"What is he … Oh, my God, he caught Veronica!"
Ayers was holding up a diminutive skunk where the external camera could see her.
"Let him in, let him in!" Vincent urged, even as he reached for the outer-door controls himself.
Lizzie hollered over her shoulder, "Harry! Take Charlie in your room and keep him there! We're bringing a skunk in, and she'll spray everywhere if Charlie tries to chase her!"
"Okay, Lizzie!"
They hurried to meet Ayers halfway.
Veronica was an extremely rare species of Eastern Spotted Skunk. Thirty years ago Vincent had already been raising common skunk species for pets and zoo programs. On a whim, he bid on a government contract to raise Eastern Spotteds, which had been on the brink of extinction. Mostly he'd applied because the idea of having the federal government fund the construction of his bunker and pay for the "anti-poacher security system" amused him. To his surprise, he had easily won the contract and been showered with copious amounts of government funding.
Then he'd fallen in love with the adorable little stink-bombs. Easterns were sweet-tempered animals, no bigger than a squirrel, with striking patterns that reminded Lizzie of the swirl in a cinnamon roll. Veronica was an excellent mother, dainty as a cat, and Vincent's personal favorite.
They reached Ayers and Veronica in the middle chamber of the five vestibules. Vincent immediately transferred the one-pound animal into his arms.
"Where have you been, you silly girl? Lizzie and I have been trying to catch you for months!"
Veronica nibbled on his sleeve, unrepentant.
Ayers removed his helmet. With a slightly furrowed brow, he gestured to Veronica and said hoarsely, "It's time."
"She's in labor?" Lizzie gasped. "Already?"
Vincent's heart sank. "It's too early. The kits are going to be premature. Let's take her to the infirmary."
Veronica had gotten knocked up by one of the other Spotteds after Vincent released them all into the wild, so they had no idea if the litter's sire was another Eastern or one of the Western Spotted Skunks, which were bigger and had wider stripes. She might have difficulty delivering kits that were half-Eastern and half-Western, which was why Vincent and Lizzie had been willing to risk going out to try and catch her.
Vincent keyed open the infirmary and shouldered his way inside. Lizzie flipped on the lights and Ayers shut the door behind them in case Charlie got loose.
When Vincent put the expectant mother on the cold metal operating table, she lifted her feet alternately like the chilly surface was bothering her. Ayers stepped closer, and she immediately went to the edge and stood on her hind legs, using her forepaws to plead for the mercenary to pick her up again.
Lizzie laughed. "I think she likes the heat from your armor."
Vincent agreed. "Probably so. Go on and hold her until I get the heating pad warmed up."
Lizzie was grinning at Ayers as he removed his gauntlets and picked up the skunk with his gloved hands. "You're a regular Disney princess, Ayers."
The ex-marine cocked his head, scratching Veronica's ears gently. What? he was asking.
"You know. Disney. The company that makes all those kids' movies."
He shook his head. No.
"I guess it's not surprising that a career military man would forget what Disney is. Their movies have also been a bit strange the last few decades, ever since the UAC bought the company. The films have a weird vibe now, like there's some hidden message in them that I can't figure out."
Ayers shrugged. I wouldn't know.
"Lizzie, turn the thermostat up to 85," Vincent called to her as he rummaged in the supply closet. "I don't want you two to get your hopes up. And don't tell Harry she's pregnant."
"Why not, Vin?"
"Because the kits might not make it. The animal infirmary was above-ground, and the Army rolled their tanks right through it to get to the fighting. My veterinary stockpiles are gone. We've only got human-grade supplies." Vincent shoved the last drawer shut angrily. "I should have had extra veterinary supplies down here. Dammit, I had forty years to plan for something like this, and I didn't."
They were silent; Lizzie because she couldn't think of anything to comfort him, and Ayers because it was his normal state of being.
Vincent took a deep breath to calm himself. "Okay, let's get her onto the heating pad and assess how far along she is."
Veronica seemed reluctant for Ayers to let her go, but quickly decided that the heating pad was equally nice. They could see the babies actually kicking inside her round belly, jostling for space like siblings in the back seat of a small car.
"How many do they usually have, Vincent?"
"Four or five. Although there could be more if the father is a Western. They could also be bigger than she's built for, which might account for the early labor; her body could be trying to get them out before they're so big they'd get stuck and kill her along with them."
Lizzie covered her mouth in worry, and Ayers was very still.
