by William Oday
He didn’t long for the ruin that was his previous hometown of Los Angeles. The Delta Virus had reduced a city of millions to a city of thousands. There was no Green Zone. Those that remained were either deltas or people ruthless enough to survive where so many others had perished.
San Francisco was better off. It was the nominal capital of the United States, if only because it was the only city they knew of that had a functioning government with secured borders.
It was a lighthouse in a sea of darkness. Intermittent shortwave radio transmissions hinted at other lighthouses in other states, but nothing so far like what had been achieved here.
And there was still so much to do.
Mason spotted something unusual a little ways ahead. He got closer and saw a tear in the fence. The edges of the split were peeled back. The exposed prongs of wire showed a smooth cut, evidence of a bolt cutter at work.
Red Zone scavengers were becoming a bigger and bigger problem. In their eagerness to avoid attention, they didn’t take the time to cover their tracks, and so left behind security breaches exactly like this one.
The follow on problem was that deltas were finding their way through those breaches and causing havoc in the Green Zone.
The scavengers had to be stopped. With whatever force was necessary, which was one of a few things that the Chief and he agreed upon.
People needed to feel safe in their neighborhoods, in their homes. They had to be able to walk to the store to trade food coupons for groceries without looking over their shoulders for fear of being attacked by a delta.
Mason grabbed the phone clipped to his belt and scrolled through the numbers in his contacts list. There weren’t many with the wireless network still limited to government personnel and the select few, like his wife Beth, that had made it into the latest round of bandwidth testing. Protecting the president came with a few perks.
He found the right contact and made the call.
“Perimeter Security Department, this is Officer Grant. Is this an emergency?”
“No, Ma’am. This is Mason West. I’ve just found a breach on Fell Street, east of Webster. I need a team over here for repairs.”
“I’ll get some technicians on it immediately. Thank you, Sir.”
Mason tapped the button to end the call. He’d have to wait around until they arrived. He turned back toward the fence and froze when movement in the street beyond caught his attention.
Through the drifting fog, a young boy crouched in the shadows next to an abandoned Toyota Prius. The boy watched him with evident curiosity. His expression was cautious, but not afraid. His dark hair was matted in clumps around his head. He looked to be around nine years old.
The same age little David would’ve been if he’d survived his first day’s encounter with life. Mason stared at the boy that, in another reality, could’ve been his own. For him, the loss of their infant son had healed into a ragged scar on his soul. For Beth, it was more like a scab that bled with irregular regularity.
Against his better judgement, he parted the gap in the fence and carefully squeezed through.
CHAPTER THREE
He climbed outside the wire and scanned left to right and back again through the gloom. It was the middle of the afternoon but the thick fog blunted the sun and made it feel like a perpetual twilight.
Mason saw no other movement. Just the boy crouched by the car. Watching. Intently watching.
Drawn to an imagined reality that perhaps continued on in some parallel universe but was cruelly cut short in this one, Mason edged closer. Cleaned up with a haircut and clothes, the boy could’ve been little David. He could’ve jumped up and ran into Mason’s arms.
But he didn’t.
He wasn’t David.
And he remained in the shadows by the car.
Mason knew a scratch carried a potential death sentence, but the knowledge felt like a cold and distant possibility compared to the boy’s proximity and likeness. He dug an energy bar out of his pocket and tore the wrapper off. He held it out in front of him while slowly stepping forward.
About ten feet away, the boy flinched as Mason took another step. The muscles in his skinny legs tensed as he prepared to flee.
Mason froze in place not wanting to scare him off. He spoke in a soft, soothing voice. “Hey, you don’t have to be afraid. It’s food. Look.” He slowly took a bite, making sure to chew with exaggerated motions so the boy could see what was offered. “It’s good. You’ll like it.”
The boy’s nose wrinkled as he sniffed the air. He leaned forward as if to gather more scent molecules.
Mason lowered to a knee waiting for the boy’s hunger to overpower his caution.
It didn’t take long.
The boy crawled over, stuttering and pausing at first but then covering the last few feet confidently now that he’d committed to the encounter. He reached for the snack bar. His fingers froze inches away when a raspy bark punched through the air.
Mason glanced over his shoulder in the direction of the sound.
Three male deltas glared at him less than twenty feet away. Their naked bodies were caked with filth. Their matted hair clumped into bunches and poked out at odd angles. Each was easily Mason’s height with muscles rippling under skin stretched tight with meager nutrition. They each carried a long heavy stick.
Before Mason could stand, they rushed at him.
Their feral intensity projected a shockwave of aggression. It was a real physical force that could swing the momentum in battle.
Mason jumped up and retreated a few steps before his combat mindset kicked into gear. He’d let down his guard trying to engage the boy and now he’d surrendered precious seconds for the lapse.
He drew the Glock 19 from inside his waistband and fired as the first delta crashed into him. Three rounds punctured the creature’s chest.
