Free Slow Burn (Book 3): Destroyer by Bobby Adair Page A

wasn’t sarcasm. I meant that sincerely,” I told him. “Things out there are pretty dangerous for people like me right now. I’m learning to expect the worst from people. So thanks for being good people.”
    Dr. Evans said, “Sorry I got defensive.”
    “Discourtesies are the least of my problems these days.” I shrugged then charged bluntly into my request. “I know all of you debated and decided to shoot the volunteers when they hit one-oh-four, but I think that’s a bad idea. There may be slow burns like me among them.”
    Dalhover snorted and started walking away, “Oh, you’re one of those.”
    I really didn’t like that guy.
    Dr. Evans leaned close and in a soft voice said, “Sergeant Dalhover doesn’t do that. Before we started this experiment, we all agreed that we would, but Sergeant Dalhover waits for the dementia and the violent expressions.”
    “Oh.” I turned toward Dalhover to apologize but he was walking toward the end of the hall, a thermometer in one hand and a pistol in the other. “I don’t understand, then.”
    “He goes through the temperature checks every hour because that’s the procedure we agreed on.”
    “But why?”
    “Waiting for the volunteers to turn before shooting them presents a real risk to the rest of us. But Dalhover is the one who shoots them. Then he and these men carry the bodies to a window and throw them out. It’s gruesome, emotionally difficult work. Dalhover refused to shoot anyone until there was no doubt what they were.”
    “And no one else would step up to do the dirty work,” I deduced.
    Dr. Evans’ face turned sadder and he nodded.
    “I guess it’s easier when they’re actively trying to kill you,” I surmised. “But tied up in a chair? Yeah, sitting there looking like normal people…for the most part. Yeah, it would be hard.” I looked back down the hall at Dalhover, who slumped as he walked under the burden of his duties.
    “Sergeant Dalhover is a good man,” Dr. Evans said. “He’s prickly, but he’s a good man.”
    “Is he organizing your defense? I mean, who’s in charge of that?”
    “I retired as a colonel, but I was doctor. If anyone is in charge here, it’s me. After me, Sergeant Dalhover has been the ranking military man for three days now. Yes, he organizes our defense.”
    “Will he listen to me if I talk to him about your tactics?”
    “He’s prickly, but not closed-minded. Do keep in mind though, we’re all learning as we go.”
    Down at the end of the hall, Dalhover started taking temperatures. More than a dozen volunteers were sitting up straight in their chairs with their attention focused on the proceedings. Steph was turned toward Dalhover, her thick red hair hanging down to her shoulders. I wondered how it must feel, watching the executioner working his way up the hall, not knowing if it was your turn to die.
    I said, “That guy down there, Jeff Aubrey, he has some interesting thoughts on how the infected might kill each other off.”
    “Really?”
    “Yeah, you should talk to him pretty soon,” I said flatly. “He’s got the fever.”
    “I was hoping he’d make it. He’s a bright guy.”
    “He could turn out to be a slow burn,” I hoped aloud.
    “I’m afraid that’s a lot rarer than you think.”
    “But you don’t know for sure, do you?”
    “Nobody knows for sure,” Dr. Evans conceded.
    Changing the subject, I asked, “May I make an observation?”
    “Sure.”
    “You didn’t want to come down here, did you? It was easy to see. But you seem a little better now.”
    Dr. Evans nodded. “Seventeen of the volunteers haven’t shown any signs of the virus yet.”
    “Meaning?”
    “I hate to guess, Zed, but I’m hopeful. After all of the volunteers in the first two groups died, I was afraid that we were making a big mistake. But with seventeen showing no symptoms eighteen hours after exposure, it’s a positive sign.”
    “So Steph might make it?” I asked.
    “Don’t get your hopes up