don't know who I am anymore.'
 

Janet rapidly closed the gap between them, ensnaring him in a grip that only a band of iron could surpass; slowly Derek sagged, his body thumping into the railings behind him as he slid towards the floor.

'I... I... I just don't know if I can carry on. I don't know if I can trust myself to keep you safe; whatever I do, I know it's going to be the wrong choice... I... I just can't face it; I can't.'
 

Tears began to roll down his cheeks as he slowly crumpled under the weight of his own fears and doubts. He fell against Janet as he let it all pour forth. The loss of two of his oldest friends, the tipping point for all that he bore, his life choices like the weight of the world on Atlas' shoulders. Janet held her husband close, his body shaking as the tidal wave of fear, inadequacy, and shame poured over him.
 

In her heart, she knew the man before her would do all he could to keep her, their daughter, and anyone else around them, no matter who they were, safe from harm; but at that one singular moment she realised just how much he was giving up to do it.