“Will. Frank. It doesn’t matter; one of you can go next,” Jessica said.
Max interrupted. “Before we get to them, I’d like to introduce everyone to Loren,” he said pointing to him. “Loren, ah, he likes to be called Dancer, that’s his ham operator name, has set up a couple of radios on the top floor and is talking to people all over the place about what’s going on. He can even get information outside the United States, but I’ll let him tell you all about that. Dancer ….”
Dancer stood and nervously tugged on one of the straps of his suspenders. “Um, well, you see, I’m afraid my news isn’t any better than the rest. It seems like everyone is having the same troubles, although I don’t think every community understands exactly how deadly this disease is yet. But the virus is definitely being talked about all over the country, except for maybe in some of the small, more isolated communities. But that’s not all that’s going on.”
“I was telling Max last night that there’s quite the donnybrook going on along the Mexican border, and it’s still going on. It’s the Mexican drug cartels mostly. They’re on one side of it, along with some others I guess, and our military and militias on the other side. I mean it sounds like it’s tanks, and machineguns, and all kinds of things like that. Supposedly, we’ve lost control over parts of the border states.”
“About four this morning I was talking with this ham in El Paso, Texas. Nomad’s his name.” Dancer stopped talking a second, frowned, looked up at the ceiling, and continued. “Yeah, that’s right, Nomad. Sorry, I’m kinda tired I guess. Anyway, Nomad said sometime yesterday there was a battle fought about two blocks from his house. When all the shooting finally stopped, he sneaked a look out his window and saw a bunch of our soldiers fleeing the area on foot, carrying their wounded. At the time he was talking with me, he said that his whole neighborhood was surrounded by hundreds of armed Mexicans, dressed in just everyday street clothes and driving pick-up trucks with machineguns mounted in the back. He was pretty frightened I guess and said if they didn’t find him first, he was going to wait until dark and try to sneak out to the north. That’s just one example of the stuff I’m hearing.”
“There’s trouble on the Canadian border, too. The Canadian military is trying to keep Americans from crossing over, and there’s been violence as a result. It sounds as if it’s on a much smaller scale than down south, but still, people are getting hurt.”
“What about outside the United States?” Max asked.
“Oh, right,” he said, adjusting his mask and then pinching tight the metal band over the bridge of his nose. “They got the sickness, too. The Brits got a name for it, though.” He thought about it for a couple of beats before saying, “It’ll come to me. Sorry. But I think theirs must be more, um, how do you say it, advanced, no, more progressed than here, because it sounds like they got a lot of dead already. They’re pretty scared and blaming it all on the terrorists. Well, I guess we are, too. Reaper! That’s it. Reaper. That’s what they’re calling the virus, Reaper. I knew it would come to me.”
“Do they have any other problems?” Jack asked.
“Well now, you know I can’t ask ‘em questions. I can only listen on that particular radio. So I only get a little bit here and there. But in both London and Paris, it sounds like there’re large parts that are barricaded off with fighting going on; fires, too. Big ones from what I hear. So you see, it sounds pretty much the same all over. We aren’t the only ones.”
Dancer sat down, but immediately got back up again. “So is that the kind of stuff you want to know about?”
“Yes, that’s perfect,” Jessica said. “Please, keep it coming. Find out if there are other groups like us, too. It would be nice to keep in touch with them if they exist.”
“Oh, I already did,” he said pointing at Max.
Max cut him off. “Yeah, I’ll fill them in about that. Thanks Dancer.”
He sat back down again.
“Okay,” Jessica said. “Back to Frank and Will.”
At that exact moment, two things happened. First, Arnie Dunn hustled into the room making straight toward Max with one of those, the shit’s going down, looks on his face. This, of course, caused Max to glance in his direction. As he did so, Max spied Myra walking down the hall just outside the briefing room. She was wearing her work clothes, strapped into a backpack, and carrying her med bag over one shoulder.
“Damn,” Max mumbled. A mixture of anger and fear rose up from his gut, right into his throat. He didn’t want her to go.
When Arnie got near, he said, “Max, you better get out to the gate. We got big problems.”
Max grabbed his carbine, slapped-in a magazine, slung it, and trotted toward the front of the building. When he cleared the doors, he charged his weapon and made straight for the gate. As he approached, he saw almost the entire on-duty security team standing about twenty feet back from the gate, to the driver’s side of the sand truck, which blocked Max’s view of who or what they were confronting. He also saw Myra, several yards in front of him, moving in the same direction.
He caught up to her before he arrived at the gate, and said, “I thought you were going to wait for me.”
“I told you I would think about it.”
Just as she said that, the people on the other side of the gate came into view. It was Chief Flanders, several other uniformed officers, and some civilians, probably family members, behind him. None of them looked too happy.
If Flanders looked bad a few days ago, he looked absolutely terrible now. His eyes were swollen, he was squinting, and the skin underneath them was several shades darker. He appeared to be sweating, hadn’t shaved in a day or two, and his uniform was dirty and wrinkled, with a couple of the top buttons unfastened. But what really got Max’s attention was the dark bump, about the size of a dime, on his left cheek, with two matching ones on his forehead and another on the front of his throat.
