A media blackout is in force, but it’s only a matter of time before some nosey reporter looking to make a name for himself breaks the real story of what’s going on. McElroy envisioned himself doing something heroic and having his face shown on news channels from coast-to-coast.
He took another drag off his cigarette and peered down the street. It was uncommonly quiet. There was not a crackhead or suspected drug dealer in sight and rage rose inside him like mercury in a thermometer on a summer day. He blew out a cloud of smoke just as something else caught his eyes…
Someone approached and it looked as if at any moment he or she might topple over. McElroy swatted Hobbs across the chest with his free arm and pointed at the off-kilter pedestrian.
“Look at the drunk leaving the projects,” he said with a snort of derision. “Bet that’s old man Jenkins. He’s probably on his way to the liquor store to spend his last on another bottle of Muscatel.”
“We might be wise to question him. He might know something.”
“That guy looks like he doesn’t know his elbows from his asshole.” McElroy noticed that blood coated the man’s face. “Looks like he suffered a bad fall or someone beat the hell out of him.”
“I’ll go to the trunk and get rubber gloves, in case we have to administer first aid or affect an arrest,” Hobbs said.
McElroy shined his flashlight at the man, who quickly threw his hands in front of his eyes. He took note of the unusual angle of the man’s leg and the fact that there appeared to be a large wound in his chest.
“Hold it right there,” McElroy said, stepping away from the car. As he peered at the man he recognized him as Bob Goodman, who sometimes made calls to the department’s tip line in exchange for small cash rewards. McElroy was angered by what he saw, for he thought Bob was the victim of the type of beat down reserved for snitches.
Bob reached out, and as the officer moved closer to assist him, the old man drove all four of his fingers into McElroy’s face and snatched loose the epidermis from the cheek, nose and lip. McElroy managed to emit a muffled scream, and by the time Hobbs came around the back of the car with the gloves, McElroy was on his back, his feet and legs kicking as Bob sunk his teeth into his neck. Blood poured from McElroy’s severed carotid artery and from the old black man’s mouth.
“Get off him!” Hobbs shouted.
His warning came accompanied by four gunshots, three of which hit the mark. While Bob spasmed, Hobbs approached and reached for his radio. From the corner of his eye he caught glimpse of a black woman walking speedily toward the projects.
Hobbs threw his attention back to the corpses in the street and called to the woman, “Get off the streets, ma’am! It’s not safe!”
Bob’s corpse kept trying to raise itself and his eyes opened with a suddenness that caused Hobbs to backpedal and fall on his hindquarters. He spoke into the radio attached to his shirt collar.
“Ten ninety-nine! Officer down! Corner of Lancaster and…”
Hobbs felt Bob Goodman’s cold, pulsating hand grab his leg. He began to hyperventilate as he saw McElroy turn his head three-quarters of the way around and then raise to one knee. He leapt at Hobbs who discharged his last two shells. In his haste, he hit McElroy once, but his second shot caught nothing but air.
Hobbs could not respond to the police dispatcher that frantically called for his twenty. The two reanimated beings had the strength of six and he could not extricate himself from their grasp. Bob ripped Hobbs’s arm from its socket and the officer closed his eyes.
“Officer Hobbs, please relay your twenty! Officer Hobbs!”
Not quite a block away, the female pedestrian came under siege. She fell onto her back, in front of the lamppost where earlier the group of teens had been shooting dice.
The woman’s screams filled the night.
***
7:46 p.m.
Pederson worked out of the central command post set up in the part of the Antioch city jail reserved for drunks and unruly prisoners. He ordered those in other parts of the jail to continue their work as normal while he engaged in a teleconference with Olivia Greenbaum, head of Federal OSHA’s Haz-Mat program; CIA chemical weapons expert Percy Benton, and General Bertrand Crossfield, the head of the Pentagon’s Research and Development division.
Benton, whose grimace made it look as if the knot in his tie was too tight, called the confab to order. In a lifeless monotone he began a recap of the evening’s events.
“At approximately seventeen-hundred twenty hours, a westbound train departing Stockton, California, containing sensitive materials belonging to the United States Navy, collided with a westbound passenger train, the International Rail Lines Coastal Express. This accident occurred at the City Limits of Pittsburg and Antioch, California. The destination of the cargo has been considered top secret.”
Benton looked down at a paper in front of him. “According to this report, which for the record neither the FBI nor the Central Intelligence Agency has been made privy to, the chemical spilled was an experimental battlefield vaccine. This substance, for lack of a better term, serves as a preventative measure against immediate battlefield death. American soldiers, given a particular oral supplement, would be sprayed with or would inhale this substance after its release into the air. The combination would restore their mental function and physical dexterity, enabling these soldiers to survive what would normally be catastrophic wounds.” Benton paused, then asked, “Am I correct so far, Admiral Pederson?”
“Yes. The vaccine, known as SR-Seven, was in an experimental stage,” Pederson replied. “It was tested on chimpanzees and we learned that it was effective even without the oral supplement, but that it was still necessary because it provided a way of neutralizing the full effect of the spray.”
