Zombie Factor

by Timothy Stelly Sr

With no particular destination in mind, Archibald shot through the corridors, shoving unsuspecting co-workers out of his way. He burst through the metal turnstile, staggered down the street and struck three blocks north. He’d forgotten about his car, which was parked in the rear lot.

  With no particular destination in mind and confusion coursing through his veins, Archibald sprinted down dimly lighted streets. Sporadic rain drops began to decorate his path.

  ***

  The City Limits of Pittsburg and

  Antioch, Ca—5:22 p.m.

  Six of the nine-car passenger train (59817) were twisted and crumpled like beer cans at a picnic. Half of the people on-board had been killed on impact, many mangled beyond recognition. Twitching body parts were scattered along the rocky shoreline of the delta, which was now tinged red with blood from torn limbs and shredded innards. Of the forty-six passengers aboard the Coastal Express, all were presumed dead. The engineers of both trains and their crews had been obliterated. Several bodies remained inside the trains, and while not dismembered, they were covered in blood and glass.

  Lights from police cars and ambulances shined on the mist made up of blood, smoke and chemical vapors. Searchlights from fire trucks and from a helicopter that circled the area shined on a portrait of destruction far too grisly to show on television. In the middle of the road a severed leg danced merrily without its partner.

  Every available officer in the area was ordered to don a gas mask and to isolate and protect the perimeter, which covered a 12-block radius. Highway Patrol officers and local firefighters helped evacuate nearby homes. Residents were transported by busses to schools and churches on the other side of town.

  Once in place the evacuees were told that there was a potentially hazardous leak in the area. Unbeknownst to them soldiers and military vehicles surrounded the buildings and a helicopter landed on the field behind the school. More soldiers converged on the area, and media access was shut off. One reporter from a nationally-known news blog was arrested and his notes destroyed.

  Back at the site of the crash stood a dozen members of the county’s Haz-Mat team, investigators from the U.S. Naval Department, and the State Department of Emergency Services. All wore protective clothing.

  Initially the State and County workers sought to share information, but once military officials arrived they took charge. Within minutes a team of Navy officials was flown in by helicopter from the Naval Air Station at Point Mugu. This crew included Admiral Pederson. He immediately ordered the cordoning off of the train that carried the chemical cargo. Despite the protests of those heading the county and state investigative units, Pederson refused to share any information, other than the cargo being carried was potentially hazardous and was the property of the U.S. government. He reminded them that in such situations the federal presence held sway and immediately dismissed anyone not affiliated with the military.

  Pederson gathered his troops and issued an order that no one was to issue any statements to the media, and that to do so would result in immediate court-martial. Meanwhile, National Guardsmen from the armory in Pittsburg had been summoned to fortify the perimeter.

  As for the cargo, some of the containers ruptured and leaked. No one, the Navy men included, knew what environmental effects to expect as it was announced by those close to the river that “A significant level of unknown toxin” was detected in the air and water.

  “I hope to high heaven that this stuff dissipates,” Pederson whispered to two aides that flanked him. “If not, there’s no telling what we’ve got on our hands.”

  The third man, a Naval scientist who performed a hands-on role in the creation of the chemical compound, offered a more dire assessment. “Its not hard to figure out. Experimental substance, minus legitimate human trials, plus military cover-up, equals results that can’t be good.”

  S E V E N

  5:51 p.m.

  “Everybody get your muthafuckin hands up! This is a robbery!”

  Roy was surprised how calm he was. He and Cash, in ski masks, made a perfectly synchronized entrance into the bank through opposite doors. Roy fired his pistol into the ceiling, and the fat guard who stood at the door nearest him immediately reached for his side arm. The moment his hand touched the grip he saw Cash enter, knock a woman to the floor and level his gun in the guard’s direction.

  “Don’t get any ideas, fat ass,” Cash said sharply. He surveyed the bank. “We’re not here to hurt anyone, so everyone be cool. Keep your hands in the air, or my partner will drill a couple of holes in some folks.”