Max knew a challenge like this would eventually happen. It had to. He just didn’t think it would be this soon and with the Chief of Police.
“What the hell’s this all about, Calloway? You can’t keep me out. I put you here. If it wasn’t for me, none of this would have happened.” Flanders’s voice came out sounding as if he’d smoked three packs a day for life.
“Open the gate, Max.” This time it was a cop named Marvin (Pearl) Billowy talking. The Pearl, because he always carried this two-inch, five shot, pearl-handled revolver in an ankle holster. He stood slightly behind and to the right of the Chief.
Although Max hadn’t really worked around Billowy, so had no firsthand knowledge about him, he was known as a big mouth and had a reputation for antagonizing his and other officer’s prisoners. Max ignored him and concentrated his attention on the Chief.
“You’re right Chief, you made this possible. But when you put me out here, you told me to protect the people who came for shelter, and that’s what I’m doing. That’s also why I can’t let you in. Nobody comes in until this virus thing is over, including you.”
“I’m relieving you of duty then. Right now. You’re out. I can see I should have never put you here in the first place.” He looked past Max at whoever was standing behind him. “You there, open this gate.”
Billowy was smiling.
“They’re not going to let you in either, Chief,” Max said. “What’s that on your cheek?”
He put his hand on the spot and immediately pulled it away. “It’s nothing. I cut myself shaving, that’s all.” He craned his head and shouted, “Somebody open the gate …now!” The effort seemed to take all the energy out of him.
“You’re sick, Chief, everyone here can see that. That means all those with you have been exposed, too. You need to get to the hospital.”
“I’m as healthy as you. Got a little cold is all. Been working too many hours. And as far as the hospital goes, I’m not going anywhere near that place. You die in the hospital. That’s where the real infected people are.”
“Okay, tell yourself
whatever you want. Don’t go to the hospital. But you’re still sick with the virus, you’re still passing it on to others, and you’re still not coming in.” And then in a lower voice he added, “Chief, you’re a good man, but if I let you in here, you’ll end up killing all the people you sent me here to protect.”
As Max said that, he saw Billowy drop his hand to his pistol and rest it there. Max brought his carbine up a couple of inches. At the same time, Steve stepped up next to him with his carbine at the low ready, while Louis stepped over to the rock barrier with his own carbine.
Some of the non-uniformed people standing behind the Chief must have sensed the tensions ramp up because they started to move away. One however, a pretty young woman with light brown hair, stepped closer, put her fingers through the wire mesh and said, “Please, you have to let us in. We don’t want to die any more than you do. We’ll do whatever you want us to, but just let us in.” Tears rolled down her face.
Max thought he heard someone behind him cry as well. Someone else mumbled something about it not being right.
“I’m sorry,” Max said. “I can’t do that.”
She started screaming then, calling him all kinds of names, telling him she hoped he caught the virus and “died a miserable fucking death.” It wasn’t until she dropped to her knees that an older woman in the crowd moved forward, eyes of hate locked on Max, and helped the young woman to her feet, escorting her away from the gate.
“You’re an asshole, Calloway, and I promise you, you’ll get yours,” Billowy said.
Though Max didn’t show it, couldn’t show it, he hated himself for what he was doing. Billowy is right, I am an asshole, he thought. The Chief is a decent man. Some of these people I know, a few I’ve even worked with once or twice. They don’t deserve this happening to them. But he still didn’t change his mind.
The stare-down continued for several seconds or so before the Chief blinked several times as if clearing his vision, took three steps back from the gate, blinked rapidly several more times, looked up at the sky above and behind Max, tilting his head slightly up, drew his pistol, put it under his chin, and pulled the trigger.
There was a moment of confusion on everyone’s part. Nobody moved. A single scream echoed off the buildings, breaking the otherwise dead, still silence.
Maybe those standing behind the Chief couldn’t see what happened and thought Max had shot him. Or possibly they were just pissed off about not being let in and figured what the hell, they were dead anyway. Whether one of those possibilities was the reason, or it was an entirely different explanation altogether, it didn’t really matter. Reasons in no way made a bit of difference as to what happened next.
Marvin (Pearl) Billowy drew and fired. His first bullet hit the metal frame of the gate and ricocheted off. His second bullet, though, struck Jack Keeble, who was standing behind and to the left of Max, hitting him center of mass, punching straight through his heart, killing him almost instantly. Billowy never got off a third shot. Max and Steve both brought their carbines up and fired, stitching the other cop from hip to head, killing him as well.
There was more gunfire from outside the fence while Max, along with everyone else, moved toward cover. He felt something burn his left leg, the same one injured in the mall bombing, just before he made it behind the sand truck. Twenty, thirty, forty more shots were fired from both sides of the fence before everything went to near silence. For what seemed like the longest time, the only sounds he heard was someone behind him moaning and one or two others crying; their side or his side, he couldn’t tell.
Max came out from behind the sand truck to see Linh Briggs down on the ground, bloody, suffering a gunshot just above her right hipbone. On the other side of the fence, two more uniformed officers were dead, and a wounded civilian was being helped off by another.
