Zombie Soap 2: Conspiracy

Eleven

Jayson: Part I

Long after everyone retired for the evening, Jayson lied on the bottom bunk inside his cramped quarters, staring at the mattress above him. If trembles, brain zaps, and anxiety weren't plaguing him, he'd never be able to sleep with the sound of Ackerman's snoring. Wild animals weren't even this loud, and every time his bunkmate rolled over, the frame shook, tempting Jayson to shove his ass onto the floor.

He glanced at his electric watch and groaned. It was nearly two in the morning, and his eyes weren't even a little heavy. In Afghanistan, he could sleep anywhere at the drop of a hat and wake up just as quickly. There were times he didn't know when he'd see his bed again, and he took whatever he could get, knowing firefights were never far away. After being discharged, he initially struggled, waking up in cold sweats, reaching for a rifle no longer by his side, and on the worst nights, screaming as fire melted his skin and Specialist Hart died. Now, sleep refused to come altogether, and he wasn't sure if it was a blessing or a curse.

When Ackerman's snoring reached a crescendo loud enough to shake the walls, Jayson rolled out of bed and groped for the fleece jacket he'd been provided. Miraculously, no one took away his cigarettes, despite taking away everything else much less likely to kill him early, and he stuffed a pack inside his pocket. Making sure his key card was in hand, he slammed the door, snorting in satisfaction as his roommate snuffled and yelled something about apples. Jayson needed to remember that later; there was something immensely funny about this hardcore sergeant talking in his sleep.

Zipping up his jacket, he buried his hands in his pockets and wandered the empty corridors. Unlike earlier, it was quiet, bringing him back to a time before Soapies, quarantine, and danger. It almost felt wrong, like a sense of false security, but it was the first time he breathed without worrying about what was out to kill him. No one else walked about—no scientists, no refugees, and to his relief, no creepy Colonel Benson.

When the hallway past the promenade forked to upper and lower levels, he continued forward. There would be plenty of time for exploring later—right now, he just wanted to smoke. It had been a long time, but like Jeannie, he wanted to honor his best friends with a cigarrette. There was no telling if he'd get another opportunity, and he was ready to take his chances with the undead outside the compound. 

One hallway led into another, and soon, Jayson was completely lost, staring at endless white walls and steel doors. He pressed his back against a wall and slid down, leaning his head back. As much as he was tempted to smoke right there, he didn't think he'd be lucky enough to not get caught.

Just how big was this place?

A shadow appeared over him, making him jump and reach for his non-existent rifle. Heart racing, he sprang to his feet, facing the soldier in black with a weapon strapped to his back.

The man raised his hands, palms facing outward, and stepped back. "Sorry. I saw you here and was going to ask if you were lost."

Talk about perfect timing. Maybe Jayson had pissed off Benson enough to sic twenty-four hour guards on him. Would they watch him piss, too?

He sighed, raking his hand through his hair and rubbing his eyes. This man was probably just on middle-of-the-night guard duty, and Jayson was just being paranoid. "Sorry. I couldn't sleep. My roommate snores loud enough to wake the dead, and I want to smoke."

The soldier's dark eyes lit up and his posture relaxed. "Oh, my God, you have cigarettes?" Jayson nodded, and the man looked at him with hopeful eyes. "Dude, I wouldn't tell anyone because everyone will be all over you like flies on shit, but those are worth a winning lottery ticket."