by Turner, Ivan
For much of the rest of the morning, he was analyzing maneuvers and tactics that Heron and his squads had been carrying out since the creation of the task force. Heron's strategies were sound, if a bit overly cautious. Naughton didn't blame him though. Especially early on, they hadn't really known what they were dealing with. Heron's answer had been to throw scores of men at it. He'd created protocols which made sure that every many was covered and no one would get overwhelmed. His casualty rate was low. In fact, most of the casualties had come from operations run solely by Francis Culph. Culph was gone now and Naughton was more inclined to follow Heron's lead.
He went down to the corner and grabbed a sandwich for lunch at around 12:15. He was almost all the way through it when the call came in from the Commissioner's office. As the news, brought directly from the Commissioner himself, reached his ears, the remainder of his appetite fled. It took a lot for Naughton to remind himself of who he was and what he was trying to accomplish. He may have only been a small soldier in an ever widening war, but he would fight his battles valiantly and win as many as he could.
It was just about time for his meeting and he decided to call Denise. He wanted to hear her voice before descending into what would be his life for a while. She was busy and dismissive. Of course, he didn't tell her anything of what he had learned that morning. What would be the point? It would only hinder her in her job, which was probably one of the most important jobs in world just then.
He hung up the phone, gathered his wits, and went to the conference room at the end of the hallway. Everyone else was already there. Smith sat just to the right of the head of the table, leaving that distinctive seat for Naughton. Also seated around the table were Spinelli, Baches, and Henry. They were practically veterans of this. Two more people had been added since Culph's unwarranted departure. The first was Parrish, a fair haired woman with a squarish face and long hair that she could tie and tame in under two seconds. The second was Horton. Horton had come over from Homicide. In recent weeks, an unfortunate number of homicide cases had been turned over to the Zombie Squad. Horton had grown tired of it. He decided that if he was going to have to fight zombies anyway, he'd give up his detective's badge to lead a squad on the task force.
"Good afternoon," Naughton said, looking around the room. "Smith will first brief on the addresses we got off of Mikael Seaver and then I'll give you my bit."
Smith stood. There was no preamble. He was already speaking as he was handing out sheaves of paper. "There are six addresses, each one detailed in the booklet. We'd already discovered two of them and had officers watching them for any signs of movement. Those two are marked on page one of your booklet. We’ve confirmed zombie occupation and recorded a number of people, presumably ZRA people, coming and going. They don't seem to be taking huge precautions, which is a concern.
"Of the other four addresses, three are allegedly unoccupied. That's the shopping center in the Bronx, the parking garage in Manhattan, and the dock yard on Staten Island. We're assuming that these are being held in reserve considering the escalating population of the sick and dying. The other two are occupied, although the asylum in New Jersey isn't nearly at capacity. We've coordinated with the Jersey City police to gather that information."
"Is this right?" Parish asked, her eyes on a page in the middle of the booklet. "This one ion Brooklyn is a low-income housing development. There are still people there?"
Smith nodded. "Based on its location, I'm guessing they ferried the population of Angus Construction Yard over there."
"But there are people there," Parrish remarked incredulous.
"I think," Naughton added, "that if you ask someone in the Zombie Rights Association, he might say that zombies are people, too.
"Up until now we've been fighting an uphill battle. Public information regarding the zombie outbreak may seem abundant, but trust me it isn't. Lieutenant Heron's records, which come directly from Washington, indicate outbreaks all over the country. Some are serious, although we're still the hotspot. Across the world, however, where governments are more likely to attempt to bury situations such as these, some outbreaks have been downright disastrous. There are reports from all over the UK, France, Spain, and Italy. We've got some spotty reports from Russia and China. The incident in Africa from a few weeks back is not as isolated as we had hoped. According to Navy intelligence, there are no less than sixteen quarantine zones on the continent. South America may be worse."
He paused, watching the faces of the people around him. They were flooded with terror. Good. These people had become too complacent in their zombie fighting duties. Just after the first incident in the Sisters of Charity Emergency Room, the country had panicked. Three weeks later, the panic had died and normalcy had returned. When the threat had become real… when they'd discovered churches full of zombies and zombies had started walking into restaurants and retail stores off the street, people had refused to panic. They had simply integrated it into their daily lives. It was a testament to the adaptability of the human race. It was a testament to their stupidity.
"According to the Commissioner, there's talk of turning New York City and the rest of the tri-state area into the United States' first quarantine zone. I'm inclined to believe that's a mistake. If there are a million zombies in New York City, then there are more than seven million people who are still fighting for their lives. I've asked for more personnel and more space and more money. The Mayor has granted it. We're going to take back this city and show the world that this is a battle that humanity can win.