Myra hustled over to Jack Keeble, knelt beside him, put a gloved hand over his wound, opened his airway, and began checking for both breathing and a pulse. At the same time, Doc Patel went to Linh and worked to control her bleeding.
Max stood there for a few seconds, ears ringing, heart pounding, the smell of gunpowder trapped in his sinuses. People moved past him like the 2:00 AM bar crowd; shuffling, staggering, disoriented, as they approached the fence. There, they stood dumbfounded.
Max finally stepped up next to Steve.
Steve turned his head away, spit out a gob of tobacco juice, and asked, “What’d we do here?” not really looking for an answer.
“It’s all fucked up,” Max said. “They were our friends. We worked with them. They left us no choice.” Or was I the one who left them no choice.
They fell to silence. A couple at the fence finally turned and walked back toward the substation, avoiding eye contact.
Steve pointed to those remaining near the gate. “I’ll tell you what; if any of these jamokes had any doubts about how seriously messed-up things are, I think they damn sure got the picture now.”
“You see the pox?”
Steve nodded. “It’s happening just like the doc said.”
Max started to ask Steve if he thought he, Max, was doing the right thing by not letting anyone in, but changed his mind. He’d already made the decision, people had died, why give anyone the impression he didn’t know what he was doing …even Steve. They needed to have confidence in him, even if he doubted himself.
Max felt a tug on his shoulder and turned to see Myra.
“Hold still,” she said, kneeling down next to his left leg.
This caused Steve to look. “Again?”
“Cheap trick, buster,” Myra said.
“Cheap trick?”
“Yeah, you getting yourself shot just so I wouldn’t leave. Cheap trick.”
“You’re on to me,” he replied.
He slung his carbine, but the movement made Myra grab hold of his leg and smack him on the ass.
“Hey, take it easy, will you.”
“Well then hold still.”
Back to normal …kinda.
Several yards away, he saw Frank and Louis setting up a folding cot to use as a stretcher to carry Linh to the infirmary. Her husband Walt was at her side, holding her hand.
Will approached, “I got an idea on how to deal with the bodies. It won’t be long before they start smelling.”
Somehow watching Myra, Will, Louis, Frank, Doc Patel, all of them, doing the hard things, dealing with problems, gave him confidence they just might make it after all.
EPILOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
September 14th
The sun hung in the east, two fingers above Mt. Hamilton, slowly, slowly beating back the early morning chill. Its rise accompanied a slight western breeze that washed across the yard and those gathered there, carrying along the ever-present stink of decomposing flesh. Hardly anyone present noticed, though. They’d gotten used to it, just like they’d gotten used to twice brewed coffee grounds, three hours of electricity in twenty-four, ninety minutes of training each morning, six days a week, quick cold showers, and lately, little more than eighteen hundred calories a day.
Eight vehicles were lined up inside the gate; two convoys of four, sixteen men and women per, all armed, briefed, and ready to go. Each team had its assignment; a shopping list and a primary destination.
One team would go to the city and county maintenance yards looking for fuel, both diesel and gas, tanker trucks to carry it in, as well as water trucks. Once that had been accomplished, they were to move on to pharmacies and clinics in search of medical supplies. They decided to stay away from hospitals, considering them to be too contagious …for now anyway. After that, it was on to the police department for guns, ammunition, radios, and anything else useful they could find. And if time permitted, they’d look for food, any and all they could find, from anywhere they could find it. Frank had made their supplies last for over two months but soon there’d be little more than a few bags of rice and beans.
The other team would be looking for food, bottled wat
er, batteries, toilet paper, soap, bulk clothing, bleach, matches and lighters, tanks of propane, vegetable seeds, and fertilizers. Of course, if they came across gasoline, diesel, or medicine, they would take that, too. Their initial destination would be Costco, Walmart, Home Depot, and every grocery store in-between.
Both teams would look for survivors and try to get a feel for how many and what condition they were in. Were they organized in groups or surviving on their own? More importantly, was the virus still active or had it burned out as it killed off its hosts? According to Doctor Patel, viruses usually needed a host to survive, and by the smell of things there weren’t many hosts left.
Plain and simple, they anticipated trouble. It was out there. Bad things were still happening. They could still hear occasional gunshots and even an explosion now and then. In fact, a half-hour ago, from the roof, they spotted a considerable amount of smoke to the northeast.
If all went well, they planned to be back home before dark. There would be a lot of hungry people waiting for them. Amazingly, they had only lost thirteen to the disease; the last burned and covered over more than three weeks prior. Another nine succumbed to illnesses of other types, mostly because they ran out of the medicine controlling whatever it was they were suffering from.
Max, wearing his San Jose P.D. uniform shirt and badge, tucked into navy cargo pants, sat on the tailgate of Frank’s pickup with Myra standing between his legs, facing out, leaning back. She would be acting as the medic on the team searching out pharmacies and clinics. He would be leading the other team. They were just sharing a few quiet moments together before they left on their respective missions.
The others, standing nearby in groups of three or four, were talking quietly. For several, this was the first time they might have to shoot at something other than a paper target, and it showed. Some were unusually quiet. Some were overly gregarious. Others made it appear like it was no big thing.
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