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Major sat in his office the next day, listening to Lambert's accent, wishing he could prove it was fake, wishing he was back in the quiet peace of Renegade's safe house. Not very Commander-like of him, he supposed, and he imagined all was not always quiet peace at the safe house—in fact, he knew it wasn't—but pretty much anywhere but his office sounded good right now.
With some effort, he brought his attention back to Lambert.
"So, with all due respect, rumors persist on anti-zombie message boards that CHICS is planning a coordinated blockade of our dispensaries. If this comes to pass, how do we intend to respond?"
It was a fair question, but Major was tired of being questioned by this poser. "Machetes," he said decisively, enjoying the way Lambert stopped pacing to stare at him. "Hand grenades."
"Excellent, Commander." Lambert immediately started writing it down.
"That was a joke," Major called as he started to leave the room, enjoying the way Lambert's eyes rolled in what he seemed to think was a subtle manner. "We'll have Lieutenant Collins prep the trucks for mobile brain tube delivery. And I'll get Captain …" The name suddenly completely escaped him. He searched his memory, but his mind felt fuzzy. Like he needed a nap. "Um … uh … uh …"
"Hobbs," Lambert finally supplied.
"Hobbs. Yes." Major tried to pull his mind back to the conversation at hand. What had he been saying? Oh, right. "I'll get him to draw up prospective routes. And—"
"Mon Dieu," Lambert protested, "this is our food supply. Any attempt to interfere with zombies receiving that which sustains us must be put down by force. An example must be made."
"How about we don't seek out confrontation," Major suggested quietly. "If the intel changes, we can reassess."
Lambert didn't like the response, but he accepted it, at least for the moment, and left the room.
Major was leaning over his desk looking at a report in his hand. He had meant to do something with that report. What was it? He couldn't even really remember what the report was about. He studied it for another moment, trying to call to mind what he needed to do, and eventually dropped it on the desk, giving up the attempt.
Looking up, he saw someone standing in his office door. "Commander?"
"Mm-hm?"
"I have an issue that requires immediate attention."
Who was this guy? He looked familiar, but Major couldn't place him. The name was just—gone, vanished out of his mind like it had never been there. "Hey … you," he said lamely.
The man gave a small, tight smile. "Guard gate requested we send them six more soldiers. They called back later, asked for two additional soldiers. I cannot determine how many to send him in total."
Major sat down behind his desk and stared at the man. What was he asking? He wasn't sure. His head felt like cotton wool had been stuffed in it. Thick, warm cotton wool. He shook his head, as much to try to clear it as to indicate he couldn't answer the man's question.
"Is that … six, plus two?"
He tried to focus on the numbers, but they kept slipping away from him. What did they mean? "Uh, you … you figure that out," he said.
"You know, I think I have." The man nodded at him as if to thank him for himself and left the office, leaving Major to stare at the papers on his desk in bewilderment.
Eventually, unable to focus or concentrate on or understand anything on his desk, Major went home. Which was probably also a mistake. Any time he tried to concentrate on the road, he made all sorts of mistakes, and was lucky he didn't cause an accident. Only once he got distracted and drove home on pure muscle memory did he make it safely.
But once he was inside the house—he couldn't remember what to do. He eventually managed to change clothes, but then … mostly, he just wandered from room to room, staring at the walls.
His roommate came in eventually, muttering a greeting as he closed the door behind him. Then he looked over Major's shoulder, trying to figure out what he was staring at. "What are you looking for? Major, are you all right?" he asked when Major didn't—couldn't—respond.
"Where are my shoulder pads?" Major asked, sure now that he needed to leave for football practice. "Mom will know."
The man with him put a hand gently on Major's shoulder, guiding him into the kitchen. He made a phone call, worriedly speaking to someone, and then leaned over Major, talking at him about … well, nothing that made any sense.
A woman came in some time after that, a woman Major thought he recognized. He smiled at her, then went back to sitting there, letting his mind drift.
An appetizing smell filled the kitchen. Someone was cooking something. His favorite. What was it? It would come to him. When it was important.
The woman set a plate down in front of him. "Hey. Big guy. Eat up."
Small cubes of … something were in the bowl in front of him. Major picked up a fork, putting one in his mouth. God, it was good. So good he finished the whole bowl.
After that, it was like a fog clearing. He recognized Ravi, and Liv, and the expressions they wore when they were worried about him. "What's up?"
"Oh, thank god." Liv rushed to him and put her arms around him, holding on tight. Major returned the hug.
"Something happen? I feel like …"
"Yeah, your brain took a bit of a vacation today. Alzheimer's brains. We think they were put in the tube supply in order to sabotage the city's zombies."
Still fighting the effects of the brains, Major took a moment to get up to speed. Once he did, he was livid. "I'll get to the bottom of this."
"The police will look into it, too," Liv promised him.
"And I'll get the Mayor's office on it," Ravi added.
It was reassuring to have them both on his side, but he couldn't help worrying about what this meant. Tampering with brain tubes now? What was next?