"And we're going to start with these ZRA fuckers."
After an uncomfortable, and extended silence, Smith cleared his throat. "I think we need to hit every location simultaneously. If we're going to get all of the people we need, then we should go for it. If we try to hit them one at a time, we run the risk of word spreading and zombies disappearing."
"Agreed," Naughton said.
"In addition," Smith continued. "I've secured warrants for the arrest of every person named in Mikael Seaver's document. Officers are standing by to make those arrests in coordination with the operation."
"What's the standing order?" Spinelli asked uncomfortably. "Are we capturing zombies?"
"No," Naughton said. "We are killing every last one of them."
"Should we search for anomalies?" Smith asked.
"Kill. Every. Last. One."
Nodding to himself, Smith said, "Then I suggest we bring in demolition crews and level the buildings." Everyone looked at him and for a moment he felt a touch of panic at being the center of attention. "If we send squads into these crumbling abandoned buildings, we're going to suffer heavy casualties trying to check every corner and find every last zombie. It'll be easier to send in a heavily armed demolitions team, map out an escape route, and blow them all up. Then we can excavate the sites using machinery and put down anything still crawling around."
It was perhaps the most brutal and repugnant plan any of them had heard. Naughton, full of self righteous anger, loved it.
"What about the Brooklyn address?" Parrish asked. "The projects?"
"If the ZRA are at all conscientious, they'll have the zombies packed into one area. If we can identify that area, we can clear the building of people and take out the whole zombie horde at once."
Horton was nodding. "It's a good plan. I think we need to move right away, though. They may already know that Seaver is dead and they may suspect he spilled his guts."
"Agreed," Naughton said. "Do your preliminary work. We're going to move on this first thing in the morning."
***
Anthony Heron spent most of the 26th feeling jittery and intolerant. He snapped at Alicia a number of times when she didn't really deserve it. Eventually, he decided that his best defense against whatever it was that was pressing down against his mind was sleep. He was napping before lunch. He got himself up for a meal some time in the middle of the afternoon, resisted conversation with Alicia, and then went back to sleep. As ni
ght fell, he was feeling a little better and decided he would go for a run. When he came down the stairs, he saw Alicia in the living room watching the evening news. She glared at him, daring him to try and leave the house. He grew angry with her, but squashed the anger and went back upstairs. He watched TV for a while, strictly sitcoms and cartoons, which he hated, and then went back to sleep.
It was almost four in the morning when he awakened again. He was not tired. Getting out of bed, he went to the window and peered out into the street. At this time of day it was deserted. In a few hours, everyone would begin their jobs or their searches for jobs. He had no idea what would be going on at the office today and realized that he didn't really care. In fact, not at all. It lifted his spirits, this ability to separate work from home. Very quietly, so as not to wake Alicia, he dressed in his running pants and a sweat shirt, grabbed his phone, and snuck downstairs and out the door.
It smelled like snow. He hadn't seen a weather report, but he'd bet the farm that they would see flurries during the day if not something much heavier. He checked his phone. There were no missed calls, no texts, no emails. There was nothing. Naughton had done a good job at intercepting and diverting every last thing. Casting off the last shackles of the zombie doldrums, Heron began a slow jog down the street.
As he ran, he thought about what he might want to do that day. He'd already decided that they weren't going to send Mellie to daycare. He wanted to spend time with both his wife and his daughter. He wanted to be the man he'd been before Stemmy had been killed and his life had changed. Could he do it? Could he repair the irreparable?
Thirty minutes into his run, his phone chimed. At first, he didn't know what it was. Slowing, he looked up and down the dark street for some danger. Then he recognized the sound and that chilled him even more. Breathing heavily, he look took it out and saw the glowing word Home on the display. He quickly answered it.
"Where are you?" she said.
He looked around. "Not too far away. I've been circling in case I get winded and have to make a quick route back." Alicia didn't answer for a moment. He supposed she was trying to figure out a way to tell him to come home. He preempted any such order. "I'm getting there anyway. I'll be home in ten minutes. We should take Mellie to the zoo today."
"It's freezing out, Anthony," she told him as if he were a senile old man who'd just told her that Kennedy was the first president of the United States.
"I know. I was only kidding. Maybe the children's museum or even just the movies, then. I just want to do something as a family."
"Okay," she said. "I'll see what's going on around the city?"
"Great. See you in ten minutes then."
"You'd better," she told him.
He smiled. "I love you."
