by John Ringo
“How’s your plan?” Faith asked.
“Solid,” Tom said. “Thanks in good part to Sophia. This is on expense report because of what you’ve been doing, not Faith by the way.”
“Well, thanks a lot,” Faith said. “All I did was stop zombies from taking over your building and nearly die doing it!”
“That, too,” Tom said. “Just twitting you. Richard Bateman said he appreciated both your efforts.”
“Are you ready to order?” the waitress asked.
* * *
“I don’t know what most of these are,” Faith said, looking at the load of appetizers. Tom had basically ordered one of everything on the appetizer menu.
“This is great,” Sophia said. “What is it?”
“Squid in ink,” Tom said.
“Oh, gross,” Faith said, setting the piece down.
“Try it,” Steve said. “Just a bite.”
“I’m not six,” Faith said, taking a bite. “Okay, it is good. I hate the texture though.”
“Works for me,” Sophia said, trying another appetizer. “You’re right, it’s all good.” She looked around and leaned over to Stacey. “It would be better with some of the wine . . . ?”
Stacey slid her wine glass over and refilled her mostly empty water glass from the bottle.
“So that’s the trick,” Faith said. “Eat it with wine and everything tastes good?”
“Pretty much,” Tom said. “You don’t want to know some of the stuff I’ve choked down with alcohol.”
“Monkey,” Sophia said taking a sip. “Ooo. It is better with the wine.”
“Try sloth,” Steve said. “Which is, by the way, truly putrid stuff. Tried some on a bet one time. Helped that I was off my face at the time. Then I chundered. But I won the bet.”
“Ate a slug once,” Tom mused. “No beer involved. We’d been in the back of beyond for a bit. Looked tasty. When you’re that hungry, they are.”
“Uggh,” Faith said. “Okay, no end of the world talk and no weird foods.”
“It wasn’t one of the slimy ground ones,” Tom said. “Tree slug. Colorful. Looked a bit like a red and blue mobile banana. Turned out they’re slightly poisonous. Was quite ill the rest of the op.”
“No eating red and blue tree slugs,” Sophia said, nodding. “Got it. Just in case it comes up.”
“Speaking of which, how are you doing for supplies?” Tom asked.
“We resupplied right after we got here,” Steve said. “Which means the boat is packed. But we should be good for a month or so. Depends on how long we spend in harbor.”
“Not much longer,” Tom said. “We’ll be moving the girls back to the boat after tonight. We’re shutting down the project Sophia has been working on. It’s . . . as complete as it needs to be.”
“Understood,” Stacey said. “And I’ll be glad to have them back. No offense.”
“It’s been an adventure, that’s for sure,” Tom said. “I’d say sorry again, but . . .”
“What’s it you say about adventure, Da?” Faith asked.
“Adventure is something that happened to someone else, preferably a long way away and a long time ago,” Steve said. “When it happens it’s horror, terror or tragedy.”
“Someday this will be an adventure,” Faith said.
* * *
“Okay, they’re right,” Faith said, burping as she picked at her tiramisu. “The food in New York is incredible. I should have gotten that fruit of the sea thing. I usually don’t like seafood but that was great.”
“And this is really just a neighborhood restaurant,” Tom said. “But one of the best in the city.”
“Do we have to go right back to the boat?” Sophia asked.
“It’s getting dark,” Steve said. “And there’s a curfew.”
“Which is hardly enforced,” Tom said. “Even with the National Guard they’re too busy rounding up infected.”
“And it’s getting dark,” Steve noted.
“Up to the parents,” Tom said, shrugging. “There are some clubs still open, and I hear there’s a more or less continuous concert going on in Washington Square Park. More of a rave, really.”
“Concert?” Sophia said, her eyes lighting.
“In the dark,” Steve said. “In zombie-infested New York city.”
“I’ve never been to a concert,” Faith said sadly. “I mean, that’s one of those things you do when you’re a teenager. The way things are going, I’ll never get a chance. Or go to prom . . .” She sniffed.
