by Snell, D. L.
“No,” Donovan said. “I can’t say that I have.”
“Well, what they unearthed was extraordinary. It looked rather like the air sacs in our lungs.” He waved his hands around for emphasis. “And it all looked to have been masterminded by an architect, a single mind. But, no, it was built by the collective will of the hive. This is rather how the zombies behave, if you’ve been watching. In fact...” Crispin lowered his voice, “it’s how they were designed.”
The BCI manual fell to the tabletop. Donovan looked up at Crispin, his mouth open. “Designed, sir? Are you saying the zombies were manufactured?”
Crispin fiddled with the empty champagne bottle, a morose look on his face. “No, I’ve stopped saying those kinds of things a long time ago, Donovan. It’s practically a clause.” He blew his cheeks out and said, “We’re out of bubbly.”
Donovan grabbed his still-full glass and thrust it in Crispin’s face, which lit up.
“Oh, there’s more!” He took the glass, drank from it and put it aside. He looked up at the monitor, but his eyes were unfocused, staring at something else.
Donovan waited until he couldn’t stand it anymore. “Sir, if you have something you need to get off your chest, perhaps about this outbreak...”
Crispin glanced at him, and the look on his face was so naked, so vulnerable, Donovan almost didn’t need an answer, even though he desperately wanted one.
Oh. Oh, my sweet Jesus, Donovan thought. Doctor, this is all you, isn’t it? His eyes widened. Of course you have to try to save them. You killed them.
Your father was wrong.
The burring ring of the comms unit interrupted the silence, and Crispin’s hand slapped down on it. “What is it, Winchester?”
“Good news, sir! The Dogs are back with civilians. Right now, they’re in quarantine until Ron and the med team finish screening them for bites and illness.”
“Excelsior!” Crispin shouted. “Good work, Winchester. When your shift is over, get yourself a drink. Tell them I authorized it, if you’re already at ration.”
He swiveled his seat to face Donovan. For all the champagne he had put down, Crispin’s eyes were bright and focused.
“You see that, Doctor? For all the mistakes I’ve made, for all the hurt, I now believe I have achieved some modicum of atonement. And this is only the beginning! Shall we?”
Donovan nodded, hoping the project director didn’t want to walk arm-in-arm to meet the survivors.
“Where is the quarantine?”
“Oh,” Crispin said, waving his hand. “I had Miss Randall fabricate some cages outside just for this reason.”
A short walk later—accompanied by a pair of Jaden’s security detail—the two doctors were in the presence of the survivors.
“This is it?” Donovan asked, looking over the huddled masses. He felt his face warming as he did so. Twelve—no, fifteen new mouths to feed. “Where are their belongings?”
Lucas Jaden, who had beaten the doctors there, turned to Donovan. “They brought none. There were a few firearms, but we’ve confiscated those.” He looked over at Crispin. “And don’t worry, sir. Everything was bagged and tagged. We’re keeping a very careful inventory.”
Crispin, overjoyed at the mass of people, just nodded.
“They have no supplies,” Donovan said to Crispin quietly. “They have nothing. No food, no seeds. I doubt if any one of them has any skills we could put to good use. They are, in short, dead weight, Doctor. We could give them one of the boats from the marina and—”
“Enough,” Crispin said, placing a hand on Donovan’s shoulder. “They’re here now. And if this is indicative of the Dogs’ performance, there will be more.” He smiled. “We’re heroes now, Donovan! Saviors!”
He stepped forward and began to introduce himself and Mr. Jaden to the survivors, and as a cheer went up, Donovan backed away. He caught the eye of one of the security guards and snapped his fingers.
“I’m headed back to Command. Come on.”
He stalked back to the central building, a black mood following him like a cloud.
Old fool. Doddering, incompetent. I cannot believe he’s willing to endanger all of our lives, my life, for these squalling civilians whom we’ve never met. People his work put in harm’s way.
