by John Ringo
The girl was going absolutely insane on his windshield, hammering it so hard her hands were bleeding and biting at the recalcitrant glass. The cars 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 words “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 he 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 Fransisco. 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’ve 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, it’s 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 has 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?”
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 indications that either researcher had created the Anthrax spread shortly after the 9/11 bombings. But the FBI was Johnny-On-The-Spot with accusations.
As far as most epidemiologists were concerned, if you could explain to the FBI how something worked, in other words if you had the ability to do it, it meant to whoever you were talking, you were their current prime suspect. Which meant that nobody in their right mind in the industry wanted to explain anything to an FBI agent. Of course clamming up and being “uncooperative” also made you a prime suspect. Catch 22.
The attack, on the basis of no real evidence except “ability,” had finally been pinned on a minor researcher who had, basically, really serious personality problems, not uncommon in any intellectual community, and who very conveniently committed suicide when he realized the FBI was going to “out” him. Which just meant he was a geek not a mad scientist. With a good scapegoat, the best kind because he was, you know, dead, the FBI officially closed the case and declared victory in our time.
Despite the fact that neither researcher ever was shown to have access to the specific genetic strain and that the specific method of creating the coat of weaponized anthrax was a closely held Soviet secret. Nobody in the U.S. had ever produced it or knew exactly how. And the specific genetic strain used in the attacks was found in no U.S. inventory. From a microbiological perspective where it came from was as mysterious as the Roswell Landings.
Pretty much anybody with a PhD or masters in molecular cellular biology or related fields now considered the DOJ and Fibbies their main opponents in any future bioterror attacks. Which given that both sides were necessary to work the problem made this situation that much harder. And the FBI and DOJ had nobody to blame but themselves.
“However, there is a database of all similar experiments being conducted in the U.S. and there are none that are even close. So it didn’t, officially, come from any of our universities or research centers. And there weren’t any ‘unofficial’ ones that come close. In fact, there are so many breakthroughs on this one… No, there are no suspects. No suspect facilities, no suspect individuals and we’re still trying to figure out the vector…”
CHAPTER 5
Nate Dolan, BS, Microbiology, 25 years of age, five foot four in his stocking feet and world-class biology geek with a nearly complete collection of The Amazing Spiderman series to prove it, was regretting more and more his choice of jobs to put himself through grad school. Intergen had been a great place to work. Even if part time and he had to spend most of his time in a moon suit.
Now he had beady eyed FBI agents pouring over his every movement for the last three days while simultaneously expecting him to “help out” for less than half what he got paid at Intergen. In a moon suit, of course.
LAX wasn’t, quite, shut down. But since it was suspected as one of the main sources of the Pacific Flu it had been shut down and might get shut down again. Especially if they couldn’t find the source. And, frankly, anybody had to be an idiot to just go wandering the airport in open when all the “official” people were either keeping their distance or in moon suits.
The powers-that-be were sure at this point that H7D3 was a man-made virus, really cool one for that matter, and that there had to be a mechanical spread mechanism. The technical term for that turned out to be “attack vector.” Nate had learned that when he was getting in-briefed on the search. Which should have showed these bad-suit wearing clowns he hadn’t done it! But until they could find traces of H7 in the environment, which was sort of tough, they were stymied to find the attack vector.
They’d had all sorts of false positives. The antibody swabs they were using were a sort of general “flu” test. They pinged as soon as they hit anything that looked anything like influenza. Which turned out to be half the organic chemicals on earth. Up until today they’d had to send them all back to various labs to be tested.
Today they had, finally, delivered a more precisely tuned antibody test. You still used the strips for initial test but a field re-test was now possible. Drop the strip in a test-tube, squirt in magic antibody fluid and wait for results.
“I’ve got another,” Luiz Lopez said, holding up a strip. Sure enough it was bright red.
He’d been swabbing the inside of one of the stalls. The good news was that anything in there was kept out by the moon suit. The bad news was that about half their false positives came from in the stalls. There was everything in those stalls. It was tough to be a germophobe and work in biology. This job was making him a germophobe. He certainly didn’t ever want to have to use a public restroom again.
“And we have a…” Nate said, shaking the test-tube. The liquid was red as blood. “Positive? Seriously?”
“Did we get a sample to cross-test?” Luiz asked.
“You think they’re going to hand me F7?” Nate said, looking in the stall. There wasn’t much graffiti. The problem with the stalls was that they were, yeah, cesspits on one level but they were also cleaned regularly. They just weren’t cleaned well. So most of the trace evidence, including any H7 should have been removed or degraded by the environment. Even if there had been some sort of vector there a couple of weeks ago, the F7 should have been cleaned away or basically broken down from heat and humidity. And there wasn’t any sort of aerosol canister. That had been the first check. “I’d be too likely to slip it to our ‘handlers.’”
“Don’t even joke,” Luiz said. He was from Argentina working, like Nate, on his masters at UCLA. “You they’d at least give some rights. They even suspect it’s me and I’m on a plane to
Guantanamo.”
“Where’d this come from?” Nate asked, looking around the stall.
“Walls and door,” Luiz said.
If there was F7 in the stall something had put it there. Recently. It had clearly been recently scrubbed. Two more tests showed that the walls, door and even floor were contaminated. According to the swab and tube.
What there was was a deodorizer on the door. A round, green, deodorizer with the motto: “Save the Planet. Reduce, Reuse, Recycle. SaveThePlanet.org” stamped into the plastic.
He’d swabbed those before. They were the first thing he’d hit the first stall he’d seen. And gotten back that the material in the deodorizer was giving a false positive. Which just might have been a false negative. If the carrier had enough chemical similarities to the protein coat of the virus it could be construed as a false positive depending on the test. If the evaporative coating was still coating the virus as one example.
He reached out, carefully, and cracked open the deodorizer.
“I want you to, personally, run this back to Dr. Karza,” Nate said, using a scupula to pull out some of the beigish substance in the deodorizer. “Tell him I suggest he run it through the portable SEM…”
* * *
“Why didn’t you identify that immediately?” the FBI Supervisory Special Agent asked. “Those canisters had been tested, right? I mean, they were obvious…”
“Because microbiology isn’t as easy as POINTING A GUN AT SOMEONE!” Dr. Azim Karza shouted, his eyes glued to the SEM screen.
“There’s no need to get…” the agent said, then coughed and sniffed. “Oh…shit…”
“GET THE HELL OUT OF MY LABORATORY!” Dr. Karza said. As the agent left he gave himself a quick blood test, then sighed in relief. Still no trace of H7D3. He’d seen the special agent using poor transmission protocols but was forced to work with him in close quarters. Which meant that the agent’s sniffles were something other than H7D3. Karza could have cleared that up for him with the same sort of test. But let the myrmidon bastard sweat it for a while.