Pavlov's Dogs

by Snell, D. L.

  He walked that way, looking down. Mac, the leader of the Dogs, had been correct: all the activity of the first evac had drawn attention. Ken grunted. If anyone jumped off the roof now but survived the fall, they wouldn’t wait long for death.

  The radio line got shorter. Slowly.

  Ken looked at his wrist furtively, even though he knew his watch wasn’t there. His entire adulthood, he’d been a slave to the thing, particularly after he’d started his own construction business. Instead of coming and going as he pleased, he was suddenly responsible for everyone working for him. Like Jorge.

  He looked at the line.

  The only one who seemed to notice Ken’s anxiety was the girl who had jacked Jorge’s seat in the Blazer. She looked away, keeping her head low. Her hair blew around in the breeze, and she hugged herself, clutching at her shabby brown sweater.

  Dunne threw one of the roof pebbles at Ken. He looked up when it hit his chest, and Dunne pointed at the girl.

  Sighing, Ken recognized her. He tried to remember her name, and finally came up with it. “Kelly! Hey, Kelly.”

  The girl stopped and looked up at him. “Hey.”

  He pointed to the line. “You waiting to use the radio?”

  She shook her head. “No. No, I just came up to get some fresh air. You know, and to see if, uh, if your friend was okay.”

  Kelly’s head dropped again.

  “I’m sure Jorge is fine,” Ken said, looking away. “He’s too stubborn to die. And that’s something you should know about him. Are you listening to me?”

  Faintly, she nodded her head.

  “Good. Jorge was—is one stubborn son of a bitch, and if he didn’t want to do something, he didn’t do it. Do you see what I’m saying here?”

  Kelly sniffed.

  Ken reached out and touched her shoulder. “What I’m saying is, Jorge had a choice. And he chose to give you his seat. It wasn’t anybody’s fault.” A hint of a grin crept onto his face. “If you’re looking to blame somebody, you should probably blame me. I was driving, right?”

  The girl looked up at him. “Thank you,” she said.

  He watched her walk away. He hadn’t lied to her, but he hadn’t told her everything. She blamed herself, and so had he, at least at first. Not anymore, of course, but it wouldn’t do Kelly any harm if he kept that to himself.

  Ken resumed his pacing on the roof. Dunne and Landis did a shift change, and the afternoon came and went, the sun tracing a very slow arc through the sky.

  After several long hours of watching people talk about nothing—once they’d ascertained the safety and wellbeing of their loved ones—Ken finally was next in line to use the radio. He snatched the set from Landis.

  “Jorge,” he said into the microphone. “I’m looking for a guy named Jorge, he’s about—”

  “He’s here,” the radio operator said. “Been here at my shoulder, annoying the piss out of me.”

  A beaming smile split Ken’s face. “That would be him.”

  ’

  Jorge elbowed Winchester through the fence. “Is that him?”

  “Stop that,” Winchester said. “And yes. Here you go.”

  Snatching the headset from the radioman, Jorge put it on and sat in a folding chair. “Ken! Holy shit, dude, I’m so happy.”

  “Me, too, buddy. Have you heard anything about Marie or the kids?”

  Jorge blew out a breath. “Man, let me tell you. Marie is all messed up. The kids were in Mexico with her mom when everything went down. Marie hasn’t heard anything from them since. Oh, and she got a new man—”

  “Oh, shit. Sorry.”

  “No te preocupes. It didn’t last. One of these cabrones threw him to the dead, man. You believe that shit?”

  “What?”

  “Yeah. One of the Dogs just threw him to the dead; he’d been bitten. That was the story they fed us anyway.”

  “I can’t... and the rest of them were fine with this?”

  Jorge shifted in his seat. “No. They’ve disciplined him, but no one knows what that means. None of us, at any rate. Hey, so you did good, huh? There’s a bunch of you guys.”

  “We did all right. We got pretty lucky, finding a way into this place. There was some food and a bunch of first aid stations.”

  “Andale. Good job, holmes.”

  “You made it too, man. Good job too.”

  The conversation trailed off for a second.