"Isn't there anything we can do? I mean, assuming they come out smoothly. What would the babies need to survive?"
"Kitten formula, nursing bottles, that kind of thing. Dammit, those were so easy to get before the war that I didn't plan on needing replacements."
"Aren't there any veterinarians left in Denver?"
"Probably, but my ham radio buddies say that Denver is still using U.S. currency, so I can't pay them in the silver coins I've got down here. And the chain of banks I used has collapsed."
Vincent rubbed his forehead in exasperation as Veronica began to push out the first of her litter. "I wouldn't have even needed a vet's prescription, dammit. Even the pharmacies carry basic veterinary supplies. Dammit, dammit, dammit."
He'd laid out enough human supplies on the table to keep her clean and comfortable during the birthing process, and all the heating pads he had were plugged in and waiting on the counters, but it would be all for nothing if the kits were too premature to nurse. He could keep them hydrated with water from medicine droppers, but he had nothing to feed them. There was frozen cow milk in storage, but it had too much lactose, which would upset their digestive systems so much that they wouldn't absorb any nutrients. Vincent sighed in self-reproach.
The first kit was coming out head-first, which was good, but it was absolutely tiny, which was not. The little skunk baby was no bigger than a mouse.
"Dammit," he said again as Veronica began cleaning the afterbirth off her fragile newborn, who wasn't moving as much as he should.
Ayers was putting his gauntlets and helmet back on.
"Denver," he said decisively.
"You're going to Denver for supplies?"
Yes, he nodded.
"Right, your company probably still pays you in currency."
Yes.
"It's worth a shot."
The merc rasped, "Need?"
"Basically we need goat milk or kitten formula and the smallest nursing bottles they have. And liquid antibiotics for felines because they're very likely to get pneumonia since their lungs are underdeveloped."
Ayers left the bunker with haste.
Kevin was working the evening shift when a very large marine kicked in the door of the CVS Pharmacy.
The doors were bulletproof plastic, thankfully, so they didn't shatter, but the half-dozen patrons were very startled. Kevin raised an eyebrow.
The soldier, wearing extremely advanced olive-green armor, strode straight through the lobby and into the Pets section.
"Not to worry, folks," Kevin told the other customers. "You keep shopping; I'll handle this."
He had served as airborne infantry – parachuting into hostile territory for ground assaults – during the Third Amazon War, so not a lot of things phased him. It made Kevin the perfect night staff for guarding a pharmacy full of drugs during a societal upheaval. Dealing with potential looters was a cakewalk compared to his former military career.
Kevin found the intruder in the Cats aisle, grabbing kitten nursing bottles off the shelves, ripping them out of the packages and shoving them into his belt pouches.
"Hey, buddy," Kevin began.
The marine turned his head sharply, and Kevin could have sworn he felt the man's growl.
"You don't need to steal those." Kevin informed him.
The growling stopped.
"Most people's pets ran off during the first attack and got eaten by demons before we could get the walls up. So we've got a surplus of pet supplies sitting on the shelves. We're basically giving the stuff away."
The soldier was still, probably trying to figure out if Kevin was stalling.
Kevin dropped a red basket at his feet.
"Pick out what you need and I'll ring it up as a donation."
The big man didn't move.
"Honest to God. The owner is a cat lover, and his own were killed by the demons. He'd be happy to give you whatever you need." Kevin gestured to the bottle in the soldier's hand. "Especially if it's for premature kittens."
The marine nodded. His face was barely visible through the dark green visor.
"Put your stuff in the basket and bring it to the checkout counter when you're ready."
Back at the counter, the other shoppers nervously resumed checking out, sparing occasional glances toward the Pets section. They parted again when the marine strode up to the counter and dropped the full basket on it with a thump.
Kevin began bagging the merchandise, which included the kitten bottles, kitten formula, canned goat milk, eye droppers, pocket-size heat packs and a couple of fleece pet blankets.
"Anything else I can get you?"
The soldier pointed over Kevin's shoulder at the prescription pet meds.
"Feline antibiotics?"
He nodded.
"No problem. The liquid versions are about to expire anyhow." Kevin grabbed the last two glass bottles from that drawer and began wrapping them in protective paper for the journey home. "Keep it refrigerated between 40 and 50 degrees Fahrenheit. Use it within the next two months, or it might as well be tap water."
