by John Ringo
“Trying to make the tide, Officer,” Stacey said.
She knew immediately she’d said something wrong.
“The outgoing tide?” the officer asked, suspiciously. Any cop on the coast knows the tides, and the tide was currently inbound and would be for twelve hours. “Can I see the registration for the boat, please, ma’am?”
“I’ll have to ask Steve where it’s at,” Stacey said.
“I’d appreciate it if you’d stop loading until I can get this cleared up, ma’am,” the officer said.
“Of course, officer, if you insist,” Stacey said, trying not to curse. “Okay, Faith, Soph, you can knock off.”
“About time for a break!” Faith said.
* * *
“Problems, officer?” Steve asked as Young walked back to him.
“I’m trying to figure that out,” Young said. “There’s enough material here for an army, you’ve certainly got enough guns for one. You’re trespassing on private property and you’re in a hurry. And not, as your wife said, to make the tide. On the other hand, you don’t look like a drug gang and the material doesn’t look stolen. Nothing adds up. Call me suspicious.”
“The dock is convenient to load on,” Steve said. “Much more so than a marina.”
“How long have you had the boat?” Young asked.
“Just bought it,” Steve said. “This morning. Wire transfer from my brother’s corporation.”
“Okay, Mr. ‘Smith,’” Young said angrily. “Cut the crap. What the hell is going on? Really?”
“Mind if I pull out my cell?” Steve said carefully.
“Why?”
“I’d like to check the time,” Steve said. “Or you can give it to me.”
“Why?” Young asked.
“I need to know what time it is,” Steve said calmly.
Young stepped back and carefully, keeping half an eye on the man and group of women, checked his watch.
“Eleven forty-seven,” Young said.
“Long day,” Steve said ruefully. “I hadn’t realized it was that early. Can I wait . . . thirteen minutes to answer that question?”
“What happens at noon?” Young asked, his eyes narrowing.
“An announcement,” Steve said. “Probably a carefully worded one. Which will not give you enough information to protect yourself or your fellow officers. If we can continue loading until noon, and there is such an announcement, I can then give you more information. Information which may keep you alive. But I’m constrained not to until then. I will give you one piece of information. If you find yourself sometime in the next few days dealing with an incoherent naked person who is acting in a violent manner, my suggestion is to shoot him or her, dead if necessary, and avoid the blood splatter. That way you’ll be placed on administrative leave pending the shoot investigation. And that will significantly increase your chances of survival.”
Young stopped and thought about that. Guns. Supplies. Sailboat. In a hurry . . .
“You’re joking,” Young said. “That’s impossible.”
“Noon,” Steve said. “At least I was told there would be an initial announcement at noon—”
Young’s radio beeped urgently and he held it up to his ear.
“Ten twenty-seven! Ten twenty-seven! Multiple hostile three—” There was a series of shots, then the call cut off.
“Ten twenty-seven, Four-one-three Elmshore Road. Ten twenty-seven, Four-one-three Elmshore Road . . . Break, break. Ten twenty-seven. Seven-two-seven-six Waterson Avenue . . . Ten Twenty-Seven . . .”
“You need to go, Officer Young,” Steve said. “Do not let them bite you under any circumstances. The blood pathogen is particularly potent.”
“You have got to be kidding me!” Young said.
“Officers in trouble,” Steve said, thumbing at the cop’s car. “And good luck.”
CHAPTER 4
Young peeled out of the driveway and checked his car’s computer. He was designated to respond to the Waterson Avenue call. It was about six minutes ETA. He thumbed open his cell as he took the turn, blowing a stop sign and nearly getting T-boned by an Expedition, then hit his lights and sirens.
He hit speed dial three and waited impatiently.
“What? We’ve got multiple officers requesting back-up and youse got time for a personal call?”
Sergeant Joseph “Joey” Patterno would never have made sergeant in a previous Williamsburg administration. He had plenty of credentials. Fourteen years on SFPD in some of the toughest districts. He was physically fit, a short, barrel-chested Jewish-Italian from New York with time not only as a beat and operations sergeant but leading one of SFPD’s premier SWAT teams. He’d moved to Williamsburg, which entailed a big pay cut, when his partner got a much better job offer than he’d had in Frisco, and the department here had, after much head scratching, taken Joey on.