  Then Ken said, “Jorge, listen—”

  “Ken, I—”

  They both stopped when they realized the other had something to say.

  Sitting next to Jorge, Winchester cleared his throat and shifted in his chair, clearly uncomfortable to be privy to the conversation, and to the awkward silence in between.

  “Go ahead,” Ken said. “Over.”

  Jorge shook his head. “No, you first, bro, um...”

  “Jorge, I just—”

  “Over.”

  “What? What’s over?”

  “Oop, sorry. Just saying over.”

  “Well, I just wanted to say that before all this happened, you know that things for me were...”

  “Yeah, I know, Ken. Over.”

  “And I just, I wanted to tell you... what I mean to say is—what the hell?!”

  Jorge almost barked out a laugh. But then he realized by the tone of Ken’s voice that he was serious. “Hey, I was kind of expecting an apology here, bro.”

  “Shit, Jorge, no—I wasn’t... Hey, can you hold for just a—Jesus, what the hell is that?”

  The headset emitted a burst of static, and Jorge winced and brushed it off his head. Immediately, he put it back on.

  “Ken? Ken?!”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  JORGE’S EYES BUGGED OUT in horror as the sounds of screams and gunfire come over the radio. “Ken!” He slapped the earpiece of the headset.

  Curious, Winchester flipped a switch, and the cacophony of moans and automatic fire jumped out of some speakers on his console. His eyes widened, and he grabbed for the walkie-talkie on his belt. “Q-Comms to Radio, come in.”

  “Go ahead.”

  The other survivors, who had been milling around and chatting about their talks, turned to look.

  Smaller pops went off, followed again by the staccato gunfire of the Dogs’ submachine guns. A voice—Jorge knew it was Ken’s—yelled out “Oh, Jesus—”

  Static poured from the speakers, and Winchester slapped the console. The needle, once floating in the green, now rested at zero. Winchester tapped the gauge with his forefinger, and the needle jumped, but then settled again at zero.

  “Alert the director. There’s an issue on the mainland. Over.”

  “Wilco.”

  Jorge hit the fence. “What the hell?”

  Winchester shook his head. “I don’t know. I’m sorry.” He pulled the radio headset from Jorge’s hands and reeled it in. As he wrapped the cord, he looked up at the crowd. “I’m so sorry. The connection has been lost.”

  “What do you mean, lost?” Jorge yelled. The other survivors began to gather behind him against the fence. “You’re the go-to radio guy, right? Get it back!”

  Retreating from the barrier, Winchester shook his head. “It doesn’t work that way. They’re not transmitting. They’re—” He broke off, looking away from the crowd. “I’m going back to the comms shack. Maybe I’ll get something there.” He took off at a jog, leaving the distraught crowd behind him.

  “Hey!” Jorge yelled. “Come back here. Come back!”

  ’

  Donovan stood outside Command, knocking on the thick metal door. He eyed the retinal scanner and scowled. One more detail to remember. He felt jittery, as if his insides were vibrating like plucked harp strings. Alpha McLoughlin and the rest of the Dogs were off to the mainland, and there wouldn’t be a better time.

  “Yes?” Crispin said over the intercom.

  Turning to smile at the speaker, even though there was no camera, Donovan said, “Director! I was wondering i
f you wouldn’t mind my company during the rescue mission today. I’m still working through the Dogs’ kinesthetics, and I think seeing more of them in motion in the field would—”

  The door clicked and popped open an inch.

  “Thank you,” Donovan said, closing the door behind him. “I know the Dogs won’t be on the mainland for a little while yet, but... what is that?”

  The radio crackled as Donovan asked the question.

  “Director, Radio, come in.”

  Donovan drew up next to Crispin, who was biting the first knuckle on his right fist and staring at the touchscreen in front of him. Donovan looked at the labels on the two video feeds currently featured: Dunne and Landis.

  On both screens, rifle barrels pointed out from a first-person perspective, spitting fire as they swept back and forth.

  Crispin picked up the radio. “I’m seeing it. Thank you. Keep this channel clear.”

  “Is this another training scenario?” Donovan asked.

