Dead City

by Sean Platt

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Dead City

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Dead City

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  Chapter One - Hell On Earth

  Chapter Two - Calais

  Chapter Three - Blowback

  Chapter Four - Human Containment

  Chapter Five - MPs

  Chapter Six - Bivouac

  Chapter Seven - Hulka

  Chapter Eight - Big Fucking Gun

  Chapter Nine - Purgatory Valley

  Chapter Ten - The Man Who Saved the World

  Chapter Eleven - Dead City

  Chapter Twelve - To Be Read

  Chapter Thirteen - Realities Of The Disease

  Chapter Fourteen - Deleted Scenes

  Chapter Fifteen - Danny

  Chapter Sixteen - Jordache

  Chapter Seventeen - Secrets

  Chapter Eighteen - A Knock At The Door

  Chapter Nineteen - Truth And Beauty

  Chapter Twenty - Prestige

  Chapter Twenty-One - The Late Show

  Chapter Twenty-Two - Handlers

  Chapter Twenty-Three - Dropped Call

  Chapter Twenty-Four - Check-In

  Chapter Twenty-Five - Purgatory

  Chapter Twenty-Six - Violations

  Chapter Twenty-Seven - This Is Where We Leave You

  Chapter Twenty-Eight - Redefining Nature

  Chapter Twenty-Nine - Public Relations

  Chapter Thirty - Extraction

  Chapter Thirty-One - Not On the Menu

  Chapter Thirty-Two - The Good Life

  Chapter Thirty-Three - Paranoia

  Chapter Thirty-Four - Malfunctions

  Chapter Thirty-Five - Drive-By

  Chapter Thirty-Six - Breaking News

  Chapter Thirty-Seven - Fail

  Chapter Thirty-Eight - Skin District

  Chapter Thirty-Nine - Playing Possum

  Chapter Forty - Spent Cartridges

  Chapter Forty-One - Cold Shoulder

  Chapter Forty-Two - Plots and Schemes

  Chapter Forty-Three - Dawn

  Chapter Forty-Four - Funlanes

  Chapter Forty-Five - Not Ever

  Chapter Forty-Six - Orange Julius

  Chapter Forty-Seven - Three Tall Cloaks

  Chapter Forty-Eight - Denied

  Chapter Forty-Nine - Whistle and Thump

  Chapter Fifty - 21:46

  Chapter Fifty-One - Voices

  Chapter Fifty-Two - Suds

  Chapter Fifty-Three - News

  Chapter Fifty-Four - The Moon

  Chapter Fifty-Five - A-List

  Chapter Fifty-Six - Weasel

  Chapter Fifty-Seven - Through the Dark Window

  Chapter Fifty-Eight - Mechanisms of Disease

  Chapter Fifty-Nine - Knock Knock

  Chapter Sixty - Visiting Hours

  Chapter Sixty-One - :)

  Chapter Sixty-Two - Bacon

  Chapter Sixty-Three - Coffee

  Chapter Sixty-Four - Five Minutes

  Chapter Sixty-Five - Kojak

  Chapter Sixty-Six - Mail Call

  Chapter Sixty-Seven - Just Another Day On the Job

  Chapter Sixty-Eight - Blocked

  Chapter Sixty-Nine - Clarion Call

  Chapter Seventy - Rockwell Portrait

  Chapter Seventy-One - Chrysalis

  Chapter Seventy-Two - Human Weapons

  Chapter Seventy-Three - Intuition

  Chapter Seventy-Four - Script

  Chapter Seventy-Five - Watch Him With This

  Chapter Seventy-Six - Bird's-Eye View

  Chapter Seventy-Seven - Decay

  Chapter Seventy-Eight - Right This Way

  Chapter Seventy-Nine - Upgrades

  Chapter Eighty - Evolution

  Chapter Eighty-One - Do You Love Me?

