Pavlov's Dogs

by Snell, D. L.

  The civilians milling around the bus stopped to listen.

  “Okay,” Jorge said. “About a month ago, when all this started...”

  ’

  The Blazer turned up on its side and rolled. In the VW behind Ken, Jorge slammed on his brakes. The other people in the convoy almost rear-ended him. A few other drivers did rear-end each other, and he heard the crunching of metal and the shattering of taillights.

  Clawing at the door handle, Jorge undid his seat belt. He glanced in the rearview mirror and saw the crazy woman who had jumped into his windshield. She lay in the ditch, trying to get up, but the bones of her legs just kept buckling.

  More walking corpses were coming up behind her.

  Jorge jumped out and slammed the door behind him. Tearing his automatic from his waistband, he walked toward the zombies surrounding the Blazer, feeling his breath coming in great gulps. He tried to calm himself so he could shoot, but the twisted hulk of Ken’s Blazer kept him from peace.

  “Ken!” he shouted.

  He took his stance and started shooting at the undead. The first one turned toward him and it got two in the chest, then one in the face for its attention. Another turned, and Jorge put a round in its lungs. It fell backwards, but got right back up. Jorge took another step closer and aimed, placing a round neatly in the middle of its face. It went down and stayed there.

  “Ken!”

  He kept firing, choosing his shots carefully, but there were more zombies than he had rounds, and behind him, another mass of undead was stepping onto the blacktop. He would get surrounded if he didn’t move.

  “Shit,” Jorge said. He turned back toward the VW, and his eyes bugged out.

  A burst of fire from behind the short caravan obliterated the first row of zombies to reach the highway. Then suddenly a Humvee raced up beside the line of cars, and a stern-looking man in a helmet shouted for them to follow.

  Jorge opened his mouth to shout for help—his best friend was trapped in the wreckage—but the soldiers saw his gun and tackled him to the ground.

  They carried him to the covered flatbed truck, even as he kicked and tried to wrestle away from them.

  “Ken! Ken!”

  “Jorge?!” his friend called back from inside the Blazer. “Jorge, I’m pinned!”

  Then the military men threw Jorge into the truck and started moving again as the zombies closed in on Big Bertha.

  ’

  “Then, like, five miles away, we had to stop again for a car crash, and the dead were everywhere,” Jorge said, finishing the story. “Only a couple of the soldiers got away, and of course, we used their gear to call you guys.”

  “Where are the soldiers now?” Mac asked.

  Jorge shrugged. “Don’t know. They heard you guys were coming, and they geared up and split. I think they went looking for my friend, Ken Bishop, the man in the Blazer.”

  Mac grinned crookedly. “You must have been very persuasive to get them to leave shelter like that. Especially to find a man who’s in all likelihood dead.”

  “Well, these were the two jarheads who tackled me. I figure, I was about to use that lady’s Bug to run the zombies away from the Blazer, then maybe, I don’t know, somehow pull my friend out. But instead, I ended up with the jarheads. They owed me.”

  Mac nodded once and slapped Jorge’s shoulder. “All right. We’ll take you guys to the island. And then, after we regroup, we’ll see if we can’t find the soldiers. And your friend.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  THE CALM OF THE AFTERNOON was infectious. Survivors stood in their groups at the pier, chatting and comparing stories. A problem with the boat’s engine had slightly delayed their departure.

  McLoughlin stood with Samson in an empty boathouse, checking the Beta’s face and shoulder.

  “Is it still sore?” McLoughlin asked.

  “Nah, I’m all right. I got to tell you, it can’t go on like this.”

  “Like what?” McLoughlin said, spraying his friend’s wound with antiseptic. It was healing quickly, as the Dogs’ wounds did, but this was the first gunshot wound they’d encountered since their upgrade. Dr. Crispin would want a full report on the recovery process.

  “Doc Crispin was at the control panel.”

  McLoughlin looked up into Samson’s eyes as he rewrapped the man’s shoulder. “That’s kind of what he does. If he’s not watching us spar or do exercises, he’s at the helm in Command.”

