by Mark Tufo
She shut the door and before she could walk away I waved at her to open it again. She did.
“What?”
“You’ll need this.” I unclipped the walkie from my belt and handed it to her. Then I unclipped the other one off the visor. “Won’t do you too much good if I’m talkin’ to myself, will it?”
“Smartass,” she said, slamming the door and throwing me a sarcastic salute as she headed into the station building.
I watched her walk away. I was worried, but I smiled. Damn, I loved that woman. It was good to have her back.
She was gone five minutes before I spoke to her. “Update, babe. You in?”
Gem came right on. The signal was perfect, and she was crystal clear. “Not yet. I’ve been keeping against the walls, and the back entrances are all secured. I’m going around to the front.”
I shook my head. With each step she was farther away, and the more nervous I got. I couldn’t lose her again. “If you get in, then find your way to the back and unlock those doors. If you get in trouble, I have to get in fast.”
“When I get in, babe, I’ll do that. Want me to stay on, give you live updates?”
“As long as you don’t alert anyone of your presence, sure. Keep an eye.”
There was silence for the next ten minutes. I sunk down low in the seat. The Benadryl had done its job, and Trina was out like a light. As I scanned the street, I absently stroked her blonde hair, and found myself saying a silent prayer for her future. I included myself and Gem – and threw in the rest of humanity just for good measure.
The radio crackled to life. “Babe, I’m in. Remember all the dead people on the front steps?”
“It hasn’t slipped my mind, Gem.”
“They probably fled from here. It looks like a slaughterhouse. Cops dead everywhere, guns in hand. Looks like they got knocked out or something, then they were attacked. Weird. Almost like they were gassed, then eaten.”
“Really? I’d expect cops to shoot center mass like they’re trained, but none of this would’ve happened that fast. They should have had time to fire again and try a head shot I’d think.”
“I don’t know, Flex,” Gem said. “Looks like they just passed out and then got eaten.”
“Jesus,” I said. “Gem, hurry and get out of there.”
It was quiet for too long. “Gem,” I said. “You there?”
“Yeah, Flex. I am. I hear some noises coming from the back of the building. Closer to you.”
“I want you to get this back door unlocked. Do you think you can find these doors and avoid whoever’s making the noise?”
“I sounds like someone yelling for help,” she said. “I should help them, Flex.”
“I agree, baby. But get that door open first. And when you do, use your flashlight to signal to me it’s unlocked. You might need to prop it so it doesn’t auto-lock.”
Gem knew her shit, so there was no reason for me to worry. I expected within ten minutes I’d see the signal flashes, but I kept asking myself how many rounds I’d fired from the Uzi inside the Walgreens.
At 10 rounds per second, you could empty the entire 32 round magazine in 3.2 seconds. Had I cut down the two zombies at the drugstore in the .2 seconds? A full half second? Time flies when you’re firing a sub machine gun. I had no idea. I hoped she checked the mag and I hoped it was full when I first saw the gun. She had the Glock, but I knew she only had limited rounds left in it. Then it struck me. She was in a fucking police station. There would be guns on every downed officer. I let out a sigh of relief. There it was again. Blessed relief.
I rolled my window down an inch so I could hear noise from outside. The area, as far as the eye could see, was eerily quiet and motionless. I was glad. I heard a sudden click.
I looked left at the building, and two quick flashes of light shone from the doors. More relief. I clicked on. “Beautiful, baby. Thanks. Did you find out who was yelling?”
“It’s right around the corner. I’ve got the walkie turned way down. Trina still down?”
“Like a has-been fighter in his comeback bout. Did you grab any more guns?”
Despite her being quiet, I heard a low laugh over the radio. “Do I look like an octopus? I got a couple Berettas. It looks clear from here – think you can carry Trina over here real quick and take this stuff from me?”
I looked around. “Sure. Hold on. I reached an arm beneath the sleeping girl and pulled her onto my chest, her head tucking in beside mine. I pulled the .38 off the dash and hooked my finger around the handle and opened the door of the Suburban. Closing the door only lightly, I ran toward the building, Trina bouncing in my arms.
