Gus wasn’t sure he understood. “What?” he finally got out.
Rogan fidgeted in his wheelchair. “We’ve had terrible things happen here. Terrible things. I was… I was the only one… left alive. I was… with a security team… when the breakout happened. And the virus spread. Like… like a fire.”
Gus listened as a growing horror crept through his frayed nerves.
“The virus…” Rogan explained. “There are.… degrees to the virus. Ah, no. Waves. Yes. Waves. There was the first outbreak, like a mushroom cloud, so to speak. Those you disposed of by shooting in the head. The only way. The… cinematic way. But then, what we later learned, was that there was an unnoticed second outbreak. If a zombie was shot in the head, there was a chance that the corpse, during its decomposition, would… spore. That the virus would pollinate the air in a last-ditch effort to survive… its dead host. Only a small percentage of the corpses… but if you were anywhere near that five percent… before an air current could disperse it, and you breathed the spore in…”
Gus could only stare, and in that stretching silence, he whispered, “What?”
“A second wave of undead. Driven to spread the virus through bloody contact, just like the first. But if you were wounded or bitten, it would take control of a person much faster. Within seconds. Seconds.”
Rogan cocked his head. “That’s the trouble with weaponized strains…With the splicing and the mixing… there are so many levels to testing. So many variables to consider. And so many unknowns. You never really know the final outcome. Not without the proper protective measures, the proper control groups. When we got word that the first virus escaped… that was the beginning of the end. Why we came to Whitecap in the first place. To wait it all out. We even developed the TI serum, just in case, formulating it on what we knew about the initial strain. But even that… was a mistake.”
Gus thought of Wallace. “Some people changed.”
“Some changed, indeed,” Rogan giggled, then grew serious. “We hoped the serum would immunize, and it did. But… it also… mutated. A percentage. In all honesty, the TI serum was rushed. A frantic solution that… we hoped would protect our people… against that first terrible strain. There were no control groups. Only subjects. There was no choice in the matter. Not for active military personnel. We were… we were told… were ordered…to tell them anything. Tell them it’s a cure, but report. Record. Everything. Through authorized channels. Take further samples if and when necessary. So… they received the first doses because… they were going out there, you understand. Outside. They needed something. To protect them. They were the first test group.”
Computers continued to whisper in the background, filling the silence between the two men.
“I knew one,” Gus said. “A soldier from here. A special soldier. He was turning into a zombie, but he still… talked like a guy. Until the end.”
“He retained his identity?”
“While I knew him.”
“Fascinating.” Rogan’s jawline began to twitter. “He was an exception. One of Whitecap’s soldiers… infected… the whole bunker. That’s what happened here. He’d been injected with TI. Then one day, while posted in the med lab, he went full-on zombie. Went from a person… to zombie… in a heartbeat. He bit a nurse. Who bit a doctor. Who bit a waiting patient. One bit one and they became two. Two infected two more. Four infected four more, and so on. From there, it was a frenzy. Carnage.”
Rogan’s teeth chattered. “Less than a day. A day. Ninety percent of the populace had been turned. The security team I was with. There was a fight. We lost.” He chuckled. “We didn’t want the infected getting out. Couldn’t let anyone in. Some of the soldiers… set explosive charges. Blew the entrance. To prevent anyone from entering. That worked. There were still zombies running around, some even spored… which infected the remainder of the soldiers. Two days later, I was the only one left. Secured myself in the upper levels. Here. In security command. Watched the undead… roam the corridors. I watched the madness…. I saw the PM walking about the lower floors with his family. Hunting for survivors. It was horrible. Horrible.”
Gus took a deep breath, trying to forget his own experiences with the undead. He knew about horror. He knew about it very well.