  “Yeah, well, he took my eyes.” Samson grunted. “He took my eyes when I was about to check a room, and that fat, sweaty shithead got one off in my face.”

  Sighing, McLoughlin shrugged. “What do you want me to do? Dr. Crispin is the Master. He has been, and probably always will be.” He finished bandaging the wound. “How’s that? Too tight?”

  Samson rotated his shoulder. “Very good, Nurse Macky. Is there a mirror in here? I want to check my face.”

  “It’s terrible,” McLoughlin said. “Horrible to look at. Probably give children nightmares.”

  “That bad?”

  “Yeah. It healed right up, and you look just like before.”

  The men laughed. Samson stopped first, looking away from McLoughlin. “I’m serious. He listens to you, sometimes. If we’re out in the field, he can’t be—”

  McLoughlin threw his hands up. “All right. Jesus. Better not tell the others about this. They get the idea they can get me to do stuff just by being annoying about it, I’ll never get any sleep.”

  At the gate, Hayte and Rose were again posted as guards, carrying their MP5 submachine guns.

  “This is horseshit,” Rose said. “I didn’t come along on this ride just to stand around and babysit a bunch of civvies.” He shook his head. “We didn’t even get our muzzles wet.”

  “We will,” Hayte said. “When the time is right, we will have our moment in the sun.”

  Rose looked over at him. He waited. When it was apparent that Hayte was done, Rose smiled. “That’s it? No native wisdom about the fullness of time or any of that?”

  “No,” Hayte said. “I believe I am done trying to impart the wisdom of the elders to you.”

  Eyes narrowing, Rose said, “Why? Is it because I’m not a Native American?”

  Hayte turned to Rose, the hint of a smile on his lips. “If you know a cup has a hole in the bottom of it, do you keep trying to fill it with water?”

  “Oh, ha ha. You should try open mic night. As a matter of fact, I...” He stopped talking and cocked his head to listen. “You hear that?”

  Hayte and Rose turned toward the street beyond the fence. The sound, whatever Rose had heard, was growing.

  And getting closer.

  Moaning.

  “Incoming!” Rose yelled. “A whole lot of them!”

  He and Hayte flicked the safeties on their MP5s and stepped back from the gates.

  “Come on!” Hayte yelled. “Get the bus over here! We need something to block the gates!”

  He turned and saw there was nobody at the vehicles. A burst from Rose’s gun turned him back.

  A horde of undead, drawn to the marina by the sound of the engines, had found its way to the gates and was steadily advancing.

  Hayte cursed. “Where the hell did the security goons go?”

  Shrugging, Rose lowered his gun and spoke into his radio.

  “Alpha McLoughlin, we have a situation here.”

  “I heard the shots. Keep ’em off the gate until I get there. Don’t change until I do. We have more ammo aboard the yacht; use what you got until then.”

  “Light ’em up,” Hayte said.

  He and Rose switched their guns to full auto and swept the crowd, one Dog spraying the dead at head-level, the other taking out their ankles and shins. It wasn’t good. The ones at the gate fell dead or disabled without feet, but the ones behind the ones behind them kept pushing. And as far as the Dogs had seen, the column of undead could support a coliseum.

  A howl sounded behind them, followed by pounding paws. The hul
king Alpha Dog flashed by, bounding into the air, easily clearing the twelve-foot fence.

  “About time,” Rose said, dropping his gun and working the zipper on his coveralls.

  The Thetas began the Change, their muscles rippling and sprouting hair. Soon, a grey and reddish set of Dogs was ready to fight. They howled and charged after their Alpha, jumping to the top of the fence, then off.

  Claws out, the Dogs came down in the midst of the zombie horde. They slashed and struck, the bizarre mix of canine and human physiology forming a perfect fighting machine. Senses sharpened by an evolutionary shortcut told the Dogs where their prey was, and human strategy took a backseat to primal fury. Each of the three Dogs became a tornado unleashed. Large, hairy fists pounded the tops of heads to mush. Claws unzipped bodies from sternum to throat. They heaved and turned, always a fraction of a second ahead of their enemy’s teeth, always faster than their shambling foes.

  They still weren’t enough.