The helmet muffled any sounds the marine might be making, but his hands at his sides were clenching and unclenching rhythmically. Kevin had the impression that the big man was trying very hard not to snatch the items out of his hands and run.
Kevin added a few tiny syringes to the bag and tapped the purchase into the register, which chattered happily.
"Read. The. Instructions," Kevin said firmly. "Do not just inject kittens with an entire syringe of antibiotics. That would actually make things worse, understand? It needs to be carefully measured according to body weight and age."
The soldier nodded.
Kevin released the bag. "Good luck." On reflex, he held up the six-foot-long strip of paper and asked, "Would you like a receipt?"
The marine turned and left.
"Oh, well."
He lifted the receipt for the small crowd to see.
"Anybody want a coupon for two dollars off a box of tampons?"
Lizzie pushed the button to release the outer pressure doors as soon as she saw the black-armored figure step into view carrying a CVS bag. Knowing he could let himself in the rest of the way, she dashed back to the infirmary.
Veronica had whelped surprisingly fast, giving birth to six kits. Three were nursing, but the other three were lying on heating pads, swaddled in some of Vincent's tube socks, and breathing too slowly.
"Thanks," Lizzie said as she took the bag from Ayers and gave Vincent the antibiotics to put away.
Vincent had thought of everything – well, everything but skunk medical supplies – so the infirmary sink produced warm filtered water that she mixed with the goat milk and formula. She handed one bottle each to Ayers and Vincent, and they all bent over their individual kits and encouraged them to eat.
Ayers had one gauntlet still on and was using the glove like a heat lamp, his curved fingers hovering over the tiny body. His kit perked up immediately, the blind little face seeking the bottle eagerly. Vincent and Lizzie's kits needed a bit more encouragement, but when all was said and done, it looked like they were all going to make it.
Around 3 a.m. Vincent came back from checking on Harry to find Lizzie asleep against Ayers's side as he sat with his back to the cupboards. The mercenary had a shoebox with six baby skunks in his lap, wrapped burrito-style in tiny fleece blankets, and Veronica lounging across the nape of his neck inside the armor's thick collar.
"Lizzie," Vincent said loudly, waking her from her slumber. Ayers glared at Vincent like he wanted to do creative things to him with a combat knife. Vincent made pointed eye contact with Ayers as he explained, "Time for another feeding, Liz." That seemed to pacify the huge soldier a bit.
"You got it, Vin," she said with a half-yawn as she stood and stretched. "I'll make the bottles if you get the rags ready." The baby skunks were adorable but sloppy eaters, and with the high temperature in the room, goat milk on their fur went sour very quickly.
Ayers remained seated, minding the skunks while they prepared for the feeding. When Vincent had a bowl of warm water and clean rags ready, he turned around to find that Ayers had developed a keen interest in ladies' fashion. Specifically the back pockets of women's Levi's.
Vincent coughed politely, and Ayers snapped out of his jeans-induced hypnosis.
"So, Ayers," he began. "Lizzie tells me you had a rabbit once, and you've definitely got a knack for little critters." He gestured to the box of kits and the small mother skunk, who was studiously searching Ayers's hair for items of interest. "Any other pets you've had? Cats? Dogs? Birds?"
"Wolf."
"Oh, really?"
Yes.
"One of those Irish wolfhounds, or a wolf-dog hybrid?"
Ayers held up two fingers. Wolf-dog.
"Yeah, you look like you're one of the few who could handle a pet that's half wolf." Vincent moved a heating pad to the surgery table and patted it. "Bring the little ones here."
Ayers stood from his cross-legged position more gracefully than someone of his size was normally capable of, and came to the table with Veronica still perched on his neck. Lizzie helped Veronica dismount her faithful steed, and her cheeks went pink when her fingers brushed Ayers's muscular neck.
"Had a friend with a wolf-dog once," Vincent said to distract Ayers from Lizzie. "Damn fool never taught it any discipline, couldn't control it, and it started eating the neighbors' chickens. Then the neighbors' cats. Then the dogs." Vincent unwrapped the three strongest babies and arranged them against Veronica's stomach. "But the idiot still wouldn't pen it up or get rid of it. Instead of getting a dog trainer, he got a lawyer." He made direct eye contact with Ayers. "That's when we stopped being friends."
Ayers stared at him. Lizzie had her back to them and was shaking the bottles to mix the formula.
Vincent continued, "Then came the day when it bit a child. Just a little nip. Just on the back of the calf. Just enough that I knew I had to do something."
