Wet Work: The Definitive Edition

by Philip Nutman

  First the living dead, now this, the President thought. Maybe it was time to join the First Lady at Iron Mountain.

  BROOKLYN.

  7:59 A.M.

  Sandy was in the kitchen sipping a glass of orange juice when Roger called out from the living room.

  Jared sat on the floor beside the couch playing with his dinosaur diorama, oblivious to his father watching Bryant Gumbel on The Today Show. Roger’s expression was grave.

  “An unscheduled Presidential address,” he said, clutching his coffee cup.

  The anchorwoman looked ashen beneath her makeup and the TV studio lights.

  “And now to the White House for the President’s announcement,” she said, her efficient manner weighted with barely concealed emotion.

  Sandy sat next to Roger as the picture cut to an exterior shot of the White House with the flag blowing lazily against the clear blue sky. The President appeared on the screen as the picture dissolved into an interior of the Oval Office. He was seated, and looked frail, his expression as stony as any of his predecessors peering out from Mount Rushmore.

  “My fellow Americans, we live in troubled times,” he began, his inflection dripping with his hallmark school-principal inflections.

  He paused, as if choked with emotion.

  He looks ill, Sandy thought. Despite the early morning warmth—the temperature outside was already in the low seventies—a chill touched her back.

  “There are grave matters facing this proud nation on the domestic front. Matters of national security, matters the gravity of which fill me with deepest concern.”

  He leaned forward slightly, as if confiding to the camera.

  “Since Sunday, there has been a steady increase of violence in our inner cities. Violence that goes beyond the tragedies which make up the usual crime statistics this country is plagued with. Acts of civil unrest.”

  He’s talking about Washington, Sandy thought.

  “There have been riots in Harlem, New York, Atlanta, Washington, D.C., South Central Los Angeles. And the story is the same in many other major cities. Acts of social unrest that are being instigated by foreign subversives.

  “Yes, this country is under attack from within.”

  Roger shot Sandy a stunned glance.

  “Our police forces are working under difficult conditions to contain the situation, and to aid them, I have mobilized the National Guard. Orders were issued late last night, and in many cities roadblocks are now in force. It is with deepest regret I have to declare that the United States is officially in a state of emergency, and martial law will be enforced by 6 P.M. Eastern Standard Time today. A curfew will come into effect at 6 P.M. in each time zone tonight. To help the police and National Guard, it is essential that every citizen cooperate with the peacekeeping force. If you have not yet departed for work, please stay home. Those of you who have already started your working day continue to remain at your place of work until noon to allow traffic to clear…”

  “This is unbelievable. He’s closing the country down!” Roger exclaimed. “Did Nick know anything about this?”

  “No, he said there were problems in Washington. He—”

  “Hold on, let’s hear the rest.”

  “Please proceed home at an orderly pace. Office managers and supervisors should release employees in groups of no more than ten to twenty persons at a time, dependent on the size of the work force, on an hourly basis…”

  “This is crazy,” Sandy said.

  “Anyone on the streets after the curfew commences runs the risk of being shot on sight.”

  Sandy was stunned.

  Even Jared had stopped playing with his rubber dinosaurs and was watching with rapt attention. “What’s a state of emergency?” he asked.

  “It means there’s trouble,” Sandy replied.

  “I don’t believe this,” Roger muttered.

  Jared got up, sat on the couch, hugging Sandy.

  “Do not panic,” the President said. “We aim to have the situation under control within forty-eight hours.

  “Please stay tuned to your television and radio for further information. The people of this proud nation will not bow to the evil actions of its enemies.”

  The camera lingered on the President for several seconds, then cut abruptly back to a tense anchorwoman. She looked as if she were struggling to find adequate words to follow the President’s address.

  “Jesus!” Roger turned to Sandy. “What’s going on?”

  “I’m going to check on Liz,” she said, easing Jared away.

  “Come here.” Roger reached out for his son.

  Upstairs, in the bedroom, Sandy found Liz delirious.

  “Mom? Is that you? Mom?” Liz asked.

  “It’s me, Sandy,” she replied. “Here, let me take your temperature.”

  She picked up the thermometer from the table and sat on the bed.

  “I’m cold,” Liz mumbled before Sandy placed the thermometer under her tongue. Her sister was burning up, her brow drenched with sweat, and her skin had blossomed into a red rash that looked like measles.

  Liz had a temperature of 104. No wonder she was delirious. She needed cooling down.

  Sandy closed her eyes and rubbed her face. Liz was really sick, and if her temperature increased they’d have to get her to a hospital—state of emergency or not.

  Sandy suddenly felt very alone. She wished Nick was with her.

  She prayed he was going to be safe.

  Prayed all of them were going to be safe.

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  THE 19th PRECINCT.

  8:15 A.M.

  “Captain Paul Stipe, National Guard, Arlington,” the short, stocky man with jet-black hair said to the dozen cops standing in the muster room. “Good to be working alongside you, Detective Santos.”

  Stipe offered his hand, and Santos shook it. “Likewise,” he replied.

  “Okay. Down to business.” Stipe turned to the table behind them, laying out the map he was holding like it was a holy relic.