  The zombie horde moved inexorably forward, flowing around the three islands of devastation as would a river. The street was too wide; there was no way the Dogs could hope to clog it with bodies. No way to create a bottleneck.

  McLoughlin, seeing the dead reach the gates, snapped his jaws and put his head back, howling once. He bounded that way, flattening zombies left and right. He leapt up and back over the fence.

  The gates started to open, and he was there, pushing against the iron framework of the gates, trying to hold them closed against the will and bottomless hunger of the living dead. The rotting tide ebbed and flowed as Hayte and Rose worked from the outside to gain the fence and lighten the pressure on McLoughlin.

  There were too many of them.

  Even the Alpha Dog’s brute strength gave under the combined weight of the dead. He let go, loping back to regroup. Rose and Hayte scaled the fence and joined him, flexing and steeling themselves for the flood. Then they all turned toward the sound of gunfire.

  Jaden’s security men had climbed atop the bus and were picking away at the crowd. From the boat, Landis and Kristos took up their MP5s and joined the firing squad. McLoughlin shook his head, golden mane rippling.

  The civilians were now lying on their faces between the bus and the pier, avoiding the crossfire. McLoughlin’s fur bristled with frustration.

  Zombies, not intimidated by the roar of gunfire or by the attrition rate of their cold brothers falling to either side, pressed forward. The first one reached the bus, and McLoughlin jumped at it, knocking the thing from its feet. He roared, and the survivors got up, screaming.

  “Get on up!” Kaiser yelled at them from the deck. He, too, held a submachine gun. “Onto the boat, or we’re leaving your worthless asses here!”

  McLoughlin turned to herd the people up, but remembered the guardsmen on top of the bus. They were stranded there, having quickly run out of ammunition, surrounded now by a stream of rotting bodies. He turned back for them and waded into the dead, swinging his massive arms in great arcs, knocking the corpses around as if they were mannequins.

  He barked once, and the security detail ran for the front of the bus, jumping onto the engine hood and down one by one. They joined the lagging survivors as they made their way to the gangplank.

  Hayte and Rose joined them, but not quickly enough. A dead woman in a blue evening gown swept around the front of the bus and grabbed a shorter dark man in blue jeans, sinking her teeth into his shoulder.

  Rose leapt forward and removed her head from the nose up. The woman’s jaws released, and the Latino man she’d bitten fell facedown on the pavement, clutching his wound and screaming.

  “¡Chingas a tu pinche joto madre, cabron!”

  McLoughlin heard the cries and knew what they meant. His snout wrinkled as he herded the last of the survivors up the pier. Dunne slung the bite victim over his shoulder and hustled over the gangplank.

  The dead kept coming, but Rose and Hayte were holding them off at the narrow entrance of the gangplank. McLoughlin closed his big eyes and the Change swept over him. Fur and cellular ejecta fell to the wooden planks and sifted through the cracks as his howl turned into a scream.

  It was over quickly, and he stood, hairless.

  “Kaiser! Where’s the one who was bitten?”

  Kaiser’s teeth grew sharp, too large for his human face. “He’s at the bow of the yacht. Why? You want to talk to him?”

  “No. I just don’t know what to do with him. The reports say he’s going to turn, but until he’s one of them, I don’t want to just leave him here. Besides, the docs will want to see it happen, probably.”

  Kaiser reloaded his MP5. “Hold on a minute, Alpha. I have an idea.”

  The Theta walked to the front of the boat, and McLoughlin heard a scream. The bitten man flew through the air, arcing over the water and landing heavily on the marina lot. The Latino’s screams continued, and the zombie horde, forgetting the gangplank, turned his way. Kaiser put one foot on the rail and he and Dunne picked off zombie after zombie, keeping them away from the screaming bait.

  McLoughlin waved Hayte and Rose up to the gangplank, then followed them onto the yacht. Kristos undid the mooring line.

  Face full of thunder, McLoughlin marched to the bow. He grabbed Kaiser and spun him around. “Get to the aft, Dunne.”

  The other man left McLoughlin and Kaiser alone.

  “What the hell was that, Theta?”