Mason fell back and pivoted to his right trying to create space in order to line up another target.
A heavy stick smashed into his wrist and sent the pistol clattering away. Waves of numbing pain shot up his arm, like hitting the funny bone with a nail. The nerves in the entire arm buzzed. The delta swung again, this time at Mason’s head. He dodged back as the end whistled by an inch from his chin.
He scrambled back and circled away to get them stacked up and in each other’s way. With his left hand, he yanked out the Bonowi baton at his hip and snapped it to full extension. A powerful swing brought the metal baton crashing into the temple of the nearest delta. Its head snapped to the side and it keeled over.
The remaining delta paused as if understanding the odds were no longer favorable.
Mason caught movement from the corner of his eye. He turned and saw Shane with with two officers in tow approach the other side of the fence. He waited for them to climb through to help.
They stopped at the breach with their arms crossed over their chests. Shane grinned.
The bastards weren’t going to help.
No problem. The single remaining delta wasn’t a problem. Mason returned his focused to the last attacker just as he tilted his head back and screamed. It was a short burst. He did it a few times and Mason noticed that the pitch and duration of each call was remarkably similar.
It wasn’t random.
It was organized.
It was communication.
Seconds later, another delta carrying a large stick arrived from in between two houses. Another appeared a few seconds later. Then another. And another.
The odds had shifted again. And Mason suspected they were going to get worse. He glanced over at the breach in the perimeter fence some fifty feet away. He looked back at his pistol on the ground five feet behind the delta that had called for help. He didn’t like the idea of leaving it behind, but there wasn’t another choice.
A single scratch could do it.
If any of them got the virus breeding in their blood into his bloodstream, he’d be doomed. To die of a fever or degenerate into a delta were the only likely outcom
es. And while the president had a team of scientists working on replicating Reshenko’s serum, they had yet to successfully recreate it.
So he ran for it.
The delta behind him shrieked as it sensed the chase was on. The primal screams of the reinforcements joined it.
Mason’s skidded into the fence and nearly bounced off before his fingers latched on and slowed the rebound.
He slipped a leg through the seam and looked back as he climbed through. The nearest delta dove and latched on to his right ankle. Mason tried to kick his leg free but the delta held fast. Five more deltas sprinted toward the confrontation.
Five deltas ran to help while three humans stood doing nothing.
Mason tried to swing the baton at the delta but his left arm was on the wrong side of the breach in the fence. He couldn’t grab it with his right hand because the whole limb was ringing with pain.
He jabbed the baton through a hole in the chain-link and it bounced harmlessly off the top of the Delta’s head. He couldn’t get enough power into the jab to do any real damage.
Not to something as hard as a head anyway.
Mason stopped struggling and froze in place. The delta looked up with excitement thinking he’d won.
And that’s all it took.
Mason jabbed the baton through the hole again, this time aiming at a softer target.
The stiff metal smashed through the delta’s eye and dug into the socket. He shrieked and released Mason’s leg.
Mason yanked his leg through and then grabbed at the pairs of disposable handcuffs under his jacket at the small of his back. He got the first one looped across the seam and zipped tight as the deltas hit the other side. He got three more zipped tight while they pounded on the fence with their sticks and fists.
He spun around to where Shane and the other two stood staring in shock. They never expected him to make it.
Rage burned in Mason’s gut. His ears burned with heat. He considered the odds of taking on all three at once with his baton against their sidearms. They weren’t good, but he’d survived worse.
Shane recovered first and puffed out his chest. “No one is allowed outside the fence without prior consent from the president. May I ask what you were doing willfully breaking the law?”
The two officers behind him chuckled like their boss had just said the wittiest thing in the history of the universe.
“I suppose you were about to help any second, right?”
Shane flashed a smile that never made it near his cold eyes. “I asked what you were doing outside the fence.”
“That’s none of your business.”
“Did you hear that, boys? None of Chief Fowler’s business.”
On principle, Mason hated anyone that referred to themselves in the third person.
Shane fingered the shiny stars on his lapel. “The stars and I disagree.” Shane started toward Mason and then glanced over his shoulder to ensure his subordinates were close behind. He stopped a foot away and grabbed a fistful of Mason’s jacket. “You will tell me what you were doing out there.”
Rather than waste more words, Mason sliced a tight arcing elbow. It wasn’t his preferred right, but it connected with a satisfying crunch.
Shane’s busted lip dribbled blood down his chin.
“I told you not to touch me.”
Mason shifted his balance forward on the balls of his feet ready to respond to the bigger threats that were the Chief’s backup.
The air crackled with the promise of violence. Like chaos theory, no one knew what would set it off, only that it would inevitably blow.
The phone clipped to Mason’s belt rang.
Mason darted a glance at the screen.
Miro.
He tapped the answer and speaker buttons while still maintaining readiness to respond.
“Sarge, we’ve got a minor emergency over here.”
