Outbreak (Book 1): Emerald City

by Jay K. Anthony

  “Standard issue for Special Ops,” Rocha had said earlier, lifting his shirt and running a hand along the metal against his skin. “Shark suit. Offers a little protection from lurker bites. I’ve always got mine on.” Clark had no intention of being close enough to any infected where he might get bitten, but he was not going to argue. It sucked that the suits were heavy but he figured lugging around the extra pounds in order to keep from getting infected would be worth the effort.

  As the chopper reached the coast and banked hard to the right, Clark wished he was in a lab somewhere and looking through a microscope at blood samples. Where he did not want to be was in the field, in what looked like a recently repaired military helicopter, cruising along the coastline. Rocha punched Clark on the shoulder. It was impossibly loud in the chopper and Rocha probably intended to just get Clark’s attention, but the punch hurt. Clark rubbed at the spot and gave Rocha an offended look.

  Rocha pointed at a headset hanging from the interior ceiling of the chopper, so Clark took off his helmet and set it in his lap as he reached up for the headset. Not a second later, the helicopter banked and Clark’s helmet rolled off of his lap and out the open door of the helicopter. Son of a bitch, Clark thought as he watched the helmet tumble through the air and down toward the ocean. Clark looked at Rocha who was giving him an offended look of his own. Clark just shrugged and put the headset on over his ears.

  “Sorry about that,” he said into the built in microphone.

  “Nothing we can do about it now,” Rocha replied.

  “Do you have another one?” Clark asked.

  “Not with me,” Rocha said. “You’ll have to make do without."

  "Wonderful."

  "We got news though.”

  “That we are almost there?” Clark asked hopefully. He was sick of flying and while he did not want to be at the ruins of the hospital, sneaking around the infected to get to the lab, he wanted to be in the helicopter even less. Much less, actually.

  “Not exactly,” Rocha said. “Remember how we talked about Mission Priority?”

  Clark didn’t like the sound of that. “Yeah,” he said.

  “Well, we’ve just been re-assigned,” Rocha said.

  “But General Dodge said that almost never happens!”

  “Well the general is full of shit. It happens all the time.”

  “Son of a bitch!” Clark complained. He felt like crying. “Can’t you guys just take me back to the base?”

  Rocha laughed. It was short and loud and came out closer to a bark. “No. But, don’t worry about it. You're with me.”

  Don’t worry about it? Are you kidding me? Clark thought. Clark was definitely worried about it. “What's the assignment?” he asked.

  Rocha pointed out the door of the helicopter just as the pilot brought the chopper into a flat circle around a cruise ship which had run aground on the coast and listed to one side.

  “We’re going there?” Clark asked, pointing at the ship.

  “Damn straight,” Rocha said. “A nearby Forward Observation Post reported to Command that they saw some kind of smoke signal coming from the ship.”

  “So?”

  “So, smoke signals mean survivors. We’re going down to see if we can help.”

  Clark looked at the ship, but he did not see any sign of survivors, only clusters of infected on the different decks. He looked at Rocha who had already stood up as much as he could in the small space. He was unspooling a long black rope.

  “What’s that for?” Clark asked, but was not sure he really wanted to know.

  “No safe place to land,” Rocha said. “We’ll fast rope down.”

  Clark felt sick to his stomach. “Uh,” he said. “I don’t think I can do that.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” Rocha said. “I’ll talk you through it.” He came over and reached for Clark’s groin.

  “What the hell, man!”

  “Relax, stud,” Rocha said. “It’s called a Swiss Seat and pay attention, you need to know how to do this.”

  “But I don’t want to know!” Clark said.

  “Sure you do,” Rocha replied and grabbed a metal ring that Clark had on the front of his uniform. It was built into the gear and Clark had not noticed it was even there. “Normally we would have asked the pilot to hover just off the side of the ship to draw out the lurkers, hopefully getting them to fall overboard to their death or drown, but we don’t have time for that. The onboard survivors could be in trouble and we need to find them. Pronto.”