“Stop talking in circles, Admiral,”
“Without the supplement, the mental faculties of those exposed to the spray become unpredictable and their behavior erratic. The supplement acts on the soldiers like Ritalin acts on a hyperactive child. For lack of a more refined explanation, the supplement slows down part of the brain so that there is some equilibrium. We were about to start human trials—”
“Let’s cut the bullshit. Its final destination was Afghanistan,” Ms. Greenbaum said. Greenbaum wore her hair pulled back in a bun and her tight-lipped expression made it look as if the bun had been yanked by a tow truck. “What I want to know is why is it working on the passengers on those trains?”
“They had direct contact with it and in a higher amount than recommended. According to researchers familiar with the product, prior to impending death, the body is flooded with adrenaline to activate the flight or fight response. So when those in the train wreck were exposed to SR-Seven, there was enough adrenaline in their systems to put their fight response into overdrive.”
“So couldn’t this also work on dead enemy combatants?”
“In theory yes, but in such a scenario our soldiers would kill enemy combatants and those soldiers physically able to would follow behind and behead them.”
“What about the cannibalism?”
“Some of the test subjects did exhibit bizarre behavior, cannibalism being one.”
Greenbaum groaned audibly. “Do you know what this could do to the reputation of the United States? We would come off looking like mad men and savages!”
“My job is to win wars, not function as a diplomat,” Pederson shot back.
“Tell us more about this chemical,” Benton said, sensing that a shouting match was brewing and wanting to prevent it. “How does it impact on those already living?”
“It doesn’t. Certain chemical processes associated with death must take place before the drug is activated.” Pederson took a moment to regain his composure. “According to computer models and reports obtained from the head of Naval Security, Philip Keaton, the drug works as a reanimation agent, but alters the chemistry of the subjects, sometimes adversely affecting their central nervous system.”
“In what ways?” Greenbaum
said sharply.
“It triggered sudden brain seizures and increased activity in the prefrontal cortex. The rate of aggression increased six-fold and some of the chimpanzees we tested it on became stronger and faster.”
“Is there anything you’d like to add, regarding the testing at Fort Irwin, Admiral?” Benton asked.
Pederson had trouble swallowing, but managed to speak. “Similar tests were run on unwitting human subjects, with similar results. However, we decided that no change in the formula was necessary.”
“Based on what?” Greenbaum demanded.
“The decision was based on the fact…” Pederson put strong emphasis on the word. “The affected soldiers were going to die within hours anyway.”
“Admiral, are you aware of the environmental impact this chemical may have on wildlife? Some of it seeped into the California delta, near the Antioch Dunes National Wildlife Refuge, near the confluence of the San Joaquin and Sacramento rivers.”
“Water and wildlife, including fish and birds native to the area are being captured and tested as we speak.”
Benton folded his hands and leaned forward. “There are preliminary reports indicating that the chemical is air borne, and that it could travel eastward via a storm currently over northern California.”
“We have no such proof that is the case,” the Admiral lied.
The Admiral knew that this meeting was nothing compared to the flak that would erupt in the days to come. A California Representative had already gotten word that there was a “chemical mishap” in his district, and he began digging for and demanding answers. The government hearing that was sure to follow would make the BP oil rig explosion look like the White House annual Easter egg roll.
Crossfield became engaged in the debate. “We were aware that research in this field was being conducted, but we had no idea to what extent, and now we’re in the dark as to how this chemical will impact upon an uncontrolled environment.”
“If the chimpanzee test is an indicator, we can expect the worst,” Greenbaum said. “Now tell me, why hasn’t the CDC been called in?”
“The U.S. military is better equipped to deal with this.”
“Not from where I sit.”
Pederson balled his fists and grimaced, but said nothing. He was perturbed by Greenbaum’s holier-than-thou attitude and wished she was close enough to be spit upon.
Benton jumped back into the conversation. “Now tell us more about the physiological impact of this chemical. I want to know what we’re up against should the effects become widespread.”
“Immediately after death there are no physical signs of decomposition. Even after the death of the brain stem, the central nervous system can continue to function. At this time, however, cellular and soft tissue changes begin to occur, and the body’s temperature cools to the temperature of its surroundings. This is one of the things the oral drug was designed to slow down, if not stop.”
“Again, why the aerosol component?”
“That portion of the drug is designed to balance out the aggressive impulses, but can’t be ingested by traditional means, that is swallowed or injected intravenously. As an inhalant it did not work during testing because it could not be administered in precise amounts. As an aerosol it worked.” Pederson cleared his throat. “Now as I stated earlier, when cells are deprived of oxygen, natural bacteria in the body begins to break down whatever proteins, liquids and carbohydrates that remain. This by-product creates acids and gases that cause what’s known as VOC’s, volatile organic compounds…”
“Admiral, please!” Crossfield snapped.
“Please bear with me, Major Crossfield.” Pederson took a sip of water. “As I was saying, we designed this so that the chemicals triggered a reverse effect.”
“What about the reports of violence?” Benton asked. “Those particles are airborne, and we believe they are contributing to reports we have received of wanton violence committed by people walking around, as one report described it, ‘like zombies.’”
