“Do something,” Stephanie said, desperately. Thuy understood. The door wouldn’t hold for long and their defenses were pathetic. At a minimum every one of them would be infected. At the worst they would literally be ripped to shreds.
“We can’t just stand here and wait for them to get through,” Thuy said.
Deckard shrugged, grimly, his brow hanging heavy over his dark eyes. “You want us to go on the offensive? Probably a good idea. I’ll lead the first wave. We need to get that ram before the door comes apart.” Thuy marveled at him. Even in the face of terrible odds he seemed so sure of himself. It was this absolute fearlessness that made him so striking.
She wanted to trust in him. He was correct, getting the ram was paramount, however she knew he would be infected in the process…and he would die. “No,” she said again, letting her eyes fall away.
Suggestions flew around the open hall as everyone spat out different ideas about what to do, but she didn’t hear them. Her mind was somewhere else. With her labs in ruins she had to find the solution by digging deeper. Thuy knew the building inside and out better than anyone, except maybe Hal Kingman, the architect. She pictured the floor plan on the first day she walked in when the place was half finished. It was the day Deckard had bitched out Kingman to get the labs completed on time. Half the drywall hadn't even been hung, the tile had been stacked in piles all over the place and she had been able to see down into the cafeteria.
She had seen something in the flooring…black lines of…
The ram crashed again like a great bell. The door was beginning to bow inwards.
“So much for my idea,” Riggs complained.
“You never had time anyway,” Deckard replied. Thuy was staring right through him, but he mistook the faraway look for one of confusion. Deck tried to explain, “Riggs wanted to weld the door shut.”
Thuy blinked, remembering what the lines were. “Riggs! The propane!” She left everyone standing at the door and raced into the nearest BSL-3 lab with Riggs right behind her.
“What about it? What about the…”
“Shut up,” she said, holding a hand out to him. She was trying to recall the exact layout of the gas lines. It started as a single line that came up from the basement in a heavy rubber tube running along a conduit in the elevator shaft. This line eventually went to the electrician’s closet where it went into a meter before it branched five ways, heading out to the labs. She pointed at the nearest gas port. “Uncouple that line!”
Riggs said, “Huh?”
“From beneath, hurry!”
He rushed to the port and, with fear-driven adrenaline lending strength to his hands, he broke the panel with one big yank. Thuy turned and sped back to the elevators, yelling, “Wilson, Eng! I need you.”
In the electrical room she found the gas valve and yanked it hard all the way to the right, turning it off. The valve sprang from a steel panel screwed to the wall; without tools they would have to find a different way to get at the gas lines.
“Kick that open,” she said to Wilson. When he hesitated Eng shot a front kick that was shocking in its violence; a second one was all it took and the panel fell to the floor, clattering. Thuy could see the five lines heading out to the labs—thankfully, each was labeled.
“That one,” she said as another crash rocked the air. “Grab it and pull!” The two men reached in and started pulling at the black hose. It jerked back about a foot giving Thuy room to grab, also. Together they jerked the hose clear of the wall, a foot at a time.
“Now what?” Eng demanded. In his heightened state of fear, his accent had practically disappeared, but in the heat of the moment, Thuy didn’t notice.
“Turn the gas back on when I tell you,” she said, pulling the end of the hose out of the room and to the stairwell door; already the metal door was bent outward at the middle and there were gaps along the edges.
Deck had his pistol in one hand and was trying to get a bead on the man wielding the ram. Thuy elbowed him aside. “Now, Eng!” She shoved the hose into one of the gaps. In seconds, the smell of gas blossomed up causing everyone but Thuy to step back. Afraid that too much was leaking into the hall, she pushed the hose further in.
Right next to her the door boomed with another strike. “Get everyone further back,” she said to Deckard. “One spark and…” She didn’t need to finish her sentence. As he herded the scientists back, Thuy tried to buy herself time in order to let the gas build up.
“Von Braun!” she yelled.
On the other side of the door there were a few seconds of silence and then a man snarled, “Von Braun? Who is that?”