  Roy, with a croaker sack in hand headed for the merchant window. The man standing behind the wooden half-door took one look at the size of the gun he was toting and immediately buzzed him in.

  “Put all the money in the bag,” Roy growled. “Take your time. I’m not in a hurry.”

  Cash scanned the entire bank. Through the window behind the counter he saw a police car. He breathed a sigh of relief as he watched it sail through a traffic light in the opposite direction. He saw that there were less than a dozen people in the bank: a trembling white man who looked to be in his early twenties; a skinny black girl who tried to remain calm, but whose fear was exposed by the puddle of urine under her expensive heels. There was a heavily made-up white woman in her twenties, and a pudgy Mexican man who looked as if at any moment he might go to sleep.

  There was the guard, who was rolling his eyes at Cash as if it was his money that was being stolen. Two other desk jockeys stood near their workstations wearing fear like it was Maybelline. There was the gentleman at the merchant’s window that was busy following Roy’s instructions.

  Roy stood next to him and touched each bundle of money, to make sure it wasn’t the wooden-feeling exploding packets banks were known for slipping a robber. Roy ordered the man to hand over his drivers’ license. “In case you get any ideas, that’s your ass pilgrim, along with any family members.”

  The other two tellers that cash could see were at their stations behind thin pieces of plexi-glass. One had his hands in the air, the other looked like he was going to try and activate the alarm. Cash aimed the gun at him. When the weapon discharged, the bullet ripped a hole in the man’s shoulder. Roy saw that as the signal that they should make an immediate getaway.

  As they broke for the door, Cash grabbed the heavily made-up woman by the arm and told her, “Let’s get going, bitch!”

  The woman screamed as Roy added, “Shut up! We’ll cut you loose soon as we know we’re clear!”

  They ran from the bank into the darkness and veered across the street in the direction of a row of fast food chains. A shot whizzed past their heads. Roy scrambled through a hole in a cyclone fence and pulled the woman through as Cash pushed her. The three cut through a grove of trees and jumped into a car Cash hotwired earlier, a metallic blue Nissan Sentra.

  Cash slid behind the wheel, while the woman and Roy lay low in the back seat. Roy smiled at the woman, who handed him her wig. He placed it under the front seat.

  Roy said to her, “You okay, sweetheart?”

  “Hell yeah, I’m cool.” she said the words in thick Brooklynese. “You’s guys were like professionals. You got in and…”

  The moment the blue and red lights hit the car, Cash punched it and roared away. Traffic was heavy, but Cash was able to squeeze by it using the bike lane before he ran a red light. As the traffic in front of him cleared, he saw a trio of police cars approaching from the opposite direction.

  “Sheeeit, watch me work!” He yelled.

  He cut a swath through a grocery store parking lot, swung around the side of the building and knocked over a row of milk crates. Rain began to fall as he guided the vehicle through a field flanked by a large water conduit.

  ”We’re two blocks from the Low,” Cash announced. “Get ready to bail!”

  “You mean we’re gonna abandon the car?” The woman shrieked.

  “Hell yeah,” Cash cried. “They ain’t gonna follow us into the Low. They’ll have to
wait for back-up. By then we’ll be on the rooftops.”

  “Assuming they ain’t got no chopper circling,” Roy said.

  “Then we’ll hit the sewers.”

  He met Cash’s gaze via the rear-view mirror. “I’m telling you straight-up, G, they corner us, I’m coming out blasting.”

  Cash had no time to respond, as the car flew over a large pothole, and the front tie rod end came loose. Cash grabbed the bag of money, stomped on the brakes and the car slid to a spark-spewing stop underneath a carport at the Foster Apartments. Cash jumped from the front seat and shouted, “Bail! Bail!”

  Roy grabbed the croaker sack full of money and Cash led the way into a culvert. When they came out, they were shrouded by trees and worked their way up an incline, through a rip in another cyclone fence and sprinted toward a group of men who were kneeling and shooting dice. He didn’t think the cops would risk firing on them and take the chance of hitting innocent bystanders, but one of the cops in pursuit did let loose a shot. The bullet ricocheted and struck an unarmed teenager wearing a black bandana.