“Probably not the smartest thing we’ve done,” I said. Give ‘em here.”
She pulled my pants away from my waist and tucked one, then the second gun inside my waistband. “You’re a regular man of steel,” she said. “Okay. You’re loaded for bear. Get back to the truck.”
I looked at her. “Sure you don’t want to trade? You’ve done good, babe. Let me go finish up?”
“I’ve already got the layout, Flex. I’ll just –”
“Help! Help me, somebody help me! Can you hear me?” The voice echoed through the police building.
“Jesus, Flex! Get back to the truck!”
“Bullshit,” I said, pushing her inside and pulling the door shut behind me.
“Trina is with you, Flex. Trina!”
“Yes, and you’re with me, too. And you’re protective of this little girl, and you know as well as I do that she’ll never be safer than when she’s near you and you’re armed. So move.”
Gem glared at me again, and headed down the brick-lined hallway, painted in a glossy white. At the end of the hallway there was a door to the left. She unhooked a key ring from her belt and unlocked it.
“Is that a police belt?”
“A sergeant was wearing it, and he had the key. Skeleton key. Opens every door in the place.”
“Damn, you’re good,” I said. And I meant it.
We hurried through the door and turned left, then right. There was another steel door with a reinforced glass view hole. I looked down, and saw two bodies on the floor about halfway down the hallway. The door at the far end was held open with a chair. Nobody moved. “Guess we go in, huh?” I said.
Gem nodded and inserted the key, turning it until a metallic click sounded. She pushed and it opened quietly.
The moment we stepped through the door, a voice came from one of the cells. “Hello? Is anyone there?”
We stopped short and analyzed the layout. Six cells down on the right, six on the left. We could see a nose sticking through the bars halfway down on the right. Then hands waved. “Hey, down here! Down here!”
The voice had a British accent. The hands didn’t look rough, but smooth. In Florida, in June, the arms were covered by long sleeves, folded back at the wrist – about as casual as a long-sleeved shirt wearer who was comfortable in them might get.
“Who are you?” Gem called, as we approached the cell.
Trina was still out cold, dead weight in my arms, as I held my .38 pointed at the body of one of the uniform-clad officers on the cell block floor.
“Chatsworth,” he said. “Hemphill Chatsworth.”
We stepped into his view, me holding a little girl, sweating up a storm, and Gem, a hot Latina woman, also soaked with sweat, hefting an Uzi. We must have been a sight.
“Hemphill Chatsworth,” said Gem, smiling. “Now that’s a mouthful.”
The man nodded, and even smiled slightly. “Hemp. Hemp to people who know me.”
“What are you doing in this cell, Hemp?” I asked. “What went wrong in your life that you ended up in jail?”
“First off he goes by Hemp,” Gem said. “Drug dealer, naturally.”
“No, no,” he said. “I shut the cell door. Locked myself in. I’m just glad it was open in the first place so I could get away from them.” He bent down and brought up his hand holding a stainless steel .45 Aut
omatic.
I tensed as Gem swung her Uzi quickly, pointing it at his head. “Drop that shit now!”
Hemp did. He flung the gun to the other side of the cell and it skittered off the concrete floor and into the wall. “It’s empty! Empty!” he shouted, cowering.
“Why’d you grab it!” Gem said, her muscles tense as she held the gun on him.
“To show you if I was supposed to be in here I would not have a damned gun!” he said, holding his hands in front of him in a defensive gesture.
Gem’s muscles relaxed. So did mine. She looked at me and shrugged. “Makes sense.”
“I agree,” I said. “I’m glad this kid’s on Benadryl. Fuck me.”
Gem lowered the weapon, glanced again at the propped door, then turned back to the British man in the cage. “Who were you trying to get away from? When was this?”
Gem stepped back and aimed the Uzi toward the open door where the chair lay angled and propped beneath the doorknob. Chatsworth must have noticed Gem eyeing the door nervously.