“That is correct,” Pederson admitted, as he brought his fingers together and began kneading them. “There was a cell phone video confiscated from a man who shot it in Concord, California, at a rapid transit station. The so-called ‘zombie’ in the video is hit by a train, gets up and attacks several bystanders before being shot by an armed security guard. Still, this man, beast, whatever you want to call it, rose yet again and—again, for lack of a better phrase—‘feasted’ on a bystander.”
Crossfield was puzzled. “What do you mean, feasted?”
“Cannibalized.”
“What happened to the man who shot the video?”
“He and the other thirty-nine witnesses were rounded up by police and taken to a holding cell.”
“What for and by whom?”
“For their own protection and later turned over to Naval security.”
Greenbaum was on her feet and shouted her response. “What? How was this…” She cringed at her own words. “This zombie stopped?”
Benton jumped in before Pederson could open his mouth. “From what I understand, firemen arrived on the scene and one of them beheaded him as shooting him wasn’t doing any good. But here’s the creepy part…”
Pederson thought, It can’t be too creepy. You seem to relish the idea of bringing it up.
“The man who was beheaded was named Archibald Walker.”
“Who the hell is Archibald Walker?” Pederson asked.
“He was the Train Traffic Control Specialist who caused the wreck of the passenger train and your precious cargo. How ironic that Mister Walker is then hit by a train.” Benton let his words sink in. “The most surprising thing, is two minutes after the train hit him, Walker, bloodied and mangled to some degree, was lying on the rain soaked platform, then just upped and attacked. After the fireman put ax to him, we had the station shut down and it is currently under federal control.”
“That will draw the media,” Greenbaum noted with a dour expression.
“We’ve taken care of that.”
“Those witnesses that were jailed are going to have to be cut loose,” Greenbaum argued. “At the very least allowed to make a phone call.”
Benton shook his head slowly. “Not when national security is at stake. They will be transferred to a Federal psychiatric facility until they are no longer deemed a threat to themselves or the security of the United States.”
“You can’t be serious!”
“How else would you classify this, Olivia? We have to keep them drugged so that they don’t remember anything.”
“And if they do?”
“Never fear,” Benton said with a chuckle that sounded more sinister than whimsical. “We’re the United States government. We have the best drugs in the world.”
She ignored his sarcasm. “What about the fireman?”
“Gunned down and beheaded, as were his crew mates.” Benton uttered the words in such lackluster fashion he might as well have been describing a scene from a video game.
“Is that your solution to everything?” Greenbaum yelled.
“For the time being, yes.” Crossfield glared into the monitor. “Admiral Pederson, do not lose sight of the fact that this is your mess. All higher ups connected to this project must be absolved of blame. You will have to answer before Congress and the American people. We’re just here to help you clean it up by any means necessary.”
The screen Pederson was staring into went black for several seconds before a grainy picture appeared. Pederson exhaled, but he was far from relieved. A feeling of gloom filled his bosom as he understood that there was more to come.
My God, I never thought I’d see the day when everyday Americans would be jailed by their own government simply for seeing and possibly talking about an inconvenient truth.
***
Cash and Roy looked on from the window of Grace’s living room as two households in the apartment complex, one an elderly couple, and the other a single woman with two teenage childre
n, gambled on a frantic dash for the old couple’s van. Five beasts, Bob Goodman and Officers Hobbs and McElroy among them, pounced before they could reach the vehicle. Cash and Roy were unwilling to waste bullets on what they determined to be a lost cause.
Grace’s next-door neighbors pounded on the wall separating their apartments. Her children, Tanisha included, were further frightened by the noise and thought the beasts were going to break through the barrier. The neighbors shouted that they needed help.
“You make it over here, fine,” Roy shouted back. “But don’t come empty-handed.”
“We got a gun!” Someone called back.
“Then make your own damn help!”
“C’mon man! We’re teenagers!”
“I know them!” Tanisha shouted. “That’s Noodles and his cousin.”
“Aw, that jive-ass…shit!” Roy hammered on the wall, which ceased the neighbor’s banging. “Go out your back door. Bring your gun and your sharpest knives! I’ll meet you!”
Roy and Cash went into the kitchen, moved the chair from behind the door and slid the table close as they could. Roy crouched and aimed his gun into the darkness, while Cash stood over him and had his gun aimed straight ahead. The sound of rattling trashcans grabbed Roy’s attention and something catapulted from the darkness. Cash fired off two shots, and knocked down what turned out to be a chocolate Labrador.
Seconds later the boys came tearing out of their apartment. One toted a 19-shot .22 caliber rifle. The other boy held four knives. Roy and Cash stepped back inside and allowed the boys entry. The teens bolted through the back door as Roy pushed the chair and then the table against it.
“You two guard this back door,” Cash said. “We’ll need to secure the bedroom windows.”
He looked at a trembling Grace, who stood in the dining area. “You need to push those dressers in Devin and Tayshun’s rooms against the window. Stack them on top of one another. Get Jenny to help and when you’re finished, push their bunk beds against the dressers.”
Grace and Jenny hurried to work, fearful that any hesitation would lead to a loss of nerve.
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