  Clark liked the idea of letting the helicopter do all the work. No way am I jumping out of this helicopter, he thought. “Rocha, I got to tell you --“

  Rocha interrupted him. “It will be a basic sweep maneuver. We go through each deck, room by room,” he said. “I’ve gone through a couple ships before. Not this big, but it's the same idea. We start on the top and work our way down through the levels. We keep an eye out for signs of survivors and if and or when we find them, we assist in evacuation.”

  “What if we don’t find anyone?” Clark asked.

  “Then we complete our search and then scuttle the ship,” Rocha said.

  “Scuttle the ship? What the hell does that mean?”

  “It means we are going to sink the ship.”

  “What? How the hell are you going to do that?”

  Rocha did not answer and kept working the rope through the metal ring.

  "Rocha,” Clark said. “How --"

  "Stand up,” Rocha said, so Clark stood up and hit his head.

  “Dammit,” he cried and rubbed his scalp.

  “That’s what you get for losing your helmet,” Rocha said. Clark had a few choice comebacks for Rocha but he kept them to himself. Instead he crouched in the small space and looked out the door at the ship.

  “That ship? It’s already on the beach! It’s in shallow water. You can’t sink it!”

  “We find the fuel tanks,” Rocha said. “I’ll set a timed explosive charge. If the weather cooperates, I figure the explosion will kill half of the lurkers and the fire will wipe out the rest.”

  “Are you out of your Goddamn mind?” Clark screamed into the headset microphone, but Rocha had already taken his helmet off and was yelling something at the pilots. After a few seconds, he put his headset back on. “I said,” Clark screamed again. “Are you out --“

  Rocha held up his finger in front of Clark’s face, so he shut up. “I told the pilot that we are ready to deploy,” Rocha said. “He is bringing in the chopper as close as he can. When we hit the deck, stay right behind me.”

  Oh God! “Rocha,” Clark said. “I really don’t think I can do this.”

  “Yes you can,” Rocha stated. “You can, because I need you too. I can’t clear the ship alone. Someone has to watch my back and the pilots have to fly the helicopter.”

  Clark looked out the window as the pilot brought the helicopter down closer to the ship. More infected poured out onto the deck and Clark wondered if the damn pilot was antagonizing them on purpose.

  “Rocha,” he pleaded.

  “You will do this,” Rocha said and took Clark by the shoulders. He turned Clark around so his ass was hanging out the side of the helicopter.

  Clark looked back and down. They were twenty feet from the deck. “Oh Nagashima,” he said. “If only you could see me now.”

  “What?”

  “Nothing! Let’s get this over with.”

  “We have to go down together,” Rocha said. “One from each side of the chopper. It keeps the chopper in balance.”

  “What happens if the helicopter gets out of balance?” Clark asked.

  “Pretty much we all die,” Rocha said. He stood on the opposite side of the helicopter and stuck his ass out through the open door. He took off his headset again, hooked it to the ceiling, and strapped on his helmet. Clark hung up his headset and wished he still had his helmet. Rocha held up three fingers, then two, then one.

  Clark did not want to deploy and he really d
id not want to slide down the rope into a swarm of infected. However, he also did not want to upset the balance of the helicopter and kill them all in a fiery death either. So, just as Rocha bounded backward from the helicopter, Clark closed his eyes, held onto the rope, and jumped backward. He felt a rush of cold air, the rope playing out, and just seconds later he landed hard on what he hoped was the deck of the ship. All he could hear was the growling of the infected and the Thwip! Thwip! Thwip! of Rocha’s silenced machine gun.

  “On me!” he heard Rocha order and Clark opened his eyes. It was as bad as he was afraid it would be. He had landed in the middle of one of the top decks and there were infected coming at them from all directions. The only good news was that Rocha was there, standing almost on top of him, shooting.

  Thwip! Thwip! Thwip! Thwip! Thwip!

  Five infected fell dead onto the deck of the ship.

  Thwip! Thwip! Thwip! Thwip!

  In only a few seconds, Rocha had killed a dozen of the infected. He grabbed Clark by the shoulder and pulled him to his feet.

  “Moving,” Rocha said and ran to a set of stairs that led up to an observation deck.

  “Where are we going?” Clark asked as he ran after the soldier.