“I put that chair there when I ran in. I was afraid I’d be locked in if it latched, and then this happened. I’ve lost track of time, and – Jesus, I forgot I even had a watch on.” He looked at his watch. “I’ve been in here about an hour now. These two were coming after me, and I shot them in the leg to start – thought it might deter them – but they didn’t take their eyes off me, and kept coming. It wasn’t like they saw me – more like they were drawn to me. I shot one in the chest, and he still kept coming. Christ, what the devil is happening here?”
“So you figured out the head shot is all that kills them,” I said. “Good. It doesn’t take long. You take out both of these?”
Hemp nodded. “Yes, but I only got the one in the head. The other—”
“Flex, MOVE!” Gem’s voice was panicked, and she pulled me hard toward her and yanked me against the concrete wall next to Hemp’s cell. As my back contacted the wall and I dropped my gun to keep from losing my grip on Trina, I saw why. The zombie on the cell block floor had begun to move and had pulled itself toward me until its gaping, gnashing mouth must have been inches from my ankle. Fucking inches.
Gem leapt back and pulled the trigger of the Uzi, holding it down as at least 25 high velocity rounds separated the zombie’s head from his shoulders and nearly shattered our eardrums, echoing in the brick and steel block. When it was over, she leaned against the cell, breathing hard, her shoulders heaving.
I stood there speechless, as did Hemp. He sat on his knees, staring at her back, and a second later she turned and glared at Hemp. “Did you get the other one in the head? Are you fucking sure?”
I moved Trina into one arm and reached out and took the Uzi from her. “Here.” I put Trina in her arms. “I got this. Relax.” I walked over to the body lying directly across the narrow block, up against the opposite bank of cells. With my foot, I kicked the body over so it rolled onto its back. Yep. It was a one of them. The teeth were pulled back, the eyes staring blankly and sunken, the black veins running over every inch of its body.
There were two bullet holes. One in its forehead, and the other in the now destroyed chin. I lowered the barrel of the Uzi to his cranium to make sure. I gave it a short burst and felt better.
“Okay,” I said. “Let’s get our friend out of that cage and go get us some evidence.”
Chapter 220
Hemp was no pussy. I could tell right away. He grabbed the empty .45 from the cell floor and tucked it in his pants.
“Popular gun,” Hemp said. “If we don’t find any ammo in evidence, I can find a bit on some of the police officers.”
I led this time, and once we got on the second floor through a stairwell, the signs directing us to evidence were pretty clear. It was on the third floor. We stayed keenly aware of sounds other than ours, and kept our gun barrels high. Only head shots were of any value. This had become instinct now. I imagine even Hemp – especially Hemp – had learned that lesson. He brought up the rear as the only guy without a loaded weapon.
Then I remembered. Hell, how could I forget? I reached into my waistband and handed him one of the Berettas. “Check the magazine.”
I hadn’t considered that Hemp may have never handled a gun before except during his emergency in the cell, but he quickly pressed the magazine release button, dropping it into his hand. He looked at the side of the mag at the view slots counted the rounds, and slammed the mag back home.
I shook my head. “Good. You seem to know your way around a pistol. Now just remember to aim high and don’t shoot if we’re in the general direction you’re pointing.”
“Understood,” Hemp confirmed.
I took Trina from Gem again. She was getting awfully heavy, and I was ready to get this done and get back on the road.
“This is it,” Gem said. She put her key in the lock and turned it. The lock spun and the door clicked open. Our crew of Ghostbusters, or whatever we were these days, walked in. The power was out – not sure why, but the emergency lights were running on fast fading batteries and were no longer very bright. The lighting was equivalent to that of a romantic restaurant and the more time that passed, the worse it would become. Flashlights were effective, but they also screamed “I’M RIGHT FUCKING HERE!” to anyone within view.
“I’ll get the back wall and first couple of aisles. Hemp, get these two. We’re looking for badass firearms and ammo of any and all kinds.”