  The sweating Dog sneered, teeth still sharp. “You said you didn’t know what to do, sir. And you didn’t give me any orders. So I took some initiative, and look where we are.” He put his MP5 down and spread his arms. “All the civilians and security loaded. The welder is back onboard. One casualty, if you don’t count Samson’s gunshot wound.”

  McLoughlin’s jaw muscles bunched, and he stared into Kaiser’s eyes, looking for the slightest sign of mockery or defiance.

  For his part, Kaiser met the stare. Calm. Collected. Secure in the knowledge that he had done what he thought was right.

  “As you were,” McLoughlin said, turning away.

  “Yes, sir, Alpha, sir.” Kaiser threw a salute at McLoughlin’s retreating form.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  “TO THE DOGS!” Crispin said, holding aloft his glass of champagne. “This is a great day, Dr. Donovan, cheer up! We’ve had a successful field test of their abilities and we saved lives.” He gestured with his glass, and Donovan finally tapped his against it. “That’s the spirit.”

  Crispin sat back with a smile. Deciding to ignore Donovan until the man came around, he swiveled around in his chair to face the giant touchscreen. With a few quick taps, Crispin brought all eleven Dogs into view. He hummed to himself as he drained his glass and poured another one.

  Behind him, Donovan kept a keen eye on the console, watching every move Crispin made. There was no limit to how much the system’s intricacies fascinated the neurotechnician. He made a face when he realized the show was over. Whatever the project director had done, whatever series of commands he had entered to hijack Samson’s system, he wasn’t going to demonstrate it again. There was no reason for it now. Not even to show off.

  Silently, Donovan went back to the Wall and plucked down another heavy manual from the shelf:

  BCI INSTALLATION

  AND MAINTENANCE PROCEDURES

  VOL I

  A serial number ran under the title.

  Donovan flipped the binder open, revealing a series of full-color pictures. They showed in all its brilliance the brain-computer interface, a silk web embedded with circuitry. A few color photos illustrated the BCI’s placement on a living brain. Donovan checked the table of contents and found half of the surgical procedures listed. They seemed straightforward enough, and he had done similar installs himself.

  His eyes slid over to Crispin’s anatomical model of a typical Dog.

  Never on that scale, though. And the control scheme is extraordinary. I can’t imagine the process for the specimen. That had to have been terrible.

 
“Dr. Crispin, if I may, how much fine control is wired into each Dog?”

  Crispin, who was pouring himself a third glass of champagne, looked up to the ceiling in thought. “Each major limb, of course. The phalanges individually, but not the toes. The eyes, the ears, and some other... well, the sniffing mechanism, I should say.”

  Keeping his eyes on the model, Donovan said, “And the process? How long did it take to put in the implants?”

  “The first Dog we did successfully—that would be Theta Kaiser—he took a good three months to get right.” Crispin took a swig out of his glass and swallowed it. “Kaiser required a lot of recuperation time between surgeries. But once the kinks were ironed out, it was fairly easy.”

  Donovan put the book down. “And McLoughlin? He’s got something the other Dogs don’t, is that right?”

  “Yes,” Crispin said, putting his drink down. Then he reconsidered and drained it. “Mac is the only Dog to have successfully taken to the hormones. He doesn’t require therapy after the Change, as the other Dogs do. His gland actually produces them now.”

  Finding his hands empty, Crispin poured himself another drink. “He is living proof that my procedure, my, uh, life’s work, is, as they say, indistinguishable from magic.”

  The smug look on the project director’s face was expectant, so Donovan gave him the satisfaction. The ego was the quickest way to a man’s heart, and to his head.

  “Genius,” Donovan replied. “I suppose that accounts for the Alpha’s large stature, as well.” He turned back to the life-sized model. “All those nodes. Such a fine degree of control.”

  “Control,” Crispin said. “Yes, it’s all about control, isn’t it? Or loss of it.” He drained his glass and found the bottle empty. “Gah!”

  The project director sat back and stared at Donovan, again in deep thought, brow furrowed. “Listen, have you ever seen footage of when those researchers poured cement into the ant hole? Ten tons of cement? They let it dry and then started digging?”