“Then, someone came knocking,” Rogan said with a giggle. “Or rather, digging. I watched.” He pointed at the screens. “Watched it all, as the… knocking… the digging… the grinding drew the remainder of the zombies to the main entrance. Everyone. Everyone that could walk. Then the door was opened. Like a plug, in a bathtub. They all flowed out in a gush. Then the fighting started. I couldn’t see. The cameras on the outside didn’t work for me. I couldn’t get them to work. They were broken. Or I didn’t know the codes. So I waited. Waited for… whoever… when the door was opened.
“Except no one came. And I was left alone. Again. Except… Whitecap was clear of its zombies. This… all of this… is a paradise compared to what’s out there. And I’ve been waiting. Hoping someone… worthy… would come. Before I die. To tell them what happened. And what might happen. From here on out.”
That got Gus’s attention. “What might happen?”
“While the zombies roamed Whitecap, I noticed some retained their… vigor… more so than others. Those same zombies, when… sustenance grew sparse… they would devour any of their dead cousins.”
The very thought screwed up Gus’s face. Then he remembered. “Those zombies,” he asked. “Could they die like regular people? Like, being shot in the chest, as well as the head?”
Rogan thought about it. “I never noticed. Did you?”
“I did.”
“Interesting. In truth, the spore zombies aren’t truly dead. I’ve seen them… void themselves. They’re just… infected. Perhaps your zombies were produced by inhaling spore? Or they were bitten or wounded by spore zombies?”
Gus thought of the masked douchebags and their weaponized mindless. “Maybe.”
“Those were my thoughts…” Rogan added. “Behind the ones that… seemed to retain their speed. For a longer period of time. In any case, while the virus is certainly running out of material, it’s still out there. And might very well be out there for a while yet. Until all are destroyed. Or decompose… into nothing. In any case, spore or not, they’re still zombies. And you led a considerable… pack… into the kingdom.”
Gus’s helmet seemed to tighten around his skull. “Yeah. Guess I did. Sorry about that.”
“Who are those people…?”
“They’re with me,” Gus answered. “We… we were running from a bunch of crazies who—who might be using zombies as shock troops.”
That silenced Rogan. His jawline resumed its quivering. “That… is disturbing.”
Gus nodded that it most certainly was.
“But… I didn’t mean… those people on level five,” Rogan pointed out. “I know they’re with you. I meant them.”
He pointed to the computer monitors.
41
One of the great mysteries after the fall of civilization was where the government went after fleeing the collapsing capital. Most believed the Prime Minister would be whisked away to a secret bunker, deep under the earth. There, he would hunker down and wait out the end of the virus with his family, supporting staff, and a few selected friends. During his isolation, the PM would plan for his return, with whatever security forces remaining, in order to re-establish law, order, and government.
There were plenty of such bunkers south of the border, owned by governments and mega-corporations, but accessing them was a challenge. First, a person had to know the location of the installation, as such information would be classified. Then, there was the understanding that the bunkers were heavily fortified topside, with all manner of defensive measures in place to deter unauthorized individuals. Those measures included armed forces with orders to shoot trespassers on sight. Even if an intruder could sidestep the security considerations, they still had to bypass the ma
in doors, sealed up and built to withstand nuclear blasts.
Finding and accessing a bunker south of the border was out of the question, however, since the radiation belt after the reactor meltdowns prevented individuals from either country from crossing over.
So, when the Vulture walked through the main doors of what was obviously an extensive installation, his mind was whirling with possibilities.
Who might be inside?
What was inside?
And were there weapons?
Initially, the Vulture didn’t expect anyone to be inside the bunker, since the doors were wide open. The Leather had passed a veritable field of withered dead—hundreds of corpses leading up to the cavern entrance and within. None of those bodies had belonged to the Leather, however, and that lifted the Vulture’s hopes even more.
The mindless that had been cut down on the bunker’s threshold had been shot, however. By guns. Perhaps a lot of guns. Which meant ammunition. The Vulture wanted weapons. Automatic weapons. Military-grade. And the ammunition to go with it. Commodities that had all been savagely used up.
It all meant power.