“You aren’t Von Braun?” Thuy asked. Another one who could talk? The idea rattled her. “Um…if you’re not Von Braun, why are you banging on the door?”
“I want the fucking cure. Give it to me! Give it to me, now!” The man pressed his face right up to one of the gaps and held his mouth open as if she had the “cure” in tablet form and would just pop it in.
“Just…just hold on,” she replied. The smell of gas was becoming overpowering, the air in the stairwell shimmered with it. She turned to Deck who was halfway down the hall. She mimed flicking a lighter.
He shook his head and whispered, “I’ll do it. Get back.”
“Hold on for what?” the man demanded. “I’m not holding on for anything, damn it!”
“I’m getting the cure,” she said, easing down the hall. “I’ll be right back.” When she got to Deck, she whispered, "How do we do this without getting blown up?"
"You're asking me? You're the genius, I'm just the muscle."
She studied the door, the ceiling, and the walls around it. "We'll need to keep at least fifteen paces back...so, maybe I could fasten a pulley above it using double sided tape, and then I can use some wiring to..."
Deck interrupted her. "Why don't we just use this?" He produced a Zippo lighter and thumbed it alight.
"Ok," she said. Her eyes, round and large, were on the flame. Her breath quickened; there was no telling what was about to happen. Her hands reached out and touched Deck's black shirt; just then she needed some reassurance.
He pulled her in close, his eyes also on the flame. "Here goes nothing." With a deft move he slid the lit Zippo along the floor and then ducked down, clutching Thuy to his chest where his heart beat steadily in her ear, sounding like a clock ticking down on a bomb.
They huddled together as the lighter skittered to the stairwell door. There was a pause and then there was a tremendous sound: Whuump! The air flashed brilliantly white for a fraction of a second before it changed over to a combination of orange and black that washed over the pair.
Deck felt the heat bake into his back and instinctively he pulled Thuy tighter until he was almost crushing her. At first she didn't fight it. She held him with all her strength, but after a few seconds when she realized they were still alive she pulled back.
The hallway was burning in places: the linoleum along the edge of the door, the ceiling, the metal door itself. It was charred around the edges and there were blue flames running up it, but it was still closed.
"How come the door is..." Her words faltered--her voice sounded strange to her, as though she had just come back from the pool and there was water still in her ears.
"It happens. Explosions can be tricky," Deckard said. He then yanked off his mask and yelled, "Eng! Turn off the gas before you burn the whole place down!"
She started to get up and before she knew it he slid his hands up her sides and lifted her to her feet. Compared to him she felt small, weak, delicate; a flower next to a burly oak--she hated the feeling.
"I'm fine, thank you," she said, holding herself at her full, stiletto modified, height. She pulled the edge of her lab coat down to straighten out the wrinkles and lifted her chin.
His only reply was a smirk. He strode over to the stove-in door, stomped out the linoleum fire, waved away the smoke and then peered through one of the cracks. "Mother-fu...I mean, uh, you'
ve made quite a mess, Dr. Lee." He took hold of the gas line and pulled it from the crack in the door. It was burning like a torch so he stomped on it with his once shined shoes.
Thuy went to peer in through one of the cracks, but Deckard pulled her back. “I have to get that ram,” he explained. “Besides, it’s not pretty in there.” With a grunt he disconnected the steel cable, which had been holding the door in place. He dropped it and pulled his weapon in the same instant.
When he reached for the door, Thuy stopped him. “Wait.” She fished in one of her pockets and pulled out a new surgical mask for him. “For the Com-cells. Here, duck down.”
He could’ve put the mask on himself, however he liked the feel of her hands on him, even in such a small thing. “Thanks,” he said, his eyes crinkling above the mask, making Thuy wonder if he was smirking at her again. She never found out. Very gently he moved her back and then opened the door.
The air wafting in from the stairwell was acrid with the stench of burnt hair and roasted flesh. It made her want to gag. The sight that struck her didn’t help. There were at least a dozen of the infected people who had been torched by the explosion—most were still on fire. Their clothes and hair were burning merrily, filling the stairwell with grey smoke. They seemed not to notice.
