Dead Horse Rising - 95

    As the loading work finished, Mortimer considered his role.  This was important, because beyond just gathering up food, he was also getting tools and supplies.  His role was important, then, because he needed to know which kind of tools and supplies were his.
    It was a matter of the classic zombie survivor roles: the soldier, the handyman, the medic and the liability.
    See, when he'd started out, he'd thought he was a soldier.  It seemed obvious enough.  He was young and strong and owned a couple of weapons and spent a lot of time playing zombie killing video games, so naturally, when the zombie apocalypse broke out, he was the type who'd be out there killing zombies.  He got saddled with two liabilities right off, but that hadn't changed how he saw things.  He was the soldier.  They were useless.  He protected them, as was his duty.
    Then they'd picked up a medic.  That was good, since he'd kinda' messed up his soldier duties a bit and got one of his liabilities injured, injured one of his liabilities, in fact.  These things happened, but that was what you needed a medic around for.  Not all wounds would come from zombies, and those that weren't infected needed medical treatment.  She'd done her job well.
    After that, things got complicated.
    As much as Mortimer hated to admit it, Mr. Ethelberht's qualifications to be the group's main soldier were a lot better than his own.  As soon as they'd joined up with Mr. Ethelberht and Mrs. Clitherow, it wasn't clear what Mortimer was anymore.  When you got down to it, he was just a wannabe arms enthusiast masquerading as the professional fighter.  Did that qualify him as the soldier?  Mr. Ethelberht carried a gun as part of his job.  Mortimer only carried it maybe every fourth or fifth weekend for fun.  He'd arrogantly counted the groups makeup at two soldiers, a medic, and three liabilities (or four if you counted the baby).  That was a laugh.  It was more like a soldier, a medic, three or four liabilities and one spare, unspecialized character.  Between himself and all the extra liabilities, that was a lot of extra to go around.  In zombie stories, extra characters died.  As the second-in-line soldier or bland, talentless character, he was easily the most “extra” of the lot.
    Not that he was superstitious or anything.  This was still real life and not a story.  Having a member for each role was just a question of good balance and having all your skill sets covered, not any kind of story principle.  Being a second-tier soldier or jack-of-all-trades wouldn't get him killed, he knew that, but it also made him less important to the group's survival.  His main contribution, his best contribution, was something that could already be performed better by somebody else.
    But then, when it came time to barricade themselves in at Dr. Barton's house, Mr. Ethelberht had singled Mortimer out as the best person to board up the windows.  That had been an eye opening experience.  Maybe, just maybe, he wasn't the soldier at all.  Maybe he was the handyman.
    Mortimer needed only look at his employment history.  He had learned to do all kinds of good stuff over the years.  There was a forklift right over there, for example, next to a palette of clothes.  He could drive that, along with a bunch of other types of heavy machinery.  He didn't need to, right now, but he knew how, in case it ever came up.  That was only the start of what he could do.  He could be an awesome handyman.  Being a second-rate soldier was normal for the handyman character, too, who would often contribute in fights (just like everyone else), though never as well as the soldier.  Being the handyman was a perfectly respectable role, and it was one he could take pride in.
    The realization had come as a huge relief.
    But then things had gotten even more complicated when their liabilities had started redeeming themselves.
    Miranda's redemption case was just weird.  In a single night, after firing only a single shot, she had somehow gone from whiny pacifist to gun toting maniac.  It beat the heck out of being small enough to fit somewhere, but he didn't trust it either.  Just what was her deal?  And. . . she'd been bitten, hadn't she?  Or had she?  Was she turning into a zombie, or was she alright?  He didn't know.  Was the increased aggression just an early symptom?  It could be, but he didn't know.  How long before she tried to attack him while he slept?  It might be anywhere from tonight to never.  What was it?  Miranda's was the perfect liability redemption case, in terms of her usefulness, but she was still a pain to deal with, and he couldn't rule out the possibility that she still be as much a danger as ever.
    When Dr. Barton had her heart attack, it had been the girl who redeemed herself next.  The girl had been the first to spot the problem and alert the rest of them, then she'd also been the one to direct the CPR.  Mortimer. . . sorta' knew CPR.  He understood the basics, anyway, even if he'd never taken actual classes.  Miranda knew too, to some extent, as evidenced by her understanding of the girl's pantomimed instructions.  He didn't know about everyone else.  Still, the girl, even if he still didn't know her name, was easily single-handed responsible for saving their medic, and that made her as good as the medic herself, in Mortimer's book.  That was also a better redemption than fitting through somewhere small.  Mortimer had to admit, too, that probably the only reason the girl didn't also perform the CPR personally was that she'd taken a bullet to the shoulder (his bullet to the shoulder).  In that respect, he'd nearly killed not only one of their now-redeemed liabilities, but the medic as well.  He'd both nearly killed the medic's rescuer with that little mistake as well as compromised her ability to perform the rescue.
    Mrs. Clitherow, though. . .  During their talk with the hijacker, she'd revealed that she was a mechanic by trade.  A mechanic!  That made her more of a handyman, in many ways, than Mortimer would ever be!  He didn't know if she knew how to drive a bus or perform a spot weld or which power tools she was familiar with, but she could hotwire a car and fix an engine, and when they made their getaway from the zombie horde, she'd proven she was an amazing driver to boot.  She'd saved him with that well-timed swerve just as much as Miranda had saved him with her shooting.  She'd saved everyone.  She was their handyman all along.
    If she was the handyman, though, what did that make Mortimer?
    (The baby was still a liability, he guessed, but it was a baby.  What could you do?  It occurred to him he'd never even asked its gender or name.  Had anyone?  Maybe that was rude. . .)
    Mortimer wandered around the supermarket's back end with no clear sense of direction or purpose.  He should be getting some food, at least, but he found the question about his other materials more pressing.  There were so many things he should be grabbing, from tools and weapons to just a new change of clothes, but the details paralyzed him.
    He knew it was silly of him, but outclassed as he was in so many departments, it didn't matter what he came back with or wearing, be it camouflage hunting gear with arms and munitions, simple work clothes with boxes of tools, a meager first aid kit or any combination the above: he'd feel like a poser, a fake, a wannabe, maybe even like he was trying to pick a fight, stepping on somebody else's terrain.
    That wouldn't be nearly as bad as coming back empty handed, though.  If he did that, he'd feel like a liability.  He'd be a liability.  He had to bring back something.
    It was bad enough that he was becoming afraid of shooting.  If he came back with nothing to aid the cause, it would be like admitting he was good for nothing but tagging along and being rescued now.  He couldn't admit that was the case.  He couldn't admit he was afraid to do his job around here.  He couldn't admit he was turning into Miranda.
    He was still pondering what to bring when he came across the scavengers.