Dozens of the Leather swarmed forward into the enormous garage, their crossbows raised and ready. They stepped over the fallen carcasses of the recently shot mindless, threading their way to open concrete. The Vulture wandered in behind them with a handful of his own personal guard. Military guns and ammo would be a prize. The Vulture would take any other supplies in the absence of weapons, but for now, he wanted the weapons. He wanted the death from above.
The size and scope of the garage impressed him, and he wondered just how big the bunker was. The outer defenses had taken considerable damage, and the main doors were obviously opened for a reason, but otherwise the bunker’s innards appeared fully functional. There were lights. Lights meant power. Power meant a source, just waiting to be discovered and accessed, and the Leather had minions capable of carrying out repairs if needed.
Under the ceiling’s fragmented lighting system, which resembled great glaring saucers, the Vulture slowed to a stop. His personal guard of a dozen or so stopped as well. The Vulture inspected the nearby building—a security bunker within a bunker. He then studied the abandoned vehicles scattered throughout the vast parking area. Trucks, sedans, even a pair of backhoes, and, God almighty… a limousine. In the shadows, the vehicle resembled a sleek black automotive shark.
The Vulture shifted ever so slightly, exchanging neutral glances with the Bronze, but they both knew what the other thought.
The Dog Tongue would be pleased.
Even if they didn’t find any weapons or supplies, the bunker itself was a prize. It was an honest-to-God secret base, with its doors wide open. A platform to prepare and launch more strikes into the new world.
The thought of others knowing about this base troubled the Vulture, however. Several of the mindless had been cut down in the enormous corridor leading to the garage. The living dead had cornered survivors in the security booth, evident by the bloody prints still on the laminated glass. A vicious patchwork of skin fragments and hair stuck to the surface, indicating that whatever had been inside that mini-bunker had greatly agitated the mindless. That mess practically covered the entire length of the glass.
The Leather set up a perimeter around the checkpoint, their loaded crossbows aimed outwards. Some of them used the little carts as cover, while a handful inspected one cart left in the middle of the lane. The Vulture ignored his minions’ maneuverings. He marched over to the security post and halted when a Leather held up the first of three discarded battle rifles. ‘ST1X’ was stamped on the shoulder stock, along with ‘BELGIUM MADE’ and a string of serial numbers.
The Vulture took the offered rifle and studied it. He placed it against his shoulder and looked down the sights. He turned towards his personal guard and aimed at his accompanying meat puppet, who was on his knees. The meat grew still, very much aware of the weapon.
This particular puppet, the one who had called himself Top Gun, had done well killing one of the escaping islanders, and the Vulture had rewarded the man by not stashing him back into the trunk of a car. He still wore the mask and gag, but after making the kill shot, the Vulture decided to take him along. A nearby lesser held the meat puppet’s rifle, just in case it was needed again.
Despite the meat puppet’s obedience and obvious worth to the cause, he was still a meat puppet.
The Vulture squeezed the trigger with an audible click.
The meat puppet tensed, his eyes blinking behind his mask.
The Vulture handed the weapon over to an underling and took a second weapon. He shouldered it and aimed again, right at the prisoner’s head.
Click.
The meat puppet slumped in relief.
The Vulture handed that weapon over, his fingers wiggling for the third. When he got the last gun, he noticed the full magazine on top.
He took aim again.
The meat puppet slowly shook his head, not believing how his day was going.
The Vulture stared down the sights and, at the last second, fired a raging blast over the head of the prisoner. The meat puppet flinched, grabbing his head, right where it was supposed to be.
Muffled chuckles erupted from the nearby Leather watching the scene. The meat puppet lowered his shaking hands and nodded, appreciating the joke for what it was.
The Vulture did not hand over the weapon. He turned away from the cowering slave and approached the security checkpoint, a long booth soiled by the touch of the mindless. The booth’s door was locked, and the Vulture noted a security keypad nearby. He studied the screen for a moment before pressing a thumb on an important-looking button.