The headscratching was pretty much covered by the word “partner.” In fact it was—legally in California—“husband.” In Virginia it was still a bit ambiguous. Joey had at least gotten over his tendency to freak people, intentionally, by talking with a lisp. And he took the occasional ribbing about his “preferences” pretty well. When it got to be too extreme he’d just do a little twist or a moue and the joker would generally shut right the hell up. And if that didn’t work, he had a font of other practical jokes—not to mention a right hook that was legendary.
“Not personal,” Young said. “The ten thirty-seven was a family using an abandoned dock to load a mass of guns, food and toilet paper onto a brand-new boat.”
“Which has what to do with ten sixty-fours piling on officers?” Patterno asked.
“The husband, who was one cool cucumber, suggested to me, just before the eleven ninety-nine, that if I had a ten sixty-four acting in a hostile nature to shoot first and just take the admin leave. And avoid the blood spatter. When I got the call, he added to absolutely under any circumstances avoid the bite. I quote, ‘the blood pathogen is particularly nasty.’”
“You’re shitting me,” Patterno said. “No way!”
“He mentioned ten sixty-fours before the call,” Young said. “Hostile ten sixty-fours. He said there was going to be some sort of announcement at noon.”
“Son of a . . . I’d heard about that,” Patterno said. “The CDC was scheduling a joint press conference with the Fibbies. Okay, meet you at Waterson . . . Shit, change in call . . .”
Young glanced at his board and shook his head. There were alarm calls going up all over the place. Including . . .
“I’ve got a . . .” he said, then braked, hard. A naked girl, teenager, had just run in front of his car. Her face was . . . He keyed his radio as the girl jumped onto his hood then started smashing at the glass. Her face was distorted, insane. She looked pasty as if she’d been sick. Just . . . something wasn’t there.
“Unit eight-seven-three to Base. Hostile ten sixty-four. Female. Four-six-zero Butterworth Drive. Attacking my car. Request female officer assistance.”
“Eight-seven-three. Ten-zero. Protocol five-one five-zero. No assistance available.”
“Base, eight-seven-three. Say again female, expand, teenage female, three-one-one.”
“Roger. No assistance available, Eight-seven-three. Ten-zero. Five-one five-zero. Transport to Emerson on Secure.”
“What the fuck?” Young swore. Use caution. Crazy person. Duh. No assistance? No female officer for a naked teenage girl? He was going to get the crap sued out of him.
He was avoiding using a certain word even in his head. Not that not thinking “zombie” was keeping him from thinking “zombie.” Problem being, the girl was not the level of threat that permitted the use of a firearm. If he shot her he’d be lucky to get just administrative leave. He’d be looking at assault or manslaughter at the very least.
He caught movement in his peripheral vision and saw a man, probably the girl’s father, staggering across the lawn. He had multiple bite marks on his chest and arms, both of which were bare. He’
d apparently just thrown on some shorts to follow his naked daughter into the street.
The girl was going absolutely insane on his windshield, hammering it so hard her hands were bleeding, and she was biting at the recalcitrant glass. The car had been upgraded with a stronger type of auto glass, or she’d probably have shattered the window.
Young didn’t hear what happened, but the girl suddenly looked to the passenger side of the cruiser. The word “feral” came to mind. The look of a wild predator that had heard the sound of prey. She leapt off the hood and charged the man on the lawn.
Then Young bailed out. He wasn’t sure how he was going to handle the wild child. The department, after a series of lawsuits and protests to the city government, mostly over YouTube videos that hadn’t happened anywhere near Williamsburg, had taken Tasers away from all officers except sergeants and above who had had the state course in same.
The girl was already on the man before Young could even get around the cruiser. She was—not howling, not screaming—keening, he thought, was the word. A high, long, weird sound. And she was thoroughly locked onto the man’s left arm with hands and teeth biting and ripping at it.
“HELLLP!” the man screamed, looking at Young while struggling to free his arm. He was pulling the girl’s hair half frantically, half gently, as if afraid to actually hurt her. “FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, HELP ME! JESUS CHR—! CHELSEA! CHELSEA!”