  The other teens saw what happened, rose and sprinted from the scene. Some left their money as they scrambled for cover. They heard the cries of “Stop!” from two police officers who chose to keep their distance. One cop was barking logistics into a radio as he and his partner stood in the rain waiting for backup.

  Roy, Cash and the woman zigzagged through a parking lot and around several idle vehicles. Most of the units in the area were part of a section that was scheduled to be razed and were vacant. Cash led them to a vacant unit three doors down from Grace’s. He jimmied the door open as Roy held the woman’s hand and half-dragged her along, fearful she might get nabbed and rat out him and Cash.

  “Get down!” Cash ordered.

  The three leaned against the cracked sheetrock and tried to catch their breath. Several minutes passed before anyone mustered up their second wind. It was Roy who spoke first.

  “We got about ten minutes before reinforcements get here.” Ray slipped his arm over the woman’s shoulder. “Jenny, when I give the word, we’re going to work our way back to my sister’s house.”

  Jenny nodded like a bobble head.

  “Cash, we’ll stash the money here in the attic and have somebody come back later and get it,” Roy said.

  “Like who?” Cash asked.

  “Don’t know. In the meantime and in-between time, we split up and rendezvous tomorrow night at ten on the other side of the bridge.”

  “And hole up where, the motel?”

  “Hell naw, that place will be hot. I got a girlie over in the trailer homes. She’ll let us lay low a couple of days until we figure out what to do.”

  “You sure put a lot of faith in white bitches,” Cash said. He gave Jenny a sympathetic glance. “Nothing against you, old girl.”

  “You wanna run for it now?” Jenny asked.

  Before either man could utter a response, they were jarred by what sounded like a an automobile accident.

  They heard a man cry out, “Somebody call an ambulance!”

  “We better lay low for a few,” Roy said. “Sounds like a lot of folks running around and we don’t want any Davey do-gooders pointing out which way we went.”

  For the next several minutes the only sounds was of people running back and forth, the drizzling rain and the robbers’ respiration. All three started when they heard what sounded like a grunt, only it seemed to come from a group, rather than one person.

  A gun shot rang out and then a man shouted, “What the hell…?”

  Several seconds later there were more gun shots, and that same man hollered, “Oh, my God! What are those things?”

  ***

  Five minutes after the first responders hit the scene two members of the County’s Coroner’s Unit arrived. Rosalind Petrocelli and Alexandra Washburn became suspicious when the military “beaugarded” their way to the top of the chain of command. They insisted on a “minimally investigative role,” which Pederson nixed without reason.

  The ladies decided that they were going to put on protective suits and sneak their way back onto the scene.

  “Better call your husband and let him know that he and the kids should head to that cabin you-all got near Pine Flat Lake,” Alexandra warned.

  “Already done that,” Rosalind replied. “I want to shoot some live video of the scene on my phone cam, something small enough to avoid confiscation by the boys with the brass balls.”

  “Too bad you didn’t get a shot of that one leg river dancing by itself,” Alexandra wisecracked. “The shock value alone would have been worth it.”

  ***

  6:37 p.m.

  “Hobbs, we need to go in and grab those bastards our damn selves!”

  The cop doing the talking was Lou McElroy, a man with a heavily pockmarked face, and Abe Vigoda-like eyebrows. He stood no taller than 5’8” and with his slicked back hair, rounded shoulders and missing neck, he looked like a Groovy Ghoulies[1] reject. The man named Hobbs was hollow-eyed, and when dressed in plainclothes hardly resembled an officer of the law. He was a shade over six-feet tall, but weighed a scant 150 pounds.

  “We’re in enough trouble,” Hobbs groused. “A teenager was hit by one of ours, meaning I.A. will be buzzing around taking statements from everyone and the local activists will be out en force.”

  “The kid’s in an ambulance. What more can these people want?”

  “How about not discharging a firearm with reckless disregard? These people get crazy when we start shooting.”