Ayers didn't blink, but Vincent wasn't here to get into a staring contest. He was here to give him a message.
Patting Veronica's head as she nursed her delicate offspring, he added, "Wasn't even my neighborhood. Not my kids. Not really my problem. But I couldn't wait for the issue to go 'round and 'round in the courts, meanwhile that animal was fixin' to kill somebody's toddler."
Lizzie brought the bottles to the table and put them down on the edge, so interested that she almost missed the surface. Vincent had never told her this tale, because Harry was always around whenever he'd remembered it, and it was the furthest thing from an age-appropriate bedtime story.
"So I give it one chance." Vincent unwrapped the first of the sickly babies and handed it to Lizzie for feeding. "One chance only, to prove it's not a killer. I go out there in the middle of the night and wait on the dirt bike trail about a hundred feet from the broken fence where the dog kept getting out. I have a pen knife with me, and when I see that wolf-dog come trotting my way, I give myself a little cut on the arm with it." As an aside to Lizzie, he said, "People only cut their hands or fingers in the movies. In real life, a cut on your hands would make it harder to defend yourself."
"Seems about right," she agreed as she got Veronica's kit to latch onto the bottle.
He continued speaking to Ayers as he unwrapped the second baby and held it out to him. Ayers took the newborn carefully. "So there I am, a six-foot-plus man in my forties, one of the biggest humans this creature's ever met, with the barest hint of my blood in the air. I turn my back on the wolf-dog and start walking. And that's when I hear it: the snap. I swear it was an audible sound when that half-dog went all-wolf." Vincent tended to the third kit, who needed extra stimulation to wake up. As he rubbed the tiny ribcage gently, he said, "They can jump a surprisingly long distance, but I swing the crowbar around in time – did I mention I'd brought a crowbar, Lizzie?"
"No," she said with rapt attention.
"Well: I had a crowbar. Brained that beast like I'm a major league baseball player. It's tough, though. Even with a cracked skull and one eye dangling half out of its socket, it comes at me again. Now, I don't know if you've used a crowbar in a combat situation, Ayers, but if you have, you'll remember that it takes way too long to wind up for a good swing at a target who's expecting it."
Other than holding the bottle and the baby skunk as it ate, Ayers was completely still and fixated on Vincent. Good. He was getting the message.
"So instead I bring it up to horizontal like a quarterstaff and the mad thing gets the steel right between its jaws. If you've ever accidentally bitten down on a fork, you'll have an idea of how unpleasant that was for this animal." The baby in his hands stirred, and Vincent coaxed it until it latched onto the minuscule rubber tip and began to eat. "I keep the crowbar between its jaws and force it to the ground before it can get its wits back." He flicked his eyes up at Ayers. "Then I kneel on the ends of the bar."
"Jesus, Vincent!" Lizzie swore in shock. Her kit squeaked a tiny protest because she'd pulled the bottle away from its mouth. Blinking, she returned some of her attention to the baby. "You've never told me this story before. I definitely would have remembered."
"Well, it's not one I'd tell when Harry's around. Anyhow, strangling a large animal takes an awful long time, and the beast is clawing up my legs and arms something fierce, so I sort of lean on the bar in jerks. Like when you're shoveling hard dirt, you know?"
"Oh, sure, Vincent," she said in a droll voice. "Ayers and I kill wolves with our bare hands all the time."
"Half-wolf. With a crowbar."
"Pardon me. Do continue." But she was looking at him with admiration, which Vincent would never deny he enjoyed.
"So I work up a good bounce, and it crushes the brain from underneath and puts the creature out of its misery. It would have been a child-killer, yes, but there's no reason to make it suffer. However, then there's the problem of what to do with the body. See, my former friend had gotten a wolf-dog that was, as advertised, half wolf. But the other half of your average wolf-dog is usually a Siberian Husky. A sled dog. Light and fast for long-range travel. About fifty pounds. My friend, though, he got one that was part Giant Malamute. Those are sledge dogs. Huge. Made for hauling heavy loads over short distances. More like a hundred and fifty pounds. Dragging that thing's fat ass back to the farm, though, it seemed like three hundred."
"You brought it back to the skunk farm with you? Why?"
"Well, Lizzie, skunks are omnivores. They'll eat pretty much anything. Including, as it turns out, dog meat."