For the most part, the blast had laid them back and they floundered amidst the wreckage. Heines was easily the worst off. His hands had been flash-welded to the ram, and as Thuy watched he pulled one hand off, leaving behind a sheaf of skin, like an old snakeskin.
Deck shook his head in wonderment and then said to Thuy, “I need your coat.”
She clutched it to her chest. “Why?” The feeling of being small crept over her and although the coat was the flimsiest protection possible against the zombies, it was better than nothing.
“Because I need it,” Deckard growled, holding out his hand.
“You can have mine,” Riggs said. A number of people had come up to see what effect the explosion had on the zombies, Riggs among them. He slipped off the coat and handed it over without an issue.
Deckard took the coat, sunk his pistol into its holster and then strode into the stairwell. He was grim; no smirk was discernible as he walked right up to Heines who was struggling to his feet. Thuy let out a groan as Deck planted a foot on the trooper’s chest and pinned him down. He then used the lab coat as an oven mitt, wrapping the head of the ram with it and pulling it out of Heines’ grip. When he lifted it, long strings of flesh hung from the ram like hot cheese from a slice of pizza.
“Oh my,” Thuy said. She pushed past Dr. Milner to find better air in the hall. She was very close to losing her lunch.
A warm hand came down on her shoulder. “It’ll be alright,” Chuck Singleton said to her. “That ain’t pretty, not by a stretch, but it’ll pass. Don’t you worry on it.”
“Make way!” Deckard barked. With the ram held out at arm’s length, he walked it down to the north end of the building to the BSL-4 labs. Thuy watched him until he was halfway down the hall, until Milner let out a cry.
“Get it off of me!”
With his hands no longer welded to the ram, Heines was free to move, and for someone who’s skin was either charred black or sagging like candle wax from the heat he was surprisingly spry. In a fury he leapt up and attacked the closest person: Milner.
Milner had taken his eyes from the smoke-filled stairwell for only a second to see what Deckard was going to do with the ram. He suspected that the Neanderthal in a suit would just toss it in the hallway, not realizing that it was now very likely a vector carrying the disease. Before Milner could spout his ridicule something slammed into his back.
Heines went after Milner’s throat, but the scientist was just able to turn away so that the teeth sunk into the muscle on the side of his neck instead of the soft flesh where half a gallon of blood surged back and forth every minute. This also rendered him capable of screaming which he did with more gusto than he used in actually protecting himself.
Singleton was closest. He had stepped back to make sure the ram and its dangling tendrils of burnt flesh didn’t touch him. Now, he sprang into action. He was armed with a broom handle which he whip-cracked across Heines’ skull. The top of the wood pole snapped right off and Heines didn’t even blink.
“Shit,” Chuck drawled. Milner continued to scream. Heines tore out a chunk of flesh and swallowed it without chewing. When he went back for seconds Chuck jammed the jagged edge of his broken broom handle down his gullet. Heines gagged and Chuck asked Milner, “You just gonna lay there?”
Milner wriggled out of Heines’ grasp and then tried to escape out of the stairwell door. Burke stopped him by shoving a mop into his chest. “He got the disease,” Burke said. “He was bit!”
Some of the scientists had been edging around the door, hopeful that propane blast had killed all the infected people. Now, they began backing away. Thuy elbowed her way to the front. “We don’t know that Mr. Burke. But even if that’s true, we can’t leave him out there to be mauled, or eaten.”
With the other zombies getting to their feet, this was a very real fear. “Please!” Milner begged. “I’ll stay in one of the BSL-4 labs. I won’t come out, I promise.”
“Listen to him,” Stephanie demanded, grabbing Burke’s shoulder with desperate hands. “We have to let him back in. We’re not savages like them.” She didn’t particularly like Milner, her primary concern was for Chuck who was fighting to keep Heines pinned down. As long as Milner stood in the doorway, Chuck was basically trapped.