Donovan stopped at the door to Command, staring at the retinal scan. He turned to the guard. “The door, please.”
“Sorry, sir, only Crispin is authorized to enter Command.”
“Well then we will need to change that, won’t we? I will need equal access if I’m to—”
“Sir, I’m sorry, but I meant to say that Dr. Crispin is the only one who can. Not even security can get in there.”
“Ah,” Donovan said, backing down. “Yes, of course.” After staring at the door for a second, he turned back to the guard. “Take me to my quarters then.”
“Yes, sir.”
After the guard had left him in his room, Donovan paced back and forth in front of his bed.
“Can’t work for him. Can’t do it. He’s the antichrist, ushering in the apocalypse. Shit!” He had a sudden, childish impulse to sweep all of the orientation binders off of his desk. His hand had actually moved back to do so.
An idea stopped him.
Can’t work for him, he thought. And like every other time he had ever felt that way about a previous boss, Donovan wondered what it would be like to work for himself.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
“MAC! I THINK they found something!”
Alpha McLoughlin scowled at the shortening of his name. Theta Rose should have known better to address him that way in the field.
On the other hand, the Dogs were all eager and happy to be doing something instead of just running drills on the island. Still, a breakdown in discipline, left unchecked...
“It’s Alpha,” he said, cuffing Rose’s ear. The smaller man reeled for a second.
“Yes, sir,” he said as he found his legs. “Samson reports that Hayte’s on point. I don’t know what kind of scent he’s found, but he’s very eager about it.”
From his position atop an overturned Hummer, Kaiser grunted. “All the money and time they spent making us into the apex predator, you’d think they would’ve left our voice boxes alone so we could talk when we’re all fuzzy.”
Mac pointed back the way Rose had come. “Theta Kaiser, I want you changed and on backup with Theta Hayte. Rose, you hold back. Tell Dunne to radio the base, let them know we’re chasing a lead.”
“Chasing our tails,” Kaiser muttered, dropping to all fours as the Change swept over him. Shortly after, his German shepherd form went loping away. Mac stared after him as the Theta bounded over upside-down cars and mounds of rotting corpses left in the scout teams’ wake.
“Of all the special forces units in all the world,” he said.
“What was that, sir?” Rose asked.
Nothing, he thought. “After Dunne reports to base, recall Kristos and Landis if they haven’t found anything.”
Theta Rose nodded and jogged back toward their temporary headquarters in the marina boathouse.
McLoughlin stood at the closed gate, looking out at the ruins of the city. In only a month, the whole world had tipped on its ear. Intellectually he was sure there were pockets of survivors everywhere, just like in this city. Perhaps even more in rural areas. But looking at the husk of civilization that lay before him, it was hard to believe.
He rubbed his hand over the stubble on his head. After hearing the one survivor’s story about an overturned Blazer and the devastated regular army, Mac really hadn’t expected to find too many survivors. Not after seeing the way the zombies swarmed anything living. The city wasn’t especially large, which factored into his estimate; low population density and a relatively unburdened infrastructure had allowed for the one group. A second group would be a welcome find. There shouldn’t be too many of them.
’
Samson watched Kaiser approach with a flutter of anxiety in his gut. O
n paper, Samson was still his superior, but after Kaiser’s power play in the sparring cage, the new Epsilon carried himself as if it were the other way around. Never around Mac, but that was only a matter of time.
Kaiser padded up next to Hayte and sniffed the air. His black-lined jaws snapped a couple of times, and he turned in place on all fours.
Looking back to the building, Samson nodded and picked up his radio. “Samson to base.”
“Go ahead.”
“Base, confirmed survivors in the North Regional building. Establishing contact now, will have numbers soon, over.”
“North Regional, copy. Base out.”
Samson clipped the radio to his belt and whistled. Kaiser and Hayte turned their large, shaggy heads to look at him.
“I’m going in,” he said. “First contact. Stand by for back-up in case they prove to be... non-compliant.”