The call distracted everyone, just enough to defuse the powder keg that was about to explode.
“What’s going on?”
“You need to get back to HQ ASAP. These two are about to kill each other.”
Again?
“On my way,” Mason replied. He slowly backed away to create distance and defuse the situation.
Shane spat and blood splattered onto the street. His eyes flashed daggers.
“This isn’t over.”
CHAPTER FOUR
Jogging the several blocks back to City Hall gave Mason’s tingling arm enough time to get the feeling back. He bounded up the steps and waved to a security guard as he entered. The administration called it the new Capitol building of the United States of America, but most people still called it City Hall.
It resembled the original back in Washington, D.C. with a central dome sitting atop a squat rectangle building that featured numerous pillars and alcoves.
Mason hurried through security and would’ve preferred a bathroom pitstop to straighten himself up, but Miro had already called again wondering what was taking so long. He was a consummate bullshit artist in most areas of his life, but he was dead-level straight when it came to dealing with situations at work.
It was one of the qualities Mason had grown to admire most about the over-sized Texan.
He made do with running his fingers through his hair as his shoes slapped against the marble floor sending echoes bouncing around the expansive atrium. He turned left into the executive wing following the corridors to Miro’s position. He straightened his tie and jacket as he ran, already knowing he was going to catch shit from Miro for looking unprofessional.
It was his own fault. He set a rigorously high standard.
He traced through the hallways and saw Miro standing outside the new Oval Office. Technically, it was a rectangle like any normal room but everyone had taken to calling it the Oval Office since it was the room the president had chosen to conduct daily business.
Two yelling voices each trying to top the other in volume and passion echoed down the long hall. The architecture of the building was all high ceilings, arched entrances, and marble and stone everywhere. It was the kind of place that carried sound much further than you wanted it to travel.
Miro saw him approaching and tilted his head to the side. One eyebrow crawled up his forehead. “I knew it. You’re a freegan. One of those people that jump into dumpsters looking for food and other treasures that people throw away.”
“Very funny. What’s the sitrep?”
“Just like I said. I think they’re going to throw down this time.”
Mason shook his head. As if the job wasn’t hard enough already.
“Sarge, remember when I stayed late last week so you could go to Parent’s Night at Noor’s school?”
Mason nodded. He was still a little perturbed with Beth for demanding he take the night off. He didn’t think seeing a classroom covered with art projects and getting a personal report on Noor’s academic performance merited taking time away from protecting the President of the United States.
It was a matter of priorities.
He wasn’t against attending those kinds of things. He just didn’t think it was the best use of his time when things were still so fragile.
But, sometimes the immediate interests of a happy marriage outweighed the more distant interests of continuing civilization.
“What do you need?” Mason asked.
“Well, Iridia is cooking tonight and has invited me over for dinner.”
Iridia Reshenko. One of the most successful supermodels on the planet before the outbreak. And with an attitude to match. Mason had begrudgingly taken her on as a close protection client and somehow she’d become almost like family in the following months.
Like the kind of family that annoyed the crap out of you and who you couldn’t stand to be around for more than a few minutes.
Being family, he knew a few things about her. One being that she was a terrible cook. Mason couldn’t cook an egg without burning it, but she made him look a five-star chef in comparison.
“And you actually want to go?”
Miro shrugged. “It’s the first time I’ve seen her take initiative since, you know.”
That was an enormous veiled reference.
Yes, he knew.
Her father, Anton Reshenko, was the maniacal genius that had created and released the Delta Virus on the world. Finding out that her dad was responsible for wiping out over ninety percent of humanity had messed her up.
And she wasn’t all that stable to begin with.
But Miro’s you know covered even more. It also included the fact that shortly after Iridia discovered her father was a mass murderer of unimaginable scale, she watched him get torn to pieces by the very creatures his virus created.
That was enough to unhinge anyone.
Mason’s brows pinched together. “You’re gonna eat food that she makes?”
Miro grimaced.
Mason remembered the one and only other time Iridia had tried to help out in the kitchen. She cooked bits of chicken to add to a soup Beth was making. The dangerously undercooked meat ended up giving everyone cramps and the runs for a week.
Miro’s grimace showed he remembered it too. “I’m happy she’s making an effort and I want to support her in that.”
“You really care about her, huh?”
“I do.”
“And it’s not just about her shapely backside and ridiculously long legs?”
“Hell yes, I care about those, too. What? Are you too old and crotchety to notice a gorgeous yellow rose in full blossom?”
Mason sometimes wondered if Miro consciously tried to work in references to the great state that was Texas, or if he was so Texan that it just came naturally. He was about to respond with a denigrating reference about Miro’s mother when a voice boomed through the closed door.
“Bernard, I don’t give a damn about your concerns over the curfew! As I have already said a hundred times, it is a temporary measure necessary for the safety of our citizens. We can’t claim to be rebuilding this proud nation and not be able to guarantee basic security.”