“We are not going to a concert at night in a park in zombie-infested New York!” Steve said. “And that’s final!”
* * *
“This band sucks,” Faith shouted.
“Warm-up band,” Tom shouted back. “They usually do. The good ones don’t come on until later!”
Nobody seemed to care that the band sucked. With enough alcohol and drugs anything sounded good. And from the litter, it looked like the party had been going on for quite a while. The stage was set up right in front of the Arch and was apparently powered by a collection of generators that added their own cacophony to the din.
“No security?” Sophia asked, looking around. There was no sign of police presence and nobody was apparently in charge.
“I guess it’s us!” Tom said, grinning. “No, this is a totally illegal gathering under New York City law. But it has sprung up so many times and there are so many other problems that they’re not bothering to enforce it. You’re here at your own risk. Which I would not suggest if Durante and I weren’t here.”
“Got it,” Sophia said. The women in the crowd were either in large groups or accompanied by males. “Don’t drink from an open container. Don’t accept anything, and for anything else I’ve got this,” she said, tapping her pistol.
“This will probably stop any problems in their tracks,” Tom said, tapping the large BERT sign velcroed to the front of her kevlar. He’d also provided “contractor” badges for the group. The badges, on neck lanyards, read “Biological Emergency Contract Agent.”
“What?” Sophia said, her eyes wide. “You mean the rumor that BERT vans are taking people to be made into vaccine? Nobody believes that!”
“Just keep repeating that,” Tom said.
Despite the implicit warning, Sophia gently drifted to the side of the group, getting a look at the crowd. Most of them were young. Her apparent age. Or maybe even her real age. The point was that you could never tell. And the whole crowd had a funny edge. They didn’t seem to be enjoying themselves as much as trying really really hard to enjoy themselves. The only ones that didn’t have that edge were the ones that, before it was even dark, were already so stoned or drunk they could forget why an illegal concert could go on in the Park without being broken up.
“Hey,” a guy said from behind her. It was as close to a whisper as you could use with nuclear level speakers blaring. “Top quality vaccine!”
She turned to look and the guy was holding a vial cupped in his hand.
“I can get syringes, too.” The guy was dressed in a vivid pink rayon shirt, a Yankees jacket and jeans. He looked like some sort of walking advertisement for bad drug dealers. “Clean.”
“Got some,” Sophia said. “Thanks.”
Sophia turned fully so he could see the sign on her body armor and neck badge and just gave him a cold, blank stare.
“Oh . . . shit,” the guy said, his eyes going wide. He turned around and hurried away, occasionally glancing over his shoulder.
“Wow, that really does work,” Sophia said.
“Hey,” a girl said, looking around to make sure nobody could hear. “Can you score me some?”
“We don’t really make vaccine,” Sophia said, sighing. “And I don’t even work the streets. I’m support staff.”
“What do you do?” the girl’s male companion asked slowly. He was pretty clearly stoned but trying to track.
“Antibody tests,” Sophia said, shrugging. “Lab work. Making sure that
our clients aren’t infected. We’re contracted to a particular corporation. The rest is sort of NDA.”
“That’s cool,” the guy said. “Hey, want some ebomb?” he asked, holding out a handful of pills.
“You really don’t want a person carrying a pistol and a taser fucked up,” Sophia said, grinning. “No offense.”
“You here as security?” the girl asked.
“Nope,” Sophia said. “Just enjoying the show. Sort of. They really suck.”
“Yeah,” the girl said. “The good ones don’t start showing up until after dark . . .”
* * *
The girl was Christine, her boyfriend “he’s just a hook-up, really, ’cause he’s got a source” was Todd. They were both New York natives, as were their friends. The group was huddled for protection against the increasingly rowdy crowd. There was a group right down by the stage that had created a mosh pit, which explained the fence set up to protect the bands.
After the sun went down the band changed. It was another NYC local band, but it was better. Not by much, but better.
That band changed out for somebody she actually thought she recognized, a tall saturnine guy carrying an acoustic guitar.
“Is that Voltaire?” Sophia asked.