Young just stood there for a moment, hands on his hips, then opened up the back of his cruiser. In a box there was a bag that was for “assistance in securing hostile animals.” Generally called a snake bag, it was just part of the kit. Cops didn’t secure wild animals, but if they had to back up animal control they carried “snake bags.” Like the M4 he was seriously contemplating, for if they had to back up SWAT. He regarded the bag for a moment, judging the size of the opening. About large enough to fit over a teenage girl’s head.
There were also tactical gloves. The Diamonds were a pain to wear all the time, but if there was ever a time to put on a set of gloves it was now. He wished they were thick leather. As long as he kept her off his arms he should be good.
He took the bag in hand and duck-walked up behind the girl, gaze fixed on the back of her head.
“Would you hurry?” the man snarled, then screamed wildly as blood began to spray all over the freshly cut green lawn.
Young paused behind the girl for just a moment, then snapped the bag across and down. The girl’s mouth was locked on her father’s arm, but as the bag went over her eyes she reared back, clawing it, permitting the man to fall back onto the grass. He pushed himself backwards toward the house, trying to staunch the spurting artery his daughter had torn into.
Young, meantime, had his own troubles. The girl had started spinning before he could get the bag fully over her head, and had one hand under it. He was afraid to simply yank the closure line too hard. It could permanently choke her. But the bag had at least slid down enough to cover her mouth. She was no longer keening, just gutturally grunting.
He also wasn’t sure where to put his hands. Freaking cameras were everywhere these days. He wasn’t in direct view of the car, but people were probably breaking out their cell cameras for the spectacle. Although, come to think of it, distribution or even ownership would, probably, assuming the girl was under eighteen, and she looked more like fifteen, be a federal crime. In fact, his car camera might just be considered a federal violation. Cops weren’t automatically exempt. Of course, he couldn’t, legally, turn it off, absent orders or completion of the call. Which was not yet complete. So he was probably covered. Probably.
Which is exactly what he expected to be thinking when fighting his first zombie. Not.
First incredibly strong, wiry, excessively underage, fast, naked, female zombie.
Then he heard the screams behind him.
Looking over his shoulder, he saw a woman running out of a home down the street. She was clothed, but the clothing was ripped. Pursuing her was a naked man covered in blood. And she was, naturally, running towards the policeman for help. With the subject in hot pursuit.
“Screw this,” Young said, holding the bag barely closed with one hand and drawing his Glock. He placed it against the girl’s quadricep and pulled the trigger. The girl shrieked and fell to the ground, grabbing at her leg.
“What are you doing?” her father shrieked.
“Trying to save your life, her life and mine,” Young said, spinning around. “Come on!” he said, waving at the woman to pass him. “Come on!”
Don’t let them bite you . . .
“Don’t,” the woman said waving her hands. She was dressed in jeans and a nice blouse as if she had been headed out to the store when her world came apart. The blouse was now rent and bloody and she had a large bite mark at the juncture of her shoulder and neck. “Please don’t! I don’t know what’s wrong with my—”
“I do,” Young lied, targeting the oncoming man’s chest. He was big enough and violent enough it might be ruled a good shoot. If what appeared to be happening was, well, what was happening, probably would be ruled a good shoot. Virginia wasn’t quite San Francisco. In Frisco he’d assuredly be fried.
“HALT OR I WILL FIRE IN DEFENSE OF SELF AND OTHERS!” It was usually a phrase used by civilians. Cops were supposed to use anything but firearms to resolve the situation. You only drew a gun if there was another gun. Maybe a knife. But the guy was big and the girl was going to be up and hopping any second now and he had no backup. Young was out of options. “HALT! HALT! HALT!”
He waited until the charging man was under five meters, then, following training, double tapped: One upper chest, then, following the natural climb of the recoil, one to the head.
The man plowed the ground at Young’s feet as his wife started to scream. Louder.
It was Young’s first official shoot, but he’d previously seen what a bullet did to a human skull. Best not to dwell on it.
