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when you get back,”
Brook spat.
    Clearly the last twenty-four hours had taken
a toll on Brook. Cade decided to leave it at that and take the high
road. “Raven sweetie... I’ll give you a kiss when I come in. Brook,
if you want to talk...”
    “Don’t bother,” Brook countered. And before
Cade had a chance to finish the thought she said, “We will talk when you get back from your mission... some things are going
to have to change.”
    Cade took it all in stride. This wasn’t the
first time Brook had gotten heated before one of his missions—and
he was damn sure that it wouldn’t be the last. Damned if you do
and damned if you don’t , he thought as he wheeled the golf cart
into the drive and then stole one last glance at his wife and
daughter entering the mess hall.
     

Chapter 5
    Outbreak - Day 10
    Schriever AFB
    Colorado Springs, Colorado
     
    Civilian Quarters
     
    Honk! Honk!
    “Keep your shirt on,” Elvis muttered. Then,
after remembering who his driver had been the day before, he
instantly changed his mind. On second thought, take your shirt
off , he mused as a Cheshire Cat-like grin swept his face.
    Leaving the canvas Quonset-style tent which
was one of many set up to house civilian refugees at Schriever AFB,
he snagged his black nylon day pack, a long sleeved work shirt and
clicked a bulging black fanny pack around his waist. Then as an
afterthought he grabbed his well-worn Nebraska Cornhuskers ball cap
and jammed a red sweat stained bandanna into his back pocket.
    The harsh high desert sun stormed the room
the second he opened the door. Not another one of these
days , he thought. Thankful for the carrion free fresh air, he
drew in several deep lungfuls. After the run of danger filled days,
he had learned to savor every second he wasn’t at work .
    The same dust-coated green and brown
camouflaged GMC pickup that had taken him to the job site the day
before was parked in front of his wooden steps, a camo-clad soldier
waiting behind the wheel.
    Flip flops slapping his heels, Elvis went
around the side of his tent and repossessed his detritus-covered
work boots from the buzzing mass of black flies. The foul smelling
boots went into the truck bed and Elvis climbed up front with the
driver who immediately thrust a sweaty hand in his face. “Private
Mark Farnsworth... you can call me Mark or just Farns if you
like, pleased to meet you.”
    Not wanting to conjure up the image of an
aging, leather jacket-wearing greaser from the fifties every time
he talked to the soldier—who come to think of it looked eerily like
Richie Cunningham from the same television show—Elvis settled on
calling the soldier Mark. After returning the handshake he
introduced himself to the Opie looking fella—“Name’s Elvis Pratt
and I’m damn glad to meet you Mark,” he said in a southern drawl
tinged with hints of the street. The fact that the first female he
had been within sniffing distance in more than a week had
apparently been replaced by this soldier sitting to his left
was a monumental buzz kill and a rotten start to his day.
    “Forgive me but it’s killing me. I’ve gotta
know. How’d you get the name Elvis?” Farnsworth asked without a
trace of shame.
    “I was born August 16 th , 1977, the
very day the Elvis died on the toilet face down and ass up.
My parents... they happened to be dyed in the wool fans of
his.”
    “So you inherited the name.”
    “Yep... they hoped I’d be the next King.
Can’t play a lick on the guitar and my singin’ voice does
not leave the shower,” Elvis stated wryly.
    “Any other family?”
    “That’s a sore subject.”
    “I’m sorry...”
    “No it’s OK,” Elvis said. “Shit, I don’t
think I’m going to find a confessional anywhere near here—I might
as well unload on you.”
    “My wife always said I was a good listener,”
Farns proffered.
    “So I’m in Minot, basically in the middle of
nowhere on that first day... when the strange news... you know the
conflicting