THE KILLING FLOOR
Craig DiLouie
Published by Permuted Press at Smashwords.
Copyright 2012 Craig DiLouie
www.PermutedPress.com
Acknowledgments
Special thanks to Renée Bennett, Jessica Brown and Elizabeth Stang for their editing support. I owe an additional thanks to former Chief Petty Officer James R. Jackson, who reviewed most military-themed content for accuracy.
Note
A significant amount of research went into this novel to make the setting and action as realistic as possible. That being said, all of its characters are completely fictional, and any resemblance to persons living or dead is entirely coincidence. Further, many places and organizations are either fictional or fictionalized. For example, liberties were taken in the geography, towns and roadways between southeastern Ohio and Washington, DC to enhance the story. Military units are also fictionalized, with the Fifth Stryker Cavalry Regiment being an invented unit borrowing elements of several existing units in the United States Army.
For my beautiful family, my neverending worries for whom fuel these apocalyptic dreams.
Outbreak
On the second floor of the West Wing of the White House, the meeting adjourned for lunch early because the machine gun was too loud.
Dr. Travis Price, assistant director with the Office of Science and Technology Policy, stared out the window into the smoky haze that had settled onto the city.
Outside, the Marines were still shooting the Infected off the fence.
The conference room doors opened and servers entered in crisp blue suits, pushing carts across the carpet. They flinched at the machine gun’s coughing bark.
“Oh my God,” said Sanders, standing at another window.
“What?” someone said, his voice edged with panic.
“It’s one of the gardeners.”
Travis looked down at the green lawn, but saw nothing except for an infected woman climbing the fence. She flopped to the ground. The machine gun stopped firing.
“What happened to him?”
“Nothing. He’s down there pruning the rosebushes.”
A few people laughed.
“Now that’s loyalty,” someone said.
“Hope he’s getting time and a half.”
Amazing world we now live in, Travis thought, where the mundane shocks us.
The Continuity of Government Task Force had been thrown together on the epidemic’s first day. The President wanted more authority to deal with the spread of the Wildfire Agent, the official name for the Infection. Congress had to approve everything. The room was packed with bureaucrats, policy wonks and congressional staffers; Travis had been attached to the task force as science adviser. They argued posse comitatus, the Insurrection Act of 1807, the lessons of Operation Noble Eagle. Mostly, they fought over the boundaries of executive authority and ways to legitimize mass slaughter. Busts of George Washington and Benjamin Franklin, placed in niches on the far wall, observed the proceedings with mild disdain.
Travis wondered if all this debate over legal interpretations was some kind of institutional denial, the equivalent of Nero fiddling while Rome burned.
His stomach growled. He had eaten little over the past few days, and his body needed food.
He approached the lunch table, picked up a sandwich, and stared at it. Tuna fish, he observed, with the crusts expertly cut off. He marveled at the amount of care in its preparation. He took a bite, chewed, forced himself to swallow. Packs of Infected ran through the nation’s cities on a series of TV screens recessed into the wall just above his head. Two of the stations, taken over by the Emergency Alert System, scrolled evacuation instructions.
So far, he had been asked to contribute little to the meeting—which was good, since he had no insights to offer. Everyone knew what he knew: Seven days ago, one in five people around the world fell down screaming. Four days ago, they awoke from a catatonic state and began attacking others and infecting them with some type of disease, plunging the world into hell. It was all right there on the TV screens.
The big question was why, and nobody had an answer to that.
CNN showed a mob tearing apart a squad of riot police in Chicago. Someone gasped. The violence was agonizing to watch. The Infected were like animals. The cops fought desperately, pushing them back and flailing with their batons.
“No, no, no,” someone sobbed.
“Hey,” Travis hissed to two men standing near him. Fielding and Roberts, clean-cut men with hard faces and astronaut builds. They worked for the office of the National Security Advisor. “Should we be allowing this on the air?” He felt sure the government should be trying to control the flow of information in a crisis like this. Censorship was wrong, of course, but could also be practical to prevent panic.
Fielding and Roberts exchanged a glance.
“Why try to cover up or deny something that’s happening everywhere?” said Roberts.
“Stick with science, Doc,” Fielding said.
Travis turned away, his face burning with embarrassment. He wondered why he’d bothered. Outside the realm of science in which he excelled, he was awkward around other people, always saying the wrong thing.
On the TV screen, three of the five fallen cops were getting back onto their feet. While it took three days for the screamers to awaken and attack their caregivers, once bitten, conversion took mere minutes. Heads jerking, the cops ran to join a pack of Infected.
“The biggest question is why they run so fast.”
“What’s that, Dr. Price?” Roberts asked him.
Travis blinked, unaware he had voiced the thought aloud. “Uh, the biggest question on the tip lines,” he said. “Why the Infected can run.”
The men stared at him blankly. Travis moved aside to allow other people closer to the sandwiches. The crowded room buzzed with gossip and debate.
He went on, “A lot of people think the Infected are zombies. Like zombies in old movies. Dead people who have come back to life. Zombies are slow, right? People don’t understand.”