  “I’m trying to get us to the ship’s bridge,” Rocha replied. “Signal smoke was spotted coming from a high point. Command recommended we start there.” As soon as they reached the top of the stairs, Clark saw the remains of what had once been a garbage can. The contents had been set on fire. Signal fire? Clark thought. Suddenly, he heard a noise behind them and turned to look. Three infected were coming across the deck, heading straight for them.

  “Rocha!” Clark yelled, grabbing the back of the man’s uniform. Rocha turned and fired.

  Thwip! Thwip! Thwip!

  All three of the infected fell dead to the deck. Rocha had shot them all, perfect head shots, one bullet each. “Where is your gun?” Rocha asked. “Those were your targets. You are supposed to be watching our backs!”

  Clark reached down for the pistol in the holster strapped to his leg. “You want me to use this?” he said holding up the weapon.

  “Yeah, no shit,” Rocha said. “Safety off, round in the chamber. Have it out and be ready. Just don’t shoot me.” Not waiting for a response, Rocha went to the garbage can and swiped his hand through the black soot. “Still warm,” he said.

  “That’s good, right?" Clark asked.

  “Damn straight,” Rocha replied and pointed at a sign which indicated the ship’s bridge was directly above them. “This way.” Rocha ran toward the stairs with Clark behind him, staying as close as he could while trying to look over his own shoulder to make sure there was no more infected chasing them. At the top of the stairs was a door labeled “Ship’s Deck”. Rocha tried the door handle, but it would not move. “Shit,” he said.

  “What’s up?” Clark asked.

  “It’s locked. Back up and I’ll kick it in.” Rocha stepped back and then kicked forward. His boot landed just to the side of the door handle and the impact shook the door in its hinges, but it did not break open. Rocha made a noise that sounded a lot like a whimper to Clark.

  “You okay?” Clark asked.

  “Son of a bitch,” Rocha said with his hand on his hip. “I’m going to feel that one in the morning.”

  “You want me to try?” Clark asked.

  “No!” Rocha barked and pulled out his silenced pistol from a holster on his leg. He aimed for where the door lock connected to the frame and shot the door three times. Rocha kicked forward again. This time the door burst inward.

  “See,” Rocha said as put his pistol away. “No problem. Ready?”

  “As I’m going to be.”

  Rocha leveled his machine gun in front of him before he charged into the ship’s bridge. The stench of rotting corpses rolled out at Clark. Oh, this is going to be gross, he thought. "Clear," Rocha said once he had scanned the room. Clark hesitantly stepped inside. Three very decomposed bodies were on the floor. They appeared to be wearing sailor uniforms. Rocha ignored them. “See if you can barricade that door,” he said.

  Clark pulled his eyes away from the bodies and looked around for something to put in front of the door. All he could find was a filing cabinet, so as quietly as he could he laid it against the door. “Think that will hold?” he asked.

  “Probably not,” Rocha said. “Just keep an eye on it. I’ll see if I can find any kind of map of the ship.”

  Clark looked out the bridge window at the deck below and the twelve dead infected lying there. Another two dozen infected stumbled around them. "How many people do you figure this ship had on it when it left dock?" he asked.

  "Hell if I know," Rocha replied as he flipped through piles of paperwork that were scattered all over the bridge. Curious and not really wanting to stand around just watching a closed door, Clark followed Rocha’s lead and found a logbook. He took one look at the top sheet and his stomach sank. "Oh shit," he said.

  Rocha stepped close and looked over Clark’s shoulder. "What?" he asked.

  Clark read from the book. "It set sail from Honolulu just over three months ago with a partial load of 3,210 people,” he said.

  "That’s a lot of people," Rocha said and took the logbook from Clark. “Damn, it gets worse. There was another 1,940 crew. Shit. That's something like five thousand people."

  Clark did the math in his head and it was five thousand one hundred and fifty people to be exact, but he chose not to correct Rocha. It did not make much difference.

  “What’s the death rate of this virus again?” Rocha asked.

  “Upward of nine out of ten,” Clark said. Rocha nodded and pursed his lips, obviously trying to do the math. Clark put him out of his misery. “That means there are about 500 infected roaming around this ship. How many bullets do we have?" he asked.