Kaiser snorted a doggy laugh, leaning over to dig a shoulder into Hayte.
Walking up the steps to the building, Samson checked the clear plastic magazine in his bullpup submachine gun. Loaded. He let the P90 hang by its strap from his shoulder.
The last time he’d made first contact, he had gotten a face-full of buckshot. He’d also been a large hairy monster. So the new protocol had been established. He patted the gun. Still.
The glass of the double doors leading into the foyer was shattered and scattered over the marble floor. He saw a reception desk. Clearly the area was meant to double as a waiting room, but there was no furniture.
And no walking dead.
Ah-hah, Samson thought. Whoever you are, you’re very sneaky. And clean. Good for you.
Samson walked to the back of the lobby to the elevators, looking to either side for the stairwell sign. A place like this, with six stories and dozens of business suites, would definitely have a stairwell, maybe two. Broken glass crunched underfoot as he walked down the west side. He turned a corner and found the lobby furniture.
The Beta grunted. Easy chairs, end tables, and small couches were piled and interlocked in such a way that, in order to be moved, the barricade would have to be simultaneously pushed and pulled, as well as lifted. None of the living corpses would just wander through.
Not that way, then.
Samson turned back to the lobby and crossed to the east wing. He saw a clear marble floor this way, no glass, so he knew he was on the right track. He came to a turn in the corridor, and Samson slipped around it with his P90 at the ready. The door to the stairwell stood closed.
Tilting his head to one side, Samson considered this. He could understand keeping at least one route upstairs unobstructed; if there were people here, they had to at least go on food runs. But why block up the one door so thoroughly and leave this one so exposed?
He looked around the wall and ceiling. He got down and peered at the floor closely. He looked at the door, at the hinges, at the handle.
Nothing.
Shrugging, he reached out and pulled the handle. The door didn’t move. He pulled harder. Still, the door refused to budge. Pursing his lips, Samson backed out of the corridor and went to the front of the building.
“Hayte!” he called.
The Dog bounded upstairs and came to a skidding halt in front of Samson, tongue lolling out one side of his mouth.
“Come open this.”
Theta Hayte followed him into the building to the recalcitrant door. The Theta sniffed at it, checking for booby traps, detecting none. Turning back to Samson, he chuffed out an interrogative.
“Go ahead,” Samson said.
Hayte turned back and worked his thick paw into the handle of the door. He set himself, and then gave a tremendous yank. The doorjamb splintered and gave way with a loud crack, and Hayte had to take a hasty step back to keep from falling on his ass.
“Excellent,” Samson said. “Back to your post.”
As the Dog padded away, Samson squared his shoulders and checked the safety inside the trigger guard of his gun. Clearing a building this size, room by room, floor by floor, and without his enhanced senses, would take some time.
Just another day in the Army.
He stepped into the stairwell and went up the first flight to the landing, then stopped dead. He started to laugh. On the wall he saw a message.
3RD FLOOR
INVITATION-ONLY
PIZZAS WELCOME
With a light step, Samson jogged up the two flights of stairs to the third landing. He tried the door, but it was better than locked. He didn’t even find a handle on the stairwell side. Samson briefly considered working on the hinges of the door, but discarded that idea.
Instead, he knocked.
’
The young man in the hallway picked his head up off his forearms and blinked sleep out of his eyes. He shook his head once for good measure, and a lock of red hair fell down over his face. Had he been dreaming?
The knock came again.
“Holy shit.”
He fumbled with a piece of twine on the tiled floor, failing to pick it up three times before finally getting a good hold on it. He gave it a strong yank, twice. He couldn’t hear the bell ring on the other end.
From the front pocket of his hoodie, he pulled out a short revolver, a snub-nose .38 Police Special: the Door Guard Gun. The whole time he had been holed up in this place and on door duty, he never once thought he’d be so glad to have the gun in his hands.