  “I’m going to do like Chief Reilly suggested and hold here until help arrives. We never go in there without backup.”

  “Reinforcements are taking forever to get here,” Hobbs groused.

  “You didn’t hear?” McElroy leaned against the fender of his cruiser. “There was a train wreck out near the Pittsburg-Antioch city limit. They got the only two choppers in the county some of our guys were called in to help with evacuating the area.”

  “So every cop in both towns is busy?”

  “Yeah. It’s like they want these bank robber assholes to get away, even though they kidnapped a woman.”

  “I doubt if that woman was kidnapped,” Hobbs said. “A wig was found in the getaway vehicle, remember?”

  “Why do you always have to let facts get in the way of action?” McElroy said, only half-joking.

  “The truth is the truth. Several witnesses at the bank told investigators that she didn’t show much fear when they put the snatch on her.”

  “All the more reason for us to go in. They might kill her.” McElroy put his hand on his gun butt. “They’ll rape her, too.”

  “Now you’re just letting your imagination run wild,” Hobbs said. A roll of his eyes accompanied his retort. “What I want to know is, what did the security guard say? He chased them out of the bank and squeezed off a round, but missed.”

  “What are you getting at?”

  “Maybe he missed on purpose because he was in on it.”

  “Could be.” McElroy kicked at a flattened beer can in the road. “Of all the crimes to commit, bank robbery is the riskiest. Few ever get away, and those who do, usually get greedy and follow it up with a spending spree. Next thing you know, they’re locked up.”

  “These two jack-offs had a shitty plan,” Hobbs said. “We know they’re in one of these shit hole apartments and have no way out. After the Calvary arrives we’ll smoke them out like roaches.”

  “Never underestimate the survival skill of the roach. They’re the oldest living creatures on earth.”

  “I thought your girlfriend held that distinction?” Hobbs cracked. “Man, you’re what, forty-four? And she’s about a hundred and sixty-two?”

  McElroy forced a laugh. “Don’t get started on that again. I might have to shoot you and say I found proof you were in with those ghetto Robin Hoods.”

  “Really, what is it like poking a seventy-year-old woman? I bet it’s like sticking your pecker in a
bowl full of prunes.”

  “She buys me everything I want. ‘Nuff said.”

  “Does it feel the same as a younger piece?”

  “Yes, but that’s the only body part that does. Now are you finished, Mister voyeur? I’d like to work up some ideas on nabbing these punks.”

  “There’s another unit on the northwest corner of the complex,” Hobbs said. “If the suspects flee, one of us will see them. Our job is to keep them confined and later when we free up more units, we do a door-to-door sweep.”

  “I knew the day I wound up taking orders from you, I was fucked.” He and Hobbs laughed in tandem, before McElroy asked. “How many apartments they got out here?”

  “Twenty-four, and half are vacant. The landlord is slowly moving the tenants out, so he can tear down this pile of shit and erect something better.”

  “And not a minute too soon.”

  ***

  6:44 p.m.

  Archibald Walker sat oblivious to the gentle rocking of the rail car as it crawled along the side of the freeway. His mouth was downturned at the corners and his forehead heavy with worry lines. He couldn’t go home, knowing the house would be staked out by either corporate police, National Transportation and Safety Agency reps, or local cops. Nor could he go to his favorite bar, which was in the same neighborhood. Especially if Byron’s run off at the mouth to the investigators.

  He rode the rapid transit train three stops and got out, fearful of every agent in the state, transit and otherwise. As he blended in with the crowd on the escalator, he pondered the idea of fleeing to his cousin’s house less than a half-mile away. He nixed the idea after he passed the station agent and saw her watching a breaking news report from the accident scene. His cousin was known as a big mouth and in the event of a reward, would not hesitate to squeal on him.

  Archibald didn’t like the idea of being an out of shape, middle-aged, first-time felon. At the same time, being found drunk after causing a horrific train wreck insured he was on his way to the big house. The idea that something horrible would happen to him behind bars brought him to tears.