Gem found a two-tiered rolling cart with a rubber-lined surface. Perfect to transport our swag. I headed down the far wall, and Gem hit the middle. I could hear her sliding some drawers open, and Hemp was already investigating his rows.
I reached a wide, metal two-door cabinet around three-quarters of the way down the aisle. It was locked, but it did not appear to be designed for strength, because I was able to force the flimsy knob to turn. I yanked hard on the handle and the door popped open.
I stood back and whistled, throwing my caution of the things that ate people to the wind. And then I laughed so hard I almost pissed my pants. Trina started to stir in my arms and I tried to contain myself. But I had a damned good reason.
I’d hit the motherload.
* * *
*****
* * *
“This one is a US built weapon, the Calico M960,” Hemp said. His sandy, almost white-blonde hair hung into his eyes and he shook it back to the side. “The beauty of it is the high-capacity, helical-feed magazine. This firearm holds . . . hold on.”
He went back to the cabinet and sorted through a few of the boxes. When he turned around again he had a round, steel magazine in his hand. “This one holds 100 rounds. There’s a fifty in there too, but I thought this one might make us all a bit happier. With a full magazine it’s going to be quite heavy – not something you’d want to run too far with.”
Gem looked at me. She was holding Trina again, who was more awake, but nodding off now and then. She shrugged, then asked, “And you know all this because you do what for a living?”
“Scientist,” he said. “Biology degree with a focus on epidemiology, primarily. That’s why I’m so interested in this infection, or whatever it is. Everything I learn and observe might help me understand more about it. How it spreads, what it does.”
“So you study human epidemics, that sort of thing?” I asked.
Hemp nodded. He was just under six feet tall, and a good looking guy. I liked him immediately.
“But how do you know about guns?” I asked. “That’s the obvious question.”
Hemp smiled. “I’ve had a fascination with guns of all kinds for years. It’s part of the reason I got my second degree in mechanical engineering. My father used to pick me up broken guns from pawn shops – got them for next to nothing. When I was six, I’d break them down, figure out how to re-bore the cylinders, steel wool the rods, and I’d basically restore them. By the time I turned thirteen I was more interested in machine guns. They were much more fascinating and complex, and being a teenager, my dad
felt I was responsible enough to start breaking them down. I got a part time job and started paying for them myself, but my dad still had to go make the purchase.” He smiled.
My eyebrows could not have gotten higher. Gem said it first. “So you’ve got degrees in epidemiology and mechanical engineering. Flex, our stories suck compared to his. Hemp, Flex Sheridan there is an electrician, but don’t sell him short – he does do commercial work, too. I’m an artist. I work in several mediums, but none of them will immediately help us out of the shit storm that has befallen the state of Florida, and I’m assuming the entire world. So if I could, I’d handcuff you to Flex now and keep you with us, because I think you are going to be very helpful.”
“You said a bad word,” Trina said in a very soft voice.
“Sorry, baby,” Gem said, stroking her hair. “Gemmy’s had a hard day.”
Hemp threw his hands out to his sides, the magazine still clutched in his left. “I don’t have to be convinced here,” he said. “You are the only uninfecteds I’ve seen, and the fact that we’re not all victims of it means there’s a reason. I don’t know what it is, but it might be something we have in common, or maybe it affects people at different rates, based on diet, physiology, whatever. But as for me, I just drove down to Florida from Atlanta all by myself to check out the Kennedy Space Center. I’ve got no wife or kids, and I don’t even have a girlfriend right now. So don’t take this wrong, but you will do just fine.”
“Safety in numbers?” Gem pulled up a wooden chair and sat in it with Trina resting against her shoulder, awake still, but staring into space.
Hemp nodded. “You already saved me once. I might have starved to death in that cell.”
“I’d like to chit-chat all day,” I said. “But we need to find out which weapons we have matching ammo for and stack ‘em in that cart right there. Then we need to work our way down the stairs somehow, get back to the Suburban and get out of here. I think it’s about as weird as hell that we haven’t run into more of these things, but we’re bound to hit some big numbers sometime. The sooner we’re mobile, the better I’m going to feel.”