She hesitated. "You'd better."
***
As the sun began to rise on the morning of December 27th, units of police officers took their positions around six locations all across the city and one in New Jersey. Naughton, remaining at headquarters so that he could oversee all of the operations, had split up the squad leaders, giving each one a command at a location. Today's operation was an opportunity to do away with the largest collections of zombies citywide. If everything went according to plan, they could remove a huge chunk of the undead population and take a fresh look at dealing with the remainder. With three locations allegedly unoccupied, he'd felt comfortable letting the relatively inexperienced Parish and Horton have their own commands. Since all they had to do was go inside and verify that the place was empty, it would be a relatively low stress assignment. The third location went to Henry. Henry was the senior man among all of the squad leaders but he was less emotionally capable of dealing with combat. He could handle it if he had to, but he much preferred his zombie-free days.
Hell, who didn't?
Naughton gave Smith the lead of what he determined would be the most sensitive assignment. Raiding the housing project in Brooklyn carried the most potential for mistakes and loss of life. He wasn't necessarily concerned about Smith or his officers. The danger there was relatively low. But regular people were unpredictable. Despite Smith's earlier contention that the probable concentration of zombies in one area would make the job easy, he had his doubts. Low income housing meant people with few options. People with few options often lived outside the boundaries of the law. Sometimes it was just outside those boundaries and sometimes it was well outside. Either way, there was no love lost between them and law enforcement. Evacuating them was going to be a trying and dangerous affair that carried the potential for bedlam. Throw some zombies in the mix and you have all out war.
Each of his leaders around the city reported in. They were all in position. The demolitions teams were packed and ready to move in with their heavily armed escorts. Blueprints had been marked and escape routes had been mapped. Every precaution had been taken. Naughton hesitated. Once that trigger was pulled…
He took a deep breath.
He gave the word.
It began.
***
Horton was sent to Staten Island. There were plenty of unused buildings down in St. George, by the ferry terminal. Like Angus, this place was actually a small cluster of buildings and an old lot. Unlike Angus, the lot had been cleared of material. It was just an empty expanse of cracked pavement with weeds sticking out of the ground. The small buildings stood toward the back. A crew had been monitoring the site for most of the night and had reported no activity. One edge was on the water so it wasn't considered an entrance or an exit point. All other access was covered. Although the location had been reported as unoccupied, they were taking no chances.
This kind of work was new to him. He'd never vied for the dangerous jobs before. You'd think homicide would be dangerous, what with all of the killers, but it wasn't really. He'd never had the pleasure of hunting down a serial killer. In fact, until the introduction of zombies into the mix, he'd never had cause to fire his weapon. It seemed that, with his general clientele, just aiming the gun was enough of a deterrent. No one really wanted to get shot. But he'd found a taste for action when he'd started encountering the undead. There was something exhilarating about the danger. He'd never tell his wife that. She'd kill him quicker than any meat puppet. No, he just told her that they were looking for volunteers and the job wasn't nearly as dangerous as everyone made it out to be. That, and the pay was good.
His radio man flashed him a thumbs up. Naughton had given the signal. Horton deployed his squads. Smith was insistent upon the use of excessive force. The zombie strength lay strictly in numbers. Throughout all of their encounters, the only time the police had ever suffered casualties was when they had been vastly outnumbered. Horton, Parrish, and Henry hadn't been given as many people as the other squad leaders, but they'd been given enough.
Three units, twenty four officers in full zombie gear, charged across the broken pavement with their rifles pointed out ahead of them. Snow flurries fell lazily from the sky and melted on their sweating bodies. There were six small buildings, the tallest one having two stories. Horton ordered his squads divided in half. They split seamlessly and approached the buildings.
"Retreat on contact," he ordered them through the radio. "Do not engage and do not discharge your weapons unless your lives are in danger."
Five out of six doors were unlocked. The sixth snapped easily off of its hinges. Four people moved smoothly into each building and began their sweeps. After ten minutes, they had confirmed that their information had been correct. The location was completely deserted.
***
She could see Yankee Stadium from where she stood. It was just a bit of the nosebleed seats peeking over the tops of the trees. Parrish had never been to the new stadium. Ticket prices were off the charts. She remembered her parents taking her to games in the House that Ruth Built during her childhood. Her dad had been able to score tickets to a few games through his job, but they went other times also. After all, during the late eighties and the early nineties,
the Yanks had sucked. Anyone could show up during the week and get good tickets at a good price. Through the cold and the snow, she thought she could smell the hot dogs and pretzels and hear the vendors shouting. Those had been good times.