“Yeah,” Christine said. She’d been hitting a bottle of Chivas Regal from the neck and was thoroughly plastered. “He shows up every night.”
“Brains, Brains, Brains . . . !” the crowd chanted.
Of course, he started with “Brains,” then all the oldies and goodies. “Vampire Club,” “Demonslayer,” “USS Make-Shit-Up” . . . Sophia knew them all and she’d always wanted to see him in concert.
An underground concert in a park in NYC in the middle of an apocalypse was just . . . perfect.
He was in the middle of “Day of the Dead” when she heard the first shotgun blast . . .
* * *
“The 1911 is a great gun,” Faith shouted. “But it’s really obsolete technology. And it’s only got seven rounds! I prefer the H and K.”
“Try getting service out of them,” Durante shouted back. They were standing side by side, with Faith watching the bands and Durante watching the outer darkness. They’d both put in earplugs even after Voltaire showed up. You could still hear him, and she wasn’t a huge Voltaire fan. “And a 1911 doesn’t have ‘I crack if you look at me wrong’ polymer frame.”
“You can shoot an H and K underwater,” Faith said.
“You can shoot a 1911 under water,” Durante replied. “Although I don’t know why you’d have to. That’s called a straw-man argument.”
“Once, maybe,” Faith argued. “But an H and K has an octagonal barrel. It can handle a much higher load.”
“We’re just going to have to agree to disagree,” Durante said, grinning.
“I wish they had, like, Atreyu or Avenged Sevenfold,” Faith said. “Sophia must be having a blast, though.” They’d all been keeping her under light surveillance.
“She seems to be,” Durante said. “She seems more . . .” He paused and shook his head. “BOSS! COMPANY!”
“Cops?” Faith asked, looking over her shoulder.
“No.”
Coming out of the shadows of the trees she could see two naked people, male and female, trotting towards the concertgoers.
“Shit,” she said, drawing her taser.
“Again, let me take it,” Durante said, drawing one of his. “Fewer questions.”
The zombies weren’t heading directly their way, so Durante trotted to the side to interpose himself between them and the crowd.
“I’m surprised it’s taken this long,” Tom said. A Glock had appeared from somewhere.
“Uh-oh,” Faith said, gesturing to the side. More zombies were coming out of the trees. Lots of zombies. And they were moving fast. “Uncle Tom?”
“I don’t think tasers are going to do it,” Tom said. “DURANTE! MULTIPLES. HOT ROUNDS!”
Durante had already tasered the two zombies and injected one. He dropped his injector as he was preparing to inject the second, and switched to the Saiga.
“See?” Steve said. “I told you this was a bad idea.” He had his 1911 in a two-handed grip, and Stacey had his back holding a SIG Sauer.
“Cell service is out,” Tom said. “Shit. Engage at will.”
“On it,” Faith said, drifting right. Durante had gone left to engage the first two. Moving right, she was closer to covering Sophia. She and the group with her were apparently completely oblivious to the approaching threat.
Faith put her eye to the point-and-shoot scope on the Saiga and targeted the first approaching zombie.
“This is how you handle a zombie apocalypse,” she said, just as Durante fired.
CHAPTER 14
Sophia spun around and saw Faith fire at one of the fast approaching infecteds. The fiftyish woman was thrown back with her chest opened up by the twelve-gauge round. But she wasn’t the only one inbound for the concertgoers.
Sophia didn’t even hesitate. Her father had run her through too many tactical ranges, and her actions were muscle memory. She’d been standing towards the back of the group and now stepped forward, covering their rear, and ripped her 1911 from its holster. Taking a two-handed grip, she targeted the closest zombie, putting two .45 rounds into his chest. She was using polymer-tipped expanding hollowpoints, which on impact spread out to make not a .45 inch hole, but a nearly inch-wide one. The “lab tech” had recently been getting an eclectic masters-level course in biology including mammalian anatomy and physiology. She could practically recite the blood vessels her rounds took out without doing the autopsy. The infected took two more steps and dropped.