Lizzie stood there with her mouth open. Ayers was also very still. Then they both looked down at the one-pound Veronica, who licked her weasel-like fangs with perfect timing.
"Oh, no," Vincent assured them. "This was twenty-some years ago. She wasn't born yet. It's the common skunk species I raise for zoos that eat the most. They're a good fourteen to eighteen pounds and can really put food away when they haven't eaten in a few days." Vincent smiled pleasantly. "And they hadn't eaten in a few days."
"Jesus, Vincent," Lizzie swore again. "Pardon my French," she remembered to say to Ayers.
The mercenary was still eyeing Veronica.
"Yep. I gutted it, left it for them, and by the time I'd gotten back from kicking dirt over the blood trail, they'd fairly picked it clean. Just the hide and bones left."
"The hide? Wait, no," Lizzie said with her head tilted like someone listening to a real whopper of a lie. "Don't tell me that fake wolf pelt in your old house…?"
"Isn't fake."
"Jesus, Vincent!"
"Language, Lizzie."
"Sorry," she said to Ayers. "Sorry, little one," she repeated to the little squeaker in her hands. "My bad."
"Anyhow, Ayers, my point is …"
They both looked up.
"Don't let Veronica too close to your eyes when she's lying across your shoulders like that. Especially since most of the ocular surgeons in the country are probably dead."
Ayers blinked. He looked a little stunned.
"Vincent, may I see you in the storage closet for a moment?"
"Sure, Liz. Looks like the little ones are finished eating. Would you clean them up, Ayers? Thanks."
Lizzie dragged him to the back of the long narrow closet by his sleeve.
"What the hell was that?"
"What was what?"
"That horror story you just told our friend about killing a wolf with your bare hands and how your pet might eat his eyeballs!"
"Half-wolf. With a crowbar. And you can't be too careful with your eyesight."
"Don't get technical with me, Carter."
"I only wanted to remind him that we're not completely defenseless down here, in case he was thinking about telling his mercenary company about all the lovely medical supplies we have. And the food. And the running water and heat. And how I stupidly mentioned that I have a stockpile of precious metals."
"Oh."
"People get desperate, Lizzie. They get stupid. They slip up and say, 'Oh, yeah, I've got friends with a fully-stocked bunker and a great big stack of silver coins. Wanna meet 'em?' "
"Vincent, I get where you're coming from, but Ayers isn't the kind to blurt things out. And I've come to realize he isn't dangerous. Not to us, I mean. Pretty sure the demons still have it coming."
"Glad you feel that way. Just try to be smarter than I was today, and not give away too much information."
The bunker wasn't the only thing that Vincent was reminding Ayers about, but Lizzie didn't need the burden of knowing Vincent would fight to the death to protect her as well. She'd been through so much, even before the invasion. She, of all people, did not need another burden.
He looked at her and did a double-take. "Liz, what on Earth are you doing?"
She was squinting at the mercenary in various ways: one eye at a time, then from an angle, then almost completely shut, like an old-fashioned camera operator messing with the F-stops.
"I'm trying to picture him ugly. Or at least ordinary."
"Why?"
"Because he's a great guy and I like having him around, except for the fact that he's way too handsome. I keep forgetting, so every time I turn around and see his face again it's like having a jack-in-the-box pop out at me."
Vincent squinted too, but not because he was trying to visualize Ugly Ayers. "I must be getting old, because he just looks grizzled to me."
"Grizzled?"
"Yeah, you know: weather-beaten. Rough. All sharp edges and scars. Like he walked through a wind tunnel filled with razor blades."
When Ayers felt their eyes on him and looked up, he scowled in uncertainty. Probably because two creeps were squinting at him from the depths of a dark closet.
"See? Grizzled," Vincent declared.
"Nope. Still handsome."
"Whatever floats your boat, kiddo."
"I don't want my boat floated, Vincent!" she hissed quietly. "That's the whole problem. Boats are not a part of my life anymore, remember?"
"Pretty sure you can't have 'no boat' by sheer willpower, Liz."
"Watch me. I will be devoid of boats. The most boatless person you've ever met."
"You can certainly try, but I think you'll end up with a mega-yacht instead."
"Wanna bet on it?"
"Yeah. Two silvers says you can't be boatless."
"You're on, Carter."
"And no cheating by avoiding him."
"Deal."
They shook on it.
CVS would definitely have virtual receipts by 2150, but picturing it made me laugh.