  “Take a look at this,” he said to the cops, who moved around the table. He pointed to the map which was actually a schematic blow-up of the Trinidad district and Gallaudet University.

  “There have been reports of activity around the Mount Olivet Cemetery. We will start our sweep here.” He pointed to the northern end of the cemetery.

  “We’ll move down here, through Trinidad, and end the day cleaning out the university. We will work in teams of six, evenly spaced out in two-hundred-yard intervals. Four men will be search and destroy, the other two lookout and backup.

  “Any questions?” He smiled.

  You’re too smug. You don’t know what we’re up against, Nick thought, his fingers resting on the stock of his gun.

  No one said anything.

  “Okay, then we move out. Sergeant Kitchen has a list of names and will designate teams. See you in the parking lot in five minutes.”

  Stipe folded up the map, tucking it neatly inside his jacket.

  “You ever see active service?” Santos asked.

  “No,” Stipe replied. “But I’ve been with the Guard for ten years. Do you have a problem with that?”

  Santos shook his head.

  Stipe smiled. “Okay, men. Let’s go.”

  He marched stiffly from the room.

  Nick looked at Tranksen.

  “Fucking toy soldier,” Brion muttered.

  Nick smiled nervously. “Right.”

  “Watch your backs,” Santos added, adjusting the strap on his bullet-proof vest. “I don’t like this any more than you do.”

  WASHINGTON HARBOR COMPLEX.

  9:17 A.M.

  The cold tinned soup resurfaced in a rush, splattering the kitchen floor. Corvino heaved a second time, the last of the minestrone dribbling from his mouth as he groaned. His stomach hurt like someone had stuck a knife in his gut, forcing him to double over again, reaching for the wall to support himself.

  Corvino groaned again. Hunger
pangs clawed his insides, but he’d found he couldn’t keep anything down.

  His mind reeled, partially with nausea, mainly with the insanity of it all.

  The D.C. Morgue had been a blood bath.

  When he’d exited the elevator the first floor looked like Beirut. The walls were riddled with bullet holes, bodies all over the place, the front of the building charred from a grenade explosion. Picking his way through the debris, he’d spotted the guards in the street before they saw him. Fortunately, the building’s rear wasn’t covered and he’d crept out through a window in the men’s room, slipping away into a night filled with the persistent shriek of sirens and rumble of gunfire. D.C., it appeared, had plunged into chaos. He’d walked only a few blocks before he came across a roadblock manned by National Guardsmen and a couple of cops. He’d taken a detour, sneaking down a side street, circling the barricade. Sticking to side streets, he’d made his way on foot towards Logan Circle, his closest point of reference, considering hot-wiring a car. But there’d been no vehicles on the road, and it looked like there was a curfew. Martial Law was clearly in force judging by the volume of cops and National Guard he saw on the route towards Georgetown.

  None of it made sense. According to the date displayed on an illuminated sign outside a bank, he’d been

  (dead)

  unconscious for three days. What’d happened?

  He—

  —was standing in the parking lot. Someone said his name and—

  He shook his head. The memory persisted.

  A gun fired. He felt—

  “No.”

  —felt a pain contact his chest, felt the force of a bullet slam him back against his car…

  A moan escaped his lips.

  He couldn’t concentrate. Thoughts kept colliding.

  Television.

  Turn on the TV. There must be news about what was going on.

  He shuffled into the living room and switched on the large Sony he seldom watched. Other than the news and certain documentaries on A & E or PBS, he rarely turned it on, preferring to read after he worked out. The picture flickered to life, and he changed channels, picking up CBS.

  “…the curfew will be strictly enforced from 8 P.M.,” said a newscaster he didn’t recognize. “And here, joining us in the studio, is Police Commissioner Albert Drucker.

  “Commissioner, just how serious is the situation in Washington?”

  The Commissioner swallowed, pausing as if he was uncertain how to respond. “Obviously, there’s cause for concern. Otherwise the President wouldn’t have initiated such serious measures. But we believe the situation is containable so long as we have the public’s full cooperation. The only way we can contain such unprecedented civil unrest is by force. It’s the final resort, and not a choice we are happy with. But in light of the riots, which have occurred overnight in inner-city areas across the nation, we have to fulfill our obligation to protect and serve the citizens of this and any other city, and we—”

  “What about the mobilization of the National Guard?” The newscaster interjected. “Doesn’t that indicate the situation is beyond the control of the Police Department?”

  “No, I don’t believe the situation is beyond the control of the police, either here or elsewhere. But, as you know, this is an unprecedented wave of unrest, and if we are to take charge of the situation, we need support. I cannot assign every policeman or woman in this city to riot duty. There are other matters a police department must deal with at any given time. Although all leave has been canceled—”

  He broke off to stifle a cough.

  “Excuse me. Leave has been canceled, but the sheer logistics involved dictate the necessity of enlisting the aid of the National Guard.”

  “Thank you, Commissioner Drucker.”

  The newscaster turned back to face the camera.

  “And now, over to Joan Lee in Anacostia, scene of some of last night’s worst rioting.”

  Corvino switched off the set.