Nothing happened. Until a voice said, “Please enter your authorization code now.”
The Vulture ignored that. He stepped around to the glass and wiped a bloody section clean. He peered inside, seeing very little of interest beyond the bloody paw prints marring the window. Then he saw the ceiling, and the drooping grate revealing a man-sized opening.
“Get back,” the Vulture ordered, and his minions pulled away from the security bunker. Seeing what their leader was about to do, most took cover behind the scattering of vehicles or the corners of the booth.
The Vulture took aim at the glass, dead center, and fired.
A dazzling line pummeled the surface, the light show winking out after contact. Those shots crackled back into the garage in other directions, causing the Leather to duck. The glass remained intact. The Vulture ceased firing, letting the weapon hang at arm’s length. He sighed, then proceeded to the shut door, where he took aim at the keypad.
He didn’t fire, however.
After a few thoughtful seconds, he lowered the gun. Blowing out the device wouldn’t help; it’d probably only make it more difficult to open.
The Vulture met the Bronze’s listless eyes. “Go in. If you find any more of these…” he held up the ST1X, “make use of them. Capture the girl. The others are disposable.”
Orders received, the Bronze hefted his executioner’s axe. The hammer hung from his belt. He nodded and lumbered forward, following the blood-spattered trail that led into Whitecap. The mindless had followed their prey’s scent to the checkpoint but then lost the trail. So they’d taken the only path into the compound in an attempt to pick up on it again.
The Vulture turned away from his menacing henchman and studied the door once again. He then looked over at the carts.
“See what works,” the masked leader said to a lesser, gesturing at the vehicles. “Then go back and bring me Carson.”
42
“Those guys,” Gus said, watching the tall masked man with the battle axe strut towards a ramp, “are fucking assholes. Shitty-assed, skid-marked assholes.”
The chittering of Rogan’s jaw picked up speed.
Gus compared the progress of the mindless to that of the advancing killers with the medieval weaponry. His balls almost dropped off when he saw the one with the bird mask pic
k up the ST1X. When the freak fired the weapon, Gus could only shake his head.
“They’ve been on our ass ever since they tried killing us on a little island,” he said.
“A little island?” Rogan repeated.
“A summer camp.”
“Ah.”
Gus waved a hand. “Don’t you have, I dunno, guns or something? In case fuckheads get inside?”
“We do, but I couldn’t access them.” Rogan shivered in his wheelchair.
Gus watched him, knowing there was something seriously wrong. “You okay?” he finally asked.
Rogan chuckled. “I most certainly… am not okay.”
With a mechanical whirling of gears, the wheelchair rolled towards the light.
Gus straightened.
Rogan’s face was a fluttering, twitching rictus of pain. His complexion was red, as if he’d absorbed far too much sun, and pieces of his skin were peeling away like bark off a birch tree. His facial hair was non-existent, and his teeth, though fair, were the color of amber.
Joshua Rogan certainly did not look okay.
Some changed, Gus remembered him saying. “You got a shot of TI?”
“I self-administered a shot… of TI,” Rogan admitted. “And every other serum in its final testing stages. As I said, I was with the security team. Whitecap had been overrun. It was decided that I should… inoculate myself. Just in case. I was the one who found patient zero. And that was… after the fact. After… Whitecap had fallen. And I was the only one left. I found out by… watching recorded security feeds from the med lab. Sadly… that was after I’d taken the shot. Multiple shots. I’m afraid I was of the mind that more was better than less.”
“Jesus Christ, Joshua,” Gus whispered.
The computers continued their chirping in the background.
Rogan shrugged. “It was… a momentary lapse… of reason. Brought on… by panic. I’ve been changing slowly… at first. But… things seem to be progressing rapidly. I don’t know what the final stage will be, but I don’t think it will be… flattering.”
Mountain Man (Book 5): Make Me King Page 29