The Infection

She walks down a corridor that smells like an ashtray. The administrative area has apparently been converted into housing for another unit; off-duty officers pad in and out of the rooms barefoot in their underwear, scratching their bellies as they watch her struggle along with her duffel bag. The hallway is partly blocked by boxes of miscellaneous equipment. She briefly wonders if Sarge is okay, surprised by the sudden sensation of butterflies in her gut. He seemed fine when he left with Mattis, but she is worried about him and wonders when she will see him again.

The reality of the situation strikes her just before she reaches her quarters. The camp is overcrowded and space is obviously at a premium. People are jammed everywhere, and skilled workers are expected to live in or near their base of operations. Unit 12 bunks in the detention area; she will likely be living in a jail cell. Pondering the irony of it, Wendy enters the space, her foot crunching on an empty beer can, and takes in her new quarters.

She was right. Eight men occupy the detention area’s processing space and six holding cells. A man snores loudly in a bunk while another sits next to him on the floor wearing a pair of boxer shots and cleaning a rifle. A mustached man smokes a four-smelling cigar while filling a plastic cup from a water cooler. Another has a small Coleman going; she smells coffee brewing, rich and strong, which makes her feel strangely homesick. A gray-haired man stops reading his book and peers at her curiously over his reading glasses, a toothpick clenched in his teeth. Wendy suddenly becomes aware they are all looking at her with their lean, stubbled faces. Good ol’ boys. She returns their gaze coolly, wearing her game face. Her heart is soaring at the opportunity to be a cop again but she suddenly wonders what it is going to cost her.

“I’m looking for Ray Young,” she says. “The unit sergeant.”

“And you would be?” the man with the book says.

“Officer Wendy Saslove, reporting to the unit.”

The man glances at the others briefly before chuckling.

“How about that,” he says, chewing on his toothpick.

“Christ, Jonesy, I could have sworn she was one of yours,” a voice behind her says.

Wendy instantly recognizes the mildly sardonic tone. She turns and sees the man with the steelers cap filling the doorway, smiling and holding his soda can.

“I’m, uh, working on that, Ray,” the young man called Jonesy says, licking his hand and straightening his hair.

Ray spits into the can and says, “Well, Officer Saslove, I guess that’s your room right there.” He nods, gesturing to one of the holding cells.

“Thank you, Sergeant.”

Wendy picks up her bag and takes it to the cell. The toilet is dry as bone and the sink has been removed. Instead, she has a washing bucket with a sponge and fresh bar of soap and a shit bucket with a bag of lime and roll of TP. The bunk looks serviceable enough and will actually rate as four-star comfort after sleeping on the ground for the past two weeks. The walls are plastered with photo spreads of big-chested blondes from porn magazines; those will obviously have to go. The main problem will be privacy in this male zoo. She rolls out her sleeping bag on the bed and then opens her duffel bag, noticing for the first time the name devereaux written on it in black marker.

After a few moments, Wendy becomes aware that the sergeant followed her and is standing in the doorway to the cell. The others watch closely, wearing half-smiles.

“Officer Saslove, if I may,” he says. “It’s not that I mind having a pretty face like yours hanging around, but I look at you and I wonder: What are you doing in my unit playing cop?”

She ignores him, pinning her badge to her belt. Ray squints at it and adds, “So what were you, then, a meter maid?”

One of the other cops walks up to the cell and leans against the bars, peering in with a smile.

“Hey, I’m talking to you,” Ray says, crumpling the soda can in his hand. The room tenses and Wendy with it. She will eat the sergeant’s shit; she is the rookie here, so she expects some unit hazing. But if any of them touches her, if that’s how things work in this shithole, she is going to break bones.

In preparation, she takes out her Batman belt and puts it on, her body electrified by the comforting weight of the Glock on her hip. She almost smiles. She pulls her side-handled baton out of the bag next and slides it into place, flashing back to its last use back at the hospital.

“Where’d you get that gear, Saslove?”

“From the Pittsburgh Police Department,” she tells him.

He glowers at her, his face reddening. “Is that so? How did you get it, exactly?”

“It’s standard issue, Sergeant. I worked patrol for nearly a year.”

“You’d better be telling me the truth, so help me. Are you shitting me?”

Wendy stares back at him, saying nothing.

He takes a step forward and she places her hand on the handle of her baton, already planning where she is going to hit him and how hard.

“Jesus Christ,” Ray says gently, with something like awe.