  He coughed hoarsely and started to tremble. His stomach was burning, and sweat flowed from his scalp although his forehead was cold. He suddenly felt incredibly tired, his eyelids dropping as if he’d been drugged.

  The TV-remote slipped from his fingers to the carpet as he passed out.

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  A SECRET GOVERNMENT LAB—

  LOCATION UNKNOWN.

  12:27 P.M.

  “This specimen died yesterday due to heart failure.”

  The scientist turned to the small group of tired men, members of the NSC, CIA and two key officials of the White House staff, and smiled strangely.

  He’s enjoying this, Del Valle thought. The young scientist’s face radiated great pleasure, like a kid on Christmas morning.

  “What’s been most interesting to note is that the normal degenerative process—muscles relaxing, the brain beginning to liquefy, the eyes clouding over, onset of lividity, the start of rigor mortis, which usually commences in the face six hours after death—took place at a rate eighty percent slower than normal. In the case of the brain liquefying, this actually didn’t happen, and hasn’t in any of the specimens we’ve examined. Then, during a period twelve to eighteen hours after death was officially recorded—that’s the time when rigor mortis is usually completely established—degeneration stopped all together. Only one part of the process seems to be normal—body temperature falls to its usual twenty-five degrees. But instead of dropping, or rising, in reaction to that of the environment, as should be the case, the temperature remains stable.”

  One of the White House aides cleared his throat, stifling a cough. Art Smith, a junior Vice Presidential assistant, looked like he was fighting the flu. His eyes were red-rimmed, his face flushed, and the young Republican moved uneasily as if he’d rather be doing anything other than examining the body of a dead Senator and getting a biology lesson. Several other members of the interdepartmental committee looked the same; tired to the point of exhaustion, stressed-out, grossed-out, edgy. Someone sniffed. Great, we’re in the middle of a heat wave, the cornerstones of medical science are being eroded before our eyes, Del Valle thought, and half these guys are coming down with colds.

  “Now, judging from what we’ve observed over the past twenty-four hours, mental activity will reawaken during a twelve-to-forty-eight-hour period,” the scientist continued.

  “So what you’re saying is, these people are in some kind of coma. They’re not dead,” interjected Barry Stokes, the NSC secretary.

  “No. You’re missing the point entirely.” The scientist tensed, irritated by the interruption. “Technically, this man’s dead, and has been for nearly two days. And within the next hour, if the process we’re calling Lazarus Syndrome, follows the pattern we’ve been observing, our friend here is going to get up and walk.”

  Someone else coughed; then three men started talking at once and the scientist raised a hand to quiet them. “Gentlemen, I’ll answer any questions you have to the best of my ability, but one at a time, please.”

  “Dead people getting up and walking? You can’t be serious!” Stokes said.

  “I’m totally serious,” the young scientist replied. “What we’re about to observe is the reanimation of a man who is technically dead.”

  “Technically dead? What do you mean by that?” Asked Senator Dringenberg. “Is the man dead or not?”

  “You haven’t listened to what I’ve been saying. Yes, this man is dead. But the usual post-mortem process experienced by the deceased is not happening in the way it should. This man”—he pointed through the glass towards the body of the former Arkansas Senator—”is indeed dead, but we’re expecting him to revive within the hour.”

  Someone coughed.

  Del Valle rubbed a hand across his face. He didn’t care if the Senator did get up. Del Valle was exhausted, and if he didn’t get some rest, he was going to start stumbling around like a dead man, too.

  “Now this other specimen died on Saturday night,” the young scienti
st continued, guiding his audience to the next observation window. “He took forty-three hours to revive and appears in excellent shape although he was shot to death.”

  Del Valle looked at Skolomowski through the two-way mirror. The Pole sat placidly on a hospital bed, staring vacantly at the wall, his large hands resting lightly in the lap of his medical gown. He looked harmless.

  “How intelligent is he?” Stokes asked.

  “Very. And he’s quite dangerous. He tore apart two orderlies with his bare hands when he revived.”

  Del Valle grimaced. Typical Skolomowski. What the young scientist neglected to mention was the fact the Pole had ripped out one orderly’s throat and had eaten it.

  “Levels of intelligence vary drastically between subjects. Some of our dead friends are completely retarded and appear to function on blind instinct. Others have suffered some brain damage and don’t realize they’re dead, behaving like extreme Alzheimer’s sufferers. But this one,” he said, pointing at Skolomowski, “has nearly all of his mental faculties intact. He is aware he died and seems delighted. He thinks he’s one of God’s chosen.

  Heaven help us, Del Valle thought, if the dead think they’re superior to the living.

  Above all else, that thought disturbed him the most.

  BROOKLYN.

  2:13 P.M.

  Sandy sighed as she sipped a tall, cool glass of iced tea. It was 92 degrees with 70 percent humidity. She hated New York when the weather was like this.

  And like the street outside, Liz was burning up with a fever of 104, and Sandy was sick with worry. First Mom, then all this weirdness—the state of emergency was terrifying, begging questions she didn’t want to consider—and now Liz was hallucinating fever dreams, shifting restlessly while Roger watched over her.