“Officer-involved shooting,” Young said into his radio as he walked to his car. There was a first-aid kit in the trunk. Not that he thought it was going to do anyone much good. He’d had a bit of trouble getting his pistol back in the holster, but his voice was clear. Even if he was falling back on older training. “One Kilo India Alpha, two Whiskey India Alpha . . .”
He paused as he was reciting the litany of disaster, bent over and more or less casually threw up . . .
“No bites,” Young said, spitting. “So far . . .”
* * *
“And this is our culprit,” Dr. Titus Wong said, sliding a cursor across the screen to point to a very obvious red nodule on the spinal material. “In a different configuration.”
Dr. Curry was eating popcorn as he watched the video conference. Arranged by the WHO for “interested parties only,” the more or less continuous, and continuously encrypted, conference was collating the ongoing study of the Pacific Flu. Curry’s new employers had ensured he was included in “interested parties.” With the news out, carefully avoiding the word “zombie,” the news media was going nuts. As was every epidemiology group in the world. This was the first real “wildfire” they’d ever contained, and it was turning out to be a doozy.
“This is a SEM view,” Wong said. Wong was the Los Angeles Medical Examiner’s Office specialist in infectious diseases. A certified ME, an MD with a pathology specialty and an additional specialty in infectious diseases, he was still considered a bit of a plodder by most of the people viewing the slides. On the other hand, he was at the epicenter, which, for once, was not in some remote, usually tropical, country. Well, remote to the developed nations. It was local to the people dying. “Natural color SEM. That is, in fact, its color . . .”
“Question from Dr. Sengar, Stockholm . . .”
The conference was currently under control of Dr. Addis Bahara, deputy underminister for Operations and Response of the WHO. Dave knew Addy and liked him. He was one sharp Ethiopian. And he was a professional, unlike the head of the WHO, who was chosen mostly
for his connections.
“That has a remarkable resemblance to rabies,” the senior WHO representative for Sweden said. “With the exception of the color. There have been no indications of motor impairment.”
“We have seen patients with notable motor impairment,” Dr. Wong replied. “Information lag. Yet I take your meaning. The nodules are grossly similar to rabies but they seem to have a different effect. And rabies is not airborne.”
Telling Sven Sengar, who’d earned any award in virology you’d care to name short of the Nobel, that “rabies wasn’t airborne” was one of the reasons that Wong was a pathologist buried in the basement of the L.A. morgue.
“I said ‘has a resemblance to’ rabies,” Svengar replied, evenly. “Have you attempted to test the Pasteur method for a vaccine?”
“We don’t do vaccines,” Wong said. “Just autopsies.”
“CDC . . .”
“We’ll begin examining it immediately.” James Dobson, like Addis, was one of the “tech” specialists at CDC but also a decent political animal. “Decent” being defined as good at politics while still holding onto some semblance of a brain. “I’d have said a week ago that Pasteur method was cracked but this pathogen has me wondering if I know basic biochemistry.”
“Dr. Kwai, Thailand . . .”
“Is there any additional information as to the origin?” Dr. Kwai asked.
There was a brief pause as people wondered who was supposed to answer that one.
“CDC . . .”
“No,” Dr. Dobson said. “Computer analysis is showing that it was probably distributed in public venues, notably airports and bus stations on the West Coast of the United States, beginning some two weeks ago. Method of vectoring is still unknown and there are no known suspects. For that matter, models indicate it’s still being spread, including in airports and bus stations. FBI has various ideas but quietly they’re admitting that there are no hard leads. We and USAMRIID are . . . cooperating. But after the anthrax debacle, getting cooperation is . . . harder.”
“No shit,” Curry muttered. The entire anthrax investigation had put researchers on notice that the FBI cared a lot less about science or rationality than politics. That, in fact, the DOJ didn’t have the slightest clue about molecular biology and could care less. The only suspects who were ever identified, and they were publicly identified well in advance of even the thinnest shred of evidence, were professional researchers from USAMRIID, the U.S. Army’s version of the CDC. Both of the “accused” researchers had also been on the teams at USAMRIID advising the FBI. In neither case was there any real indication that either researcher had created the anthrax spread shortly after the 9/11 bombings. But the FBI was Johnny-on-the-spot with accusations.