  “One sec,” Rocha said and looked down at his vest. There were pockets of ammunition everywhere, but Rocha still had a frown on his face. "I’ve got two hundred and thirty total for my MP5 and another fifty-five for my Beretta.”

  “Even if you are one hundred percent efficient, you don’t have nearly enough rounds for what is potentially still on board."

  Rocha lifted the visor on his helmet and took out his canteen. He twisted off the cap and drank deep. "Well," he said between gulps. "We may as well call it a day then."

  That sounded good to Clark. “Really?” he asked.

  "Damn straight,” Rocha said. “I’ll just call a cab."

  Clark should have known better, but he was still disappointed. "I’ll have them bring us some breakfast while they are at it," Rocha joked and put away his canteen. “Donuts sound okay?”

  Clark didn’t think Rocha was being particularly funny, but he was not going to pout, at least not in front of him. "Cute,” he said. “So what are we going to do then?”

  "Forget the clean and sweep. No way we have enough ammunition, so let’s go strictly search and rescue. We only eliminate the lurkers when we have to. If there are no signs of survivors in a side room, we leave the door closed. Cool?"

  "I will follow your lead," Clark said.

  “Damn straight.”

  TASHA

  “First call,” Tanner whispered as he gently shook Tasha’s shoulder. “Keep quiet, there are vegetables all over outside. Oh, and … nice hair.” Tanner smiled at Tasha as she sat up and felt her hair with her hand. It was a strange sensation, it being so short.

  “Is it really okay?” Tasha asked.

  Tanner nodded. “I like it,” he said, and with a quick wink he walked back to his corner and started putting his boots on. Tasha looked around and saw Cleveland was just waking up too. Then she noticed Ortiz and Williams were fully dressed and were cleaning up their MRE breakfast. It was obvious they had been up for a while. I wonder what is going on there? she wondered as she reached for her boots.

  Williams saw Tasha looking at him. “Eat up,” he said. “Today could be a long day. I don’t want to be hauling all
of this stuff around and slowing us down.” Tasha picked out an MRE, Southern Style Beef Strips. It did not sound particularly appetizing, but she was sure it would still be better than a can of cold cat food. Williams crept over to one of the windows and looked out.

  “Hey, Tanner,” Williams whispered. “Bring me your sniper rifle.”

  Tanner picked up the weapon, checked to make sure the safety was on, and took it over to Williams. “Couple drifters?” he asked.

  Williams took the rifle and aimed out the window. “Yeah,” he said. “A whole bunch of them.”

  “Excuse me, but Sergeant ...” Tasha said and everyone looked at her. She put down her MRE and went to the window. “I could use the practice,” she said.

  Williams stared at her, surprised. “You want to practice with a sniper rifle?” he asked.

  “Come on, Sergeant,” Tanner said. “Let her have a try.”

  Williams hesitated before flipping the safety back on. “Fine,” he said, and handed Tasha the rifle. “But you remember, this isn’t some kind of game.”

  “I know,” Tasha said, trying to sound more confident than she felt, and took a knee at the window. “I’ve got this.”

  There were creepers in the street, a floor below the window of the office where the team had stayed overnight. The creepers just milled around aimlessly. Drifters. Probably looking for something … or someone ... to eat, Tasha thought. She looked at the weapon. The sniper rifle had a scope on it and Tasha realized she had never looked through a rifle scope before. She put her eye to it but it did not seem to work. She tried again but when she looked through the scope lens, there was a random spot where it looked right, but as soon as she moved her eye, it went away. She did not want to ask for help, but she did not want to shoot and miss again either. “I um … I can’t see anything,” she admitted.

  “Give it here,” Williams said, clearly annoyed. “We don’t have all --”

  “Hold on,” Tanner interrupted. “Give us one second, Sergeant. Please?” Williams frowned but motioned for Tanner to go ahead.

  “Thanks,” Tanner said before turning to Tasha. “Tasha, for the scope to work best, I want you to keep your face back a couple inches. You need to pick a spot on the stock of the rifle and put the side of your face there. This will allow the lens to fit your eye line. It will also keep the scope from clocking you in the face and giving you a black eye when you pull the trigger.”