Silence. Cold sweat beaded all over Gutsy’s face and ran down her body inside the hazmat suit.
“Look,” said Gutsy slowly, “I’m going to turn around. I’ll do it really slow, okay?”
It took all her courage to raise her arms very, very slowly out to the sides and then turn.
There was a rustle of clothes as the person moved suddenly.
“I’ll kill you,” said a terrified voice. A woman’s.
“I’m not one of them. I’m not infected,” Gutsy said, forcing her voice to sound reasonable, controlled. Telling the woman, not begging for her life.
She kept turning. So slowly.
There she was, half in and half out of a pool of yellow light. A hazmat suit hid her in baggy whiteness that was speckled with drops of red. The shotgun was some kind of military model, with a pistol-grip handle and a second handle on the pump. The weapon shook
in the woman’s hands. Her whole body trembled visibly.
“I’m not infected,” repeated Gutsy slowly.
The shotgun barrel was pointed directly at her face.
“Why are you here?” demanded the woman.
Gutsy had no idea what kind of answer would be safe. Her brain raced past a score of possible responses, discarding each for one reason or another. Finally, she settled on the truth.
“Dr. Morton sent me.”
There was a sound like a snarl. “Max is dead,” snapped the woman. “Everyone’s dead.”
“No!” Gutsy said quickly. “Dr. Morton is in town. He’s hurt, but he’ll be fine. He sent me here.”
“In town? New Alamo is gone.”
“No, it isn’t,” said Gutsy. “We were attacked, but we won. We’re okay.”
It wasn’t exactly true, but Gutsy wanted to calm her down. They stood only four feet apart, but Gutsy had no illusions about being able to take that shotgun away. She once read that most shotguns have a trigger pull-weight of about four pounds, and there was probably half of that on the woman’s finger already.
“I can prove it,” said Gutsy.
The shotgun wavered for a moment, then the barrel steadied again. “How?”
“I have a note from Dr. Morton. Do you know his handwriting? It’s in my bottom left vest pocket. I can show it to you.”
The woman seemed to consider this for a few moments.
“Do it slowly, or so help me, I’ll kill you,” she said. “Don’t try anything stupid.”
“Believe me,” said Gutsy earnestly, “I don’t want to get shot.”
She kept her right hand out to the side and used two fingers of her left to slowly dip into the pocket and pull out the folded piece of paper.
“See? Just a piece of paper.”
The woman gestured with the barrel. “Open it up and put it on the cooler. Good. Now turn around and face the cabinet. Hands on your head, fingers laced. Don’t move.”
Gutsy followed each direction with deliberate care. As she stood facing the cabinet, she heard the crinkle of paper as the note was lifted. Then there was silence for a moment, which was broken by a sob.
“He’s alive,” cried the woman. “Oh my God, he’s alive.”