“Probably a good thing too, Doc,” Fielding said. “If people think their loved ones are already dead, fewer of them might hesitate. They’ll kill them on sight, if they have a weapon.”
“But we’re not telling people to kill the Infected,” said Travis.
“Of course we’re not telling them that,” said Fielding.
“I guess if they were zombies, they’d be dead and have no rights and then it would be okay to tell people to kill them,” Travis said. “Too bad about that.”
“Interesting,” Fielding said flatly, his hard eyes betraying his contempt.
“Dr. Price, do you mind if I talk to you alone for a moment?” Roberts asked him.
“Certainly,” Travis said with relief he hoped did not come across as too obvious.
The man gestured to the window and they moved away from the others. Travis winced at the man’s breath, sour from endless tension.
“My wife fell down,” he said.
“SEELS?” Travis asked. Sudden Encephalitic Lethargica Syndrome, or SEELS, was the formal, if somewhat broad, term scientists were using to describe the mystery disease that made more than a billion people collapse screaming, bringing the world to a crashing halt.
“Yeah,” said the man, running his hand over his buzz cut. “I got her into a hospital. Now she’s one of those maniacs out there.”
“I’m sorry,” Travis said mechanically.
“Listen, she’s pregnant. Eight months.”
“Oh.”
“My kid—is he one of them or one of us?”
Travis opened his mouth and shook his head. Theories flooded his brain, fighting to be spoken, but he held them back. R
oberts wanted some type of assurance, but Travis did not know the right words. He was as bad at platitudes as he was at small talk.
“The President,” Fielding called to Roberts, pointing at the TV screens.
President Walker had spent most of the crisis underground in the Situation Room. Since the epidemic started, they had seen him only on television. Someone boosted the volume, filling the room with the President’s address to the nation from his desk in the Oval Office.
“—functions of our government continue without interruption.”
Roberts turned away to watch. Travis sighed with relief.
“Federal agencies in Washington are evacuating and will reopen at secure locations within the next few days. To ensure the safety of personnel critical to the continued functioning of our government, I am also ordering the immediate evacuation of the White House.”
The room erupted with gasps and murmuring and people shushing each other.
“Quiet!” someone shouted.
“Excuse me,” Travis said, stepping through the crowd. “I’m feeling sick.”
They moved aside readily, staring at the screens. He did not even need the ruse. They were like sheep.
“—evil acts of terror perpetrated by people who were once our family, friends, neighbors.”
He closed the door behind him.
A human train hustled past, shoving him aside. He caught a glimpse of the Attorney General flanked by stoic Secret Service agents and trailed by pale staffers clutching briefcases and stacks of files against their chests.
Travis fell in with them, glancing over his shoulder at the conference room doors. Fielding and Roberts and the others were still listening to the President’s speech. He did not need to hear it. He had already gotten the message loud and clear: Get out. We’re leaving now. Six thousand people worked for the White House. He had no idea how many were in the building right now, but it was a lot. He would take no chance at being left behind.
A large man wearing a business suit and ear piece appeared at the end of the corridor, waving them forward. “The stairs are clear,” he barked. “Let’s move it.”
The group quickened its pace, suddenly interrupted by people pouring into the corridor from multiple doors. Everyone was getting the same message: Evacuate.
“Go,” one of the agents said, pushing through the mob. “Make way for the Attorney General, people.”
Travis tried to follow in their wake, but was blocked. He was now at the rear of a large crowd filling the corridor and trickling down the stairwell. Behind him, the thirty people from his working group caught up. A large portrait of Andrew Jackson frowned down at them from the wall.
The line ground to a halt. The staffers cracked open laptops and made calls on their cell phones. People sat on the steps and shared what they knew. Rumors rippled down the line.
Helicopters are taking us out. Marine One is in the air.
The President was already gone.
The line moved, and then stopped again. Travis chafed, feeling trapped. He had a bad feeling about the evacuation. He looked at the worried faces around him and wondered if they felt it too. He loosened his tie and tried to control his growing panic.
They finally reached the bottom and exited the building. Exhausted from working day and night to help steer the White House’s lumbering decision-making process, officials and bureaucrats and secretaries blinked at the gray sky, looking for the sun. Ahead, more people streamed through the trees under the sentinel gaze of Marine guards with automatic weapons. A sniper on the roof fired his rifle with a sudden bang, making the crowd flinch in unison like startled deer. Travis hurried after them, coughing on hot, smoky air that smelled like burning chemicals. For days, he had watched the apocalypse on TV, and now here he was hurrying right into it. It was strange, but he thought he’d been in the safest building on the planet.
Emerging from the trees, Travis was greeted by the cathartic view of a massive Chinook helicopter standing on the broad South Lawn, the metallic chop of its rotors competing with the crackle of gunfire. The door was folding closed. Travis scanned the black haze drifting across the sky. Past the familiar sight of the Washington Monument, he saw the black dots of one helicopter receding, another approaching.
The helicopter on the ground lunged into the humid air, blasting the mob below with a strong hot wind that carried an oily smell. A briefcase spilled open and shed hundreds of sheets of paper that fluttered into the air. This is not an evacuation, Travis thought, feeling a rush of panic. This is a meltdown.