She’d been carrying a round in the chamber and a full magazine for the 1911. If she’d been in the earlier argument with her sister, she would have pointed out, didactically, that that way a 1911 can carry eight rounds. Which did for four infecteds.
But there were more.
* * *
“This job fucking sucks.”
Specialist Cameron “Gunner” Randall, New York Army National Guard, was tired, aggravated and frustrated. He was a fricking 13 Foxtrot: a fire support specialist. He was supposed to be calling for artillery fire. Not roaming the streets of New York “enforcing the curfew.” Among other things, they weren’t “enforcing the curfew.” There was a fucking concert going on right there in Washington Square Park. And he and his guys had to just “maintain presence.” What the fuck did “maintain presence” mean?
What they really were were roaming zombie collectors. They carried their issue M4s but so far all they’d used were Tasers. Taser the zombie, inject, call for pickup. Tell people there was a curfew. Tell people. Not order them back to their flipping homes. “Remind them.” And the ROE for shooting a zombie with your M4 went to ten pages. “And don’t bother the concert.”
It really, really sucked. He never thought that a deployment in the states would suck more than the Stan. But this sucked.
“Well, at least it’s a slow night.”
SGT James R. “Worf” Copley thought their current job was idiotic on so many levels it wasn’t funny. Among other things, since “zombieitis,” whatever they were calling it this week, was incurable, the “care facilities” were not only getting overrun with infected, they’d started as nightmares and just gotten worse. Killing them, sad as it was, would have been a mercy. And if they were going to have a curfew it should be enforced. But this was New York City. The city that never slept. And even with occasional power outages, food shortages and zombies it was going to go right on being “The City that Never Sleeps” until things blew over or it all went to shit.
“Maybe all the zombies are at the concert,” Private Patricia Astroga said wistfully. “I don’t suppose we could stop by just for a bit to . . . ensure security?”
“I’m not really into alternative . . .” Sergeant Copley said. “Besides—” He paused as he heard the distinctive boom of a shotgun from the direction of the conce
rt, followed by a series of shotgun and pistol blasts. What amazed him was that whoever was caterwauling kept right on singing over what was working up to a full-fledged firefight.
“On the other hand,” Randall said.
“Let’s roll,” Copley replied. “Fours, not Tasers . . .”
* * *
Sophia was reloading, visually tracking another inbound target, when her arm was grabbed from behind.
“What are you doing?” Christine asked. “You can’t shoot those zombies!”
“‘Can’t,’ ‘may not’ and ‘shouldn’t’ are three different things,” Sophia said, seating the magazine and letting the slide go forward. “And what I’m doing is protecting you. Why the hell are you still here?” She looked over her shoulder and was amazed that the concert was still going on. Thinking about it, Voltaire hadn’t even missed a beat.
“They come every night,” Todd said. “It’s their concert.”
“What?” Sophia asked, her eyes wide. “Don’t they . . . ? Don’t you get attacked?”
“They bite some people,” Christine said. “Sometimes they eat. I’ve been waiting to get bitten. But they haven’t taken me yet.”
“WHAT?” Sophia screamed. The infected was inside fifteen meters, so she put two rounds in her chest and turned back, keeping her weapon pointed downrange and looking over her shoulder. “WHAT? Are you flipping nuts? You WANT to be a zombie?”
“There’s nothing to be afraid of if you’re a zombie,” Christine said, starting to cry. “You just are. You just exist. It’s like . . .”
“It’s like zen, you know?” Todd said, swaying back and forth. “You just exist in the moment, man. There’s no stress. No school, no work, just eat or be eaten. It’s like Rousseau’s noble savage, the beast inside every man.”
“You are absolutely batshit fucking nuts,” Sophia said, looking back to the target zone. Another inbound. “I am not going to be turned into a zombie. My sister got infected but she pulled through, and we are not going to be zombies. We are not.”
“You just don’t get it,” Todd said. “Myrmidon.”
“Idiot,” Sophia said, double tapping the next inbound. She looked around and had time, so she quickly reloaded her magazines.