  Shit-From-Brains

  Acknowledgements

  Learn the Story Behind Dead City

  Want to Know What Happens Next?

  About the Authors

  Dead City

  by Sean Platt &

  Johnny B. Truant

  Copyright © 2016 by Sean Platt & Johnny B. Truant. All rights reserved.

  This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, businesses, events, or locales is purely coincidental.

  Reproduction in whole or part of this publication without express written consent is strictly prohibited.

  The authors greatly appreciate you taking the time to read our work. Please consider leaving a review wherever you bought the book, or telling your friends about it, to help us spread the word.

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  CHAPTER ONE

  HELL ON EARTH

  THE HELICOPTER RIDE WAS BUMPY enough to make Alice spill her coffee, but not her lunch. The way the pilot was acting, this particular ride was no big deal, and if she threw up now, Alice could forget about keeping anyone’s respect. She was already a woman heading into what had (of course) become a male-dominated sector of the government, society, and even the specific geographic area. If she tossed her cookies on the chopper floor, no one would take her seriously — not the pilot, not the on-site leadership at Yosemite, not Bobby Baltimore, who’d met her before. Even the undead might laugh and point, such as they were still able.

  “This your first time to Hell on Earth?” the pilot asked, projecting his voice above the thumping rotor. The helicopter’s side door was open, maybe for breeze, and the idea of plummeting to her death made Alice uneasy. She couldn’t help glancing at the ’copter’s gaping mouth before turning back to the pilot.

  “Officially, I’m supposed to pretend you didn’t say that.” Then, when the pilot seemed unwilling to fix his politically incorrect faux pas, she answered his question. “I’ve talked to Bobby in Aberdeen Valley. But this is my first time to Yosemite.”

  “Pfft. Then you’re in for a treat. How many ferals they run across out there in Dead City?”

  “It happens in the sticks, not in the city. But I’ve never seen one in person.”

  “The idea of being here freak you out?”

  “I visited some scary places before the borders were closed. It takes a lot to freak me out.”

  “You’ve been abroad?” The pilot seemed impressed. Alice, for her part, was amazed that he could fly without looking forward all that often, even though his inattention made her nervous. Yosemite’s wide expanse yawned ahead — all granite and trees. She’d asked for a flyover of the park section before entering the contained zone but now felt too ill for proper appreciation. The duty sergeant’s response had been acceptable but not conciliatory. Her request had been granted, but Alice had the distinct impression it was only because what the military said went around here, and she’d happened to request the same approach route air traffic always entered the restricted northern section — reporters’ preferences notwithstanding.

&nbs
p; “When I was younger,” she said.

  The pilot turned fully in his seat, one arm slung conversationally over the back. He was chewing gum and wearing a flight helmet. He looked maybe twenty years old. Nearly young enough to be her kid, if Alice ever had any.

  “You don’t say? Tell the truth, Ms. Frank. What was worse? Baghdad in the middle of the conflicts, or this?”

  Alice watched the park crawl beneath the ’copter, the first bits of Yosemite vanishing at the windshield’s bottom from her vantage in back. Soon, if she scooted toward the open door, she’d be able to see the open park below. If she fell after that, a parachute wasn’t likely to save her. The hunters did fine in Yosemite, but an unarmed woman plunked among the nation’s oldest ferals wouldn’t last long. She might as well be wearing meat-flavored perfume.

  “Are you my pilot on the way back?”

  The pilot pretended to tip a cap, touching his helmet with a glove. “Yes, ma’am. Fresno to Hell on Earth, at your service.”

  This time, Alice didn’t bother to correct the pilot. Everyone knew the name that even the highest officials used for Northern Yosemite, non-politically correct or not. If she was going to break any big secrets today, that wouldn’t be one.

  “Then I’ll have to tell you after my tour,” Alice said, trying on a companionable smile.

  The pilot turned back to the windshield.

  “Don’t get bitten, and it’s a date,” he said.