  “They’re under attack,” Crispin said. “They’re under attack, and I don’t understand how. From the initial reports, the North Regional building was fortified.” He slapped the console. “How did the zombies get in?”

  Onscreen, the dead staggered through the roof access and into the Dogs’ line of fire. They came in all shapes, all sizes. An extremely fat woman waddled in a floral-print muumuu, holding her gargantuan arms out in front of her, dragging dark coils on the ground between her feet. Dunne sprayed her, and bullet holes stitched her from massive belly to flabby shoulder. Another line appeared from chin to forehead. She fell in slow motion, almost majestically, holes spilling out curds of fatty tissue; and then she lay still as other undead predators stepped all over her, pressing out more bloody curds.

  “Where are they now?” Donovan asked. “Is that the roof?”

  “Yes. They were up there to get a better radio signal.”

  Donovan’s eyes widened. “The zombies made it to the roof?”

  Crispin shook his head. “That should have been impossible. But there it is. Jesus Lord, most of those people aren’t even armed. If the Dogs don’t dam that doorway, they’re all done for.” He slapped the console again. “Come on, Dunne, pull it together!”

  Snapping his fingers, Crispin pulled the keyboard from under the console and started typing, fingers dancing on the keys. “Yah-hah! I know what they need. Situation’s a little too real, so... adjust endorphins, serotonin levels, all right. Spike this, dial back the adrenaline...” He looked back up at the screen. “How’s that, you magnificent bastards?”

  The screen showed the change through the Dogs’ eyes. Dunne finished one magazine and the first-person view shifted down as he swapped it out and switched his gun to single-shot. Then the whole picture lurched and went lower. At first, Donovan thought the Dog had gone down, but the picture leveled quickly.

  “Attaboy,” Crispin said. “He took a knee. Controlled shots. One at a time.” He picked up his microphone and set a switch to GROUP A.

  “Master to Alpha. Upon arrival on the mainland, proceed directly to North Regional. Dunne and Landis need you there.”

  In Landis’s peripheral vision, Donovan caught a glimpse of a large man with a correspondingly large revolver, calmly shooting at the undead.

  Landis shifted his tactics to match Dunne’s, and the picture stopped jumping as much. The dead were still coming, as quickly as they piled up on either side of the doorway.

  “It’s like the Hydra,” Crispin said, chewing one of his nails.

  Donovan clucked as he watched the dead amass against the small band of humans on the roof.

  Survivors? Not anymore.

  He watched as the big guy reloaded his revolver, and then the man stepped back, out of Landis’s field of vision.

  The neurotech surveyed the scene from both Dogs’ perspectives. Clearly the Alpha Dog’s rescue force would be too late to help anybody. Just as well. Donovan had been wondering how they would be able to accommodate the next group of survivors, and now it looked as if all that fretting was for nothing.

  He patted Crispin’s shoulder.

  “Excuse me, Doctor. I think I... left the kettle on.”

  Crispin waved his hand, totally engrossed in the unfolding carnage onscreen. He reached for his keyboard and began typing again.

  Donovan walked to the secure entrance and looked around the room. He stared for a moment back at Crispin, banging away at the keyboard.

  Fool, he thought. So close to being great, shackled by the chains of your own limited perceptions. Oh well. All the better for me.

  He slapped the door release, and the door opened on Theta Kaiser. Donovan stepped back and bowed, waving the shirtless Dog inside. The Theta laughed once and stepped into the room.

  Dr. Crispin, hearing this, turned from the control panel. His eyes fell immediately on Kaiser. “What the hell are you doing, Donovan? The Dogs aren’t allowed in here, that one in particu—”

  Baring his sharp, sharp teeth, Kaiser growled deep in his chest and advanced on the project director.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  “HEY,” JORGE SAID over the radio, “I was kind of expecting an apology here, bro.”

  Ken grimaced, plugging his ear so he could hear over the racket coming from the stairwell. “Shit, Jorge, no—I wasn’t... Hey, can you hold for just a—” He glanced at the stairwell access and almost dropped the mic. “Jesus, what the hell is that?!”