Straining his ears, the kid anticipated footsteps from down the corridor. He was vaguely aware of a trickle of sweat that had started somewhere on his head and was now soaking the collar of his T-shirt.
“Come on, come on, come on.”
As if summoned by his panicky utterances, a pair of soft footfalls rounded the corner, and following them was the large leader of this pocket of survivors.
“What’s up, Jimmy?”
Jimmy pointed a pale hand at the door. “There was a knock.” He dropped his hand. “Twice.”
The large man brushed his beard. “All right then. Stand back and cover me. We should see—”
“Cover you?”
The beard-scratching hand fell to the man’s waist, bringing up a big revolver. “You’re my backup, Jimmy.”
“Jesus Christ,” the kid muttered, settling his grip on the gun.
“Good man. Just don’t shoot me.”
The leader turned to the door and put his left hand on the push bar, then paused for a moment to take a steadying breath.
He blew it out.
“Here goes.”
The door opened silently on a submachine gun.
“Hi,” said the man who was holding the gun. “My name is Samson. I brought pizza—”
A gunshot boomed in the hallway, right next to Ken’s head. The man named Samson tumbled back down the stairs.
“Christ, Jimmy!” Ken shouted, covering his ringing ear. “He was about to crack a joke!”
Jimmy wasn’t listening. He was staring down the stairwell, eyes growing wider.
“What’re you...?” Ken began, but then he saw it too.
The man named Samson was changing.
Changing into some kind of... human dog.
Unsteadily, the shapeshifter pushed himself up onto one knee. He shook his head and flung blood from the hole in his cheek.
Both Ken and Jimmy’s eyes bulged as they watched the hole patch itself up, as the hair grew back into place, softer, more lustrous.
Then Samson morphed back into a man and stood up, regaining his strength and his consciousness.
His voice sounded a bit congested but he managed to say, “Found your friends.”
Ken thought about that for a second. He had a more pressing question.
“What the hell are you?”
Samson said, “Pizza man.”
Ken actually found himself laughing. And he had to admit, he had never met a man in his life who could take a shot to the face and still be honest-to-God good-humored about it.
Ken would have admired the Dog even m
ore if he’d known this was the second time that day Samson had been shot in the face.
“Nice to meet you,” Ken said. Then he wiped the smile off his mouth because the next part wasn’t a joke. “Don’t go expecting a tip. This pizza is so fucking late.”
’
“We keep some semblance of privacy here,” Ken said as he and Samson toured the third-floor hallway. “The eight families with us have the large offices to themselves, and the rest of us have our pick of the other offices.”
Taking in the layout, Samson let out a low whistle. “What have you been doing for food?”
Ken dipped his head. “For the first week or two, we rationed out the contents of the snack machines and whatever else was left in the mini-fridges. After that ran out, we started going on scavenging runs.” Ken then raised his eyebrows at Samson, “What do you guys do for food?”
“The island has a farm. We grow stuff, and the engineer has built up some kind of algae machine, to help feed the new arrivals.”
“Yeah, so, like you said, you found our friends. Are you sure you haven’t run across a guy named Jorge? Stands about yea high, black hair, bad sense of humor?”
Samson put his hands up. “Easy. There was a big group. I don’t know any of their names. Just that some of them came from your Blazer.”
“Right.”
Samson looked around. “Speaking of big group, how many people do you have here?”
“Sixty,” Ken said, lying by just a few.
“Six... sixty?” The Dog strode to a window and looked out. “I’d better get on the horn.”
“Horn?”
“Yeah, there’s too many.”
Ken’s face clouded over. “Too many for what?”
Samson looked at him as if he just realized they were having two separate conversations. “Too many to fit into the boat back to the island. Let me talk to my Alpha.” He unclipped his radio, and took a step back to give himself some space.
“Now wait just a minute,” Ken said.
A voice came over the radio. “Go ahead, Beta leader.”
Samson waited to answer them until he heard what Ken had to say.