  CHAPTER TWO

  CALAIS

  THE OFFICER WHO GREETED ALICE was tall and broad, with an action hero’s square jaw. His face looked midfifties but seemed to have maintained his body like a trophy. He shook her hand before Alice felt comfortable standing fully upright, so their greeting, from the outside, might have looked like a penitent bowing to meet the pope. Alice had disembarked from many choppers while covering stories abroad, before she was official, back when unofficial, paired with the name Alice Frank, meant less than nothing. But it had been a long time since she’d needed to fly like this, and her silly fears were back with their old stripes: that she’d grown several feet overnight, and if she stood fully near the whirring blades, she’d find herself halved.

  “Col. Thomas Calais,” he said. “C-A-L-A-I-S. It’s French. Officially, I’m ‘Colonel Calais’; unofficially, my superiors call me The Frog, and I pretend not to hear them.” He smiled. To Alice, his square jaw seemed stuffed with too many teeth.

  “Thanks for meeting me.”

  “You’re welcome, but you can thank Mr. Haydock’s producers for setting it up. I just work here.”

  “Mr. Haydock?” Alice asked. They were both still speaking overly loud, the helicopter’s rotors winding down behind them. The engine was off, but the sound of metal cutting the rare Sierra Nevada air was like the whoosh of a circling broadsword.

  “I’m sorry. I meant Mr. Baltimore. Please tell me I didn’t blow his cover.”

  “Everyone knows Bobby’s real name, Colonel. It’s no worry.”

  The big man nodded and continued to smile his excessively toothy smile.

  Alice’s experiences with the military had been mixed in the past, but Calais seemed friendly enough. Everyone here was at least nominally Department of Clarification and Containment, and the DCC was as adjunct to the CDC as it was within the purview of Panacea, or under its wing, or funded by it, or some other complicated government contrivance. Alice doubted that anyone other than the on-site bosses knew how the agencies were related or how the army fit into its command structure. It didn’t matter. The outbreaks hadn’t clarified government itself. The fact that nobody seemed concerned that the DCC beside the CDC might be confusing was but one obvious example of how much America still had its head up its own ass, plague containment aside. And hence the reason the country only talked about Panacea. It was easier that way.

  “For the record, if my name was Rupert Haydock, I’d change it too.” The colonel nodded toward a low-slung, utilitarian-looking building across a tarmac from the helipad. “Right this way, Ms. Frank.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  BLOWBACK

  “WHAT’S YOUR BRA SIZE?”

  ALICE looked at the kid dressed in green fatigues, barely old enough to drive.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Apologies, ma’am. I thought you’d been briefed by the colonel. All visitors to the park’s contained section are required to wear a long-sleeved viscose shirt and gloves, but we all wear specialty fit body armor, front and back, as well. They’re specialty fit, ma’am. Because you’ll be wearing it for so long.”

  Alice shook her head.

  “Specialty fit. You know.” He gestured across his chest.

  “Someone finally started putting boob indents in body armor.”

  “Um. Yes, ma’am. Our female colleagues say they’re much more comfortable for long-term wear.”

  “Fine. I’m usually a 42C. Unless you use Victoria’s Secret sizing.”

  “Ma’am?”

  “Never mind.”

  Alice looked around the supply room. It was nothing but gear. She’d watched Bobby Baltimore’s several shows many times and met him on a handful of occasions. He’d dominated YouTube since before landing his first network deals, and she’d seen a lot of those, too. She’d never once seen Bobby wear a helmet. There were helmets in the room now — some with visors and some without — but nobody on TV ever wore them. Maybe they never came for the head. Or maybe they made it harder to aim and fire.

  “And for your viscose shirt, ma’am?”

  “How old are you, Private?”

  “Eighteen, ma’am.”

  “Let me tell you something about women. The first is that you should never ask a girl her size. The second is that you should never, under any circumstances, call a woman ma’am.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Call me Alice.”