  Landis turned at Ken’s exclamation and leapt out of his seat, bringing the bullpup P90 to bear. The rooftop access door hung open, and a walking corpse stood there. It reached out and moaned, and Landis fired a burst of full-auto, scything the zombie in half.

  Dunne dropped his water bottle and leveled his submachine gun as more zombies came out onto the rooftop. Together, the Dogs rained lead into the growing horde, and before long, both guns clicked empty.

  As they reloaded, Ken looked around. Hardly anyone else on the rooftop had a weapon of any sort. He frowned, looking back at the doorway full of dead men.

  How?

  With a snarl, he drew his large .44 Ruger and took a Weaver stance, his left hand supporting the right. Smoothly, he pulled the trigger and the five-inch barrel belched fire.

  A look of satisfaction passed over his face. The time he’d spent on the range had paid off.

  Ken fired the gun several more times, rewarded by a dropping corpse with every squeeze of the trigger. Dimly, he was aware of another man rushing forward, clenching a snub-nose .38 in his fist. Ken turned to look, and as he did, the man tripped, shooting himself in the hip.

  The Dogs began firing again, and the man who’d shot himself writhed on the rooftop, swinging the gun around aimlessly.

  “Oh, Jesus!” Ken yelled, and the injured man pulled the trigger on the Police Special. The bullet smashed into the radio. There was a burst of electricity, and then smoke.

  “Shit!” Ken ran over and kicked the small pistol out of the man’s hand.

  A woman’s screams turned him around. The dead had advanced from the doorway, even through the Dogs’ withering hail of gunfire. And now the dead were stalking the survivors. The closest one was almost on top of Kelly, who was still screaming. Ken took careful aim, but the dead thing was too close to the girl.

  Glancing around, he saw a pile of scaffolding pipes stacked against the air-conditioning unit. He levered one up with his foot, grabbed it, and then took off running.

  With a leap, he brought the pipe back and down, impacting the zombie’s head and snapping its neck. The cadaver fell, and Ken grabbed the girl’s shoulders.

  “Are you okay?”

  Kelly nodded, fast.

  “Good. Here.” Handing her the pipe, Ken turned to see the rest of the survivors fighting off the zombies with whatever they could find, be it rocks or pipes or their own bare hands.

  At the doorway, an extremely fat woman waddled up in a floral-print muumuu, her gargantuan arms out in front of her, dark coils dragging on the
ground between her feet. Landis and Dunne cut her down.

  The Dogs burned through another magazine each, and Ken covered them while they reloaded. As he fired, he stooped to pick up the fallen man’s .38 Special. A quick glance at the idiot’s still form was enough to tell he would no longer need it.

  Zombies continued to pour through the doorway, and yet Dunne visibly calmed. He dropped to one knee and took single shots. His accuracy increased, and a grim smile formed on his lips.

  Landis followed suit, and the two Dogs thinned the ranks of the dead much faster. Ken continued shooting the .44, wondering just what the hell they were going to do. An idea clicked in his head as the hammer of his revolver fell on an empty cylinder.

  He ran to the ledge on the north side of the building.

  Ah, there you are.

  When they had taken North Regional as their refuge, Ken had noticed a window-washing basket parked at the fourth floor, right in front of a large hole in the glass.

  “Dunne! Can either of you hold these things off by yourself? I need one of you to help.”

  Landis and Dunne looked at each other. Dunne jerked his head back, and Landis nodded and jogged over to the ledge. He looked down and back up at Ken.

  “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

  “What? It’s only twenty feet, max. Don’t tell me you’ve never... weren’t you military?”

  Looking down over the edge, Landis gulped. “Heights.”

  “Whatever,” Ken said, and vaulted over the low wall of the rooftop.

  He hooted once on the way down, and then slammed into the basket, making it rock alarmingly and bang against the side of the building. Ken got up and turned to the window, where shards of glass still lined the frame.

  He looked up. “While you’re waiting, could you drop me one of those pipes?”

  Landis grimaced and then ran to the AC unit and back. He leaned over the side and held out the pipe. “Hurry up. Once I make up my mind to go ahead and jump, I don’t need an excuse to stop.”