Free The Zone by RW Krpoun

I’ve been out of pocket for a few days What with the rioters, over?”
    “Seven-five, you musta been under a rock. People are going crazy, some sort of an infection. Not airborne, its fluid based, but bad news. Those that survive it become homicidal-you can’t imagine unless you’ve seen it. You still in town, over?”
    “Fid, yeah, I’m a half-click to the northwest of the new access circle, over.”
    “Seven-five, you better tune in to FM 101 in about three, they’re about to throw your ass to the wolves. Have you seen infected, the fully infected, over?”
    “Fid, yes, I saw them at a distance, over.” Infected. Shit, being delusional would have been better.
    “Seven-five, if you have to deal with them go for spine or skull, they seem immune to shock, and they either clot better or bleed slower. Don’t worry about the law, the troops have been shooting them on sight. Word is they have gunships working out today on the south end of town, over.”
    “Fid, thanks, over.”
    “Seven-five, I hope your call sign is your alma mater, son. You’re deep in the shit. Over.”
    “Fid, they got me surrounded, the poor bastards, over.”
    “Seven-five, go with God. Out.”
    The Seventy-Fifth Infantry, the parent regiment of the Airborne Rangers. Yes, fid, I was an alumni. It had been a long time, but once a Ranger, always a Ranger. Born to die.
    Fid was right: they were throwing my ass away. The radio reported that in less than fifteen minutes they were establishing an Exclusion Zone which encompassed most of the metro sprawl. Once in place, anyone crossing the line would be shot without challenge. Persons caught within the Zone should seek shelter, mark their place with flame orange or bright yellow on the roof, and await instructions.
    I had about fifteen minutes; I could find a vehicle and make it if I really rushed. It would be close-I was a good two miles from the line, and the troops would be edgy. And then what? Being a refugee was never a fun experience. Might be better just to stay put: I had food, water, firepower, a strong position. Sit it out, because if the rioters were sick, then either they would recover or die in due course. How long could it last?
     
    I found two traffic control vests and a neon yellow raincoat in my patrol gear and taped them to my roof for whatever good it would do. I got tired of the yammering on the CB and turned it off, and the boombox, too: the messages were the same, over and over: stay inside, blackout, go to second story, yadda yadda yadda. No real help.
    I sorted through my place, going through every closet and drawer, making sure I knew exactly what I had to work with, a small ship marooned in hostile waters. Although I don’t think it was ships that got marooned. I found the odd box of ammunition, a folding knife I thought I had lost, but nothing important. Down in the back room I checked through the various boxes, repacked where needed, and moved them into a better order than the random stacks they had occupied since I moved in.
    In the process I found the camping gear which the ex had told me to take when I got the last few items from my ex-home. The stuff represented one of the many failed efforts to get my son to snap out of the growing drug haze he was sinking into. He hadn’t been interested, although at least the time spent out in the boonies had been drug-free for him. It had proven to put a small plateau in the decline of my relationship with my wife; she had liked camping. I found two collapsible water bags I rinsed out and filled, and a handy field shower gizmo that had worked surprisingly well. The camping gear got me thinking of my ex, and I tried her number again. No answer, nor my daughter either.
    The last camping gear box had four Family Radio Service radios in it, what they used to call hikers radios, little plastic jobs good for a couple miles and less affected by sunspots than CBs.
    My phone ringing made me jump. It was my ex-sister-in-law, a gloomy