  “If you wish, ma’ … of course, Alice.”

  “I guess I’ll take a medium, if they’re small, medium, and large.”

  “Of course.” Now the kid seemed flustered. He began to search, and Alice decided conversation was warranted, to de-embarrass him over the ma’am, size, and tits remarks.

  “Why are they called viscose shirts?” she asked as he rummaged through shirts. “Are the shirts particularly slow-running, like molasses?”

  “Not viscous, ma’am. ‘Viscose.’ It’s a semi-synthetic blend sometimes known as rayon.”

  “Fashionable.”

  “It’s what attack dog training shirts are made of.”

  Humor drained from Alice like a plug had been pulled. “Oh.”

  He handed her a long-sleeved gray shirt and a pair of thick gloves. “You want a helmet?”

  “Do I need one?”

  “It’s optional. You’re not likely to encounter a horde our spotters don’t see coming, but it’s possible you’ll get blowback.”

  “‘Blowback’?”

  “Blood or tissue. From a close-quarters kill.”

  “Oh. No.” Alice forced a laugh, even though the idea was equal parts revolting and terrifying. She’d covered Sherman Pope and Hemisphere almost exclusively for years now and knew the realities, but being this close to the disease’s rotting face made her heart beat harder than she cared to admit. “I guess I’ll turn my head if guts start flying. And hey, if I get infected, I can always go on Necrophage, right?”

  She said it as a joke, but the kid was nodding, probably ready to tell her about their on-site clinic. Ma’am.

  “This will do,” she said, stopping him before he could speak.

  “Did you bring boots, ma’am?”

  “They’re in my bag. Do I need leg viscose?”

  “Denim should be sufficient,” he said, gesturing toward Alice’s jeans. “Once the inhabitants reach the rage phase and start to rot, it doesn’t take long before their teeth become unstable in their gums. The state of living death allows them to experience tooth decay in a way a normal corpse can’t, until it’s fully arrested. But even subje
cts who’ve managed to lose all their teeth — and those are few and far between — often bite rocks and other objects to force bone back through the gums. Still, you’d be hard pressed to find one that could bite through jeans quickly enough that your escorts wouldn’t be able to intervene.”

  Alice supposed that was supposed to be comforting. It was the opposite.

  “What about weapons?”

  “Only licensed hunters are allowed weapons inside the park. Would you like to apply?”

  Alice shook her head.

  “Just as well. We don’t supply anything, so you’d need to have brought your own guns and blades.” He nodded. “Right this way. You can change in that room there, ma’am.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  HUMAN CONTAINMENT

  CALAIS STOOD AT THE FRONT of a small room, gesturing at a projection on the wall. He’d dimmed the lights as if for an old-fashioned slide show even though the display was electronic, but Calais was older than Alice. He might remember slides. He might even miss their blunt honesty, before the razzmatazz of digital had swallowed everything.

  “Yosemite Containment Reserve spans approximately a quarter million acres at the north end of Yosemite National Park,” the colonel was saying. “The reserve is about one-third the size of Rhode Island and composed of everything north of the Tuolumne River and Hetch Hetchy Reservoir. At the east end, its border follows Tioga Road. There are approximately — ”

  “I’m sorry. Colonel?” Alice said.

  “Yes?”

  “I mean no offense, but I already know pretty much everything about the reserve. And about Sherman Pope’s phases, for that matter.”

  “My apologies, Ms. Frank, but this is required briefing for all park visitors.” He smiled a little to show he knew how stupid it all was then added, “Panacea regulations.”

  “Okay. Then let me ask: Why Yosemite?”

  “You mean for containment?”

  Alice nodded.

  “I think it was the simplest resolution to a complex problem that needed an immediate solution, and minimal red tape. The national parks are government land, and converting use was surely a lot easier than co-opting anything privately owned. We needed a place for those past their inflection points and hence selected against to graze before turning in the interest of humane containment.”