Burke hesitated while Thuy started pushing the scientists back. “Out of the way,” she demanded. “Give Dr. Milner some room.” When they had pressed themselves flat against the walls she said to Burke, “Let him in, John, quickly.”
Chuck’s situation had become desperate. He was forced to let Heines go and was now using the broken broom handle like a bloody spear, jabbing it at the zombies on the stairs to keep them back. When John finally relented and Milner passed through the doorway, Chuck backed out of the stairwell and Stephanie pulled the door closed.
“The cable!” she yelled as the first body slammed against the door. Riggs and Eng were quick to reattach the steel cables and for a few moments everyone watched breathlessly as the door shook under the renewed assault. Without the ram battering it, the door held.
“That was crose,” Eng said.
Thuy rolled her eyes at the jarring accent and then began ordering people about: “Burke, walk Milner down to the labs at the end of the hall and stand guard over him. Sorry, Dale it’s just a precaution until we know if you’re really infected.”
“Ya’ll blind?” Burke asked. “Course he’s done got infected. He got bit.”
“I was scratched by one earlier and I’m fine,” Thuy countered. “We don’t know if the infected gentleman was in a stage that rendered his disease communicable. Time will tell. Now, Deck and Singleton, find some
ethyl alcohol and wash any of your exposed skin with it. It also wouldn’t hurt to wipe down your clothing. Riggs and Eng, I need you two to disconnect all the propane lines and run one to each of the other stairwell doors. Finally, Wilson, I need you with me.”
She didn’t wait to see if her orders were being carried out, Thuy headed straight for the elevators. “Are you strong enough to pry these doors open?” she asked Wilson.
“I’d like to think I don’t look that old to you,” Wilson replied, half-jokingly. He did look that old. The hours of near-panic had left him haggard. His warm brown skin hung from his cheeks like a Bassett hound’s, while beneath his eyes bags had sprung up from out of nowhere.
“I’m sorry, but I, but…” Thuy yammered.
“Don’t be sorry, yet. If I can open the doors then you can be sorry about judging my virility. If not then I’ll be glad my ability to blush is less pronounced than some.”
With a fair amount of grunting, Wilson was able to haul the doors open enough for Thuy to get her slim fingers in to help. Together they o
pened them completely and once Thuy locked them in place, she pulled out Anna’s cell phone and shone the pale light down to where the woman hung precariously…except Anna wasn’t hanging precariously.
She was gone.
Chapter 11
//7:14PM//
1
Courtney Shaw stared at the grid map for her district: nine troopers on site, six local law enforcement, and a fleet of emergency vehicles…all just sitting there.
She punched the number for Lieutenant Pemberton. “Lieutenant, we now have fifteen officers on site.”
Pemberton blew out sharply and said, “You don’t have to tell me every time a trooper shows up, thank you.” He was barely civil. She had called every few minutes; it was her way of trying to goad him into action. Of course she wasn’t burdened by the knowledge contained in the three-inch thick volume of standard operating procedures concerning bioterrorism, which was the closest thing to what they were dealing with. It sat open in front of him, four hundred pages of crap.
He had alerted the area hospitals, local public health officials, and politicians. He had also set up a command post, opened communications with a dozen police, sheriffs, and fire departments. Slowly but surely, he was going down the checklist which was all well and good, however without authorization from the CDC or the New York State crime lab to enter the facility, he was stuck with little to do besides form a quarantine perimeter, something he lacked the manpower to do.
Courtney understood S.O.P. but knew that sometimes it had to go out the window. This was one of those times; there was nothing standard about this situation. She waited six minutes after Kilo-8 radioed in that he had arrived at the Walton facility before again punching the number for the station chief. He didn’t pick up.
Pemberton was stewing. He had his orders: stay in position until the lab boys arrived, but how long would that be? Another hour? Did those people trapped on the fourth floor have another hour? The hundredth sigh of the day was just escaping his lips when he jerked—Courtney was standing in his doorway.
The Apocalypse Crusade (Book 1): War of the Undead Day One Page 23