The Secret Service waved the crowd back, their mouths working, as the next helicopter landed hard and fast. Travis pressed ahead, ducking at the booming shots of the sniper rifles. He was so close now. If not this ride, he would make the next. Instead of assuring him, this idea inspired more panic. The people around him continued to shout into the roar of the blades, scream at the crack of Uzis, point at the Infected being shot down as they climbed the makeshift fence surrounding the landing zone.
“Come on!” he shouted into the noise.
People were moving again, climbing aboard the helicopter. Then the Secret Service closed ranks, blocking the way. The helicopter was full, the agents shouted. Wait for the next one.
So close, Travis thought. He looked at the sky past the Washington Monument and saw one helicopter disappearing, but none coming.
Someone screwed up. There’s not enough transportation to get everyone out.
They’re going to leave us behind to die.
Driven by his terror, he pushed forward until he stood face to face with one of the Secret Service agents. The crowd heaved and Travis found himself looking into the barrel of a large handgun, one short squeeze from oblivion. He dug his heels and pushed back at the bodies pressing against him, staring wild-eyed at the big gun in the agent’s hand.
“Please don’t shoot me,” Travis said.
“Back,” the agent told him.
“Listen to me,” he said. “You have to get me on this helicopter.”
The large man’s expression remained inscrutable behind mirrored sunglasses.
“I’m a science adviser,” Travis added. “The President needs me, do you understand? If you want this thing to end, the President is going to need me at his side. I’m a scientist.”
The agent said nothing.
“You really think bullets are going to stop this?” Travis said in disgust, giving up.
The agent frowned and Travis winced, thinking he was going to be shot. Instead, the man turned and boarded the helicopter, grabbed the arm of a young woman sitting near the door, and pulled her from her seat. She burst into tears, obeying meekly until she stood in the opening looking dazedly at the crowd, mascara running down her face, her hair frayed around braids coiled into a bun. The roiling mob glared back at her in a state of fierce panic. The agent said something; she screamed and clawed at his face until he shoved her off. People surged around, trying to help. She continued to wail. The sound of it made Travis want to throw up.
Then he realized what was happening.
“Hey, wait,” he said.
The agent slid his hand under Travis’s armpit and squeezed, propelling him toward the open door of the helicopter.
“You can’t do this,” Travis pleaded. “You have to let that woman on too!”
The agent said close to his ear, “Don’t try my patience.”
If you want to live, live, he seemed to say. If you want to die, die. Don’t play games with me. I have to stay here. I’m a dead man doing his duty.
His face burning with rage and shame, Travis climbed into the helicopter and took the woman’s seat, avoiding the eyes of his fellow passengers. He sensed someone staring at him. He glanced up and locked eyes with John Fielding.
The helicopter lurched into the air.
He looked away, feeling Fielding’s cold gray eyes boring into him as he fought back another urge to vomit. The machine banked in its long ascent, giving him a window view of the cr
owd surrounded by swirling debris. A sob ripped through him.
I just want to live.
The helicopter was still turning. Below, Travis saw a shiny black Lincoln Town Car, little flags fluttering on its hood, approach the South Lawn at high speed, pursued by a horde of running people. Some high-ranking official or diplomat seeking sanctuary. The vehicle accelerated as it neared the fence, then veered sharply as Secret Service agents opened fire on it. Moments later, the car crashed through and coasted to a smoking halt among the trees.
The Infected were streaming across the lawn into the guns of the Secret Service when the helicopter straightened out, cutting off his view.
Three Weeks Later
Part I. Typhoid Jody
Ray
The battle is over. The dying writhe in piles, softly hissing.
The man sits on the jagged edge of the broken six-lane bridge connecting West Virginia and Ohio, his feet swinging in empty space. His old work boots feel heavy and hot on his sore feet. A warm breeze moans across the gap, clearing the smoke from the air and drying the gore covering his body to a crust. Seventy feet below, the river is still clotted with corpses. Nobody will ever cross this bridge again. Less than an hour ago, he and his team blew a massive hole in it with several tons of TNT to stop the hordes, still pouring from the burning ruins of Pittsburgh, from continuing west toward the FEMA 41 refugee camp, otherwise known as Camp Defiance.
Just like the three hundred Spartans, he reflects with a harsh laugh, cupping his hands to light a cigarette with his steel lighter. Camp Defiance is saved. They’ll write legends about us. An incredible thing, but in the big scheme of things I’d rather not be dying.
Ray inhales and coughs, his ears still ringing from the blast. Forty feet away, the Infected crowd the far side of the broken bridge, snarling and clawing at the air, still trying to get at him. They are people, once like him, now turned into monsters compelled by their viral programming to seek, attack, overpower, infect. An overweight man in a business suit loses his footing and falls shrieking into the river. Ray glances down and thinks, There goes another CEO. His gaze lingers on the sunlight sparkling on the brown currents and feels the urge to jump. Back on the bridge, a howling, hulking brute in bloodstained overalls takes the businessman’s place.
The Killing Floor Page 1