Doomsday's Child (Book 2): Came Monsters

by Pete Aldin

  "I was at a hostage situation. Once. Twenty years ago. Domestic situation. I didn't go in, though."

  "Others went in?"

  "Yes."

  "They kill the guy, the hostage taker?"

  "No. Pepper-sprayed him and detained him without firing a shot."

  "Right. Because for most cops in Britain or Australia, excessive force means you guys lose your jobs and pensions. And you're trained to protect people from harm, even bad guys. If you're coming in with me, you need to forget that. We're following three principles: we move methodically, we move decisively, we take immediate violent action when meeting resistance. Immediate violent action. No second guessing. This is you, too, Jimmy."

  "You yelled at me for shooting that guy."

  Elliot ran a hand over his face. "This is a different situation."

  "How?"

  "It ... it just is. Now concentrate. Hear what I'm saying and do what you're told. If either one of you sees a person holding something and facing us, you put them down. You put them down, you get me?"

  "Yes."

  "Yeah."

  Woodsy didn't look happy about it; Jimmy showed zero emotion at all, eyes on his Glock.

  "You didn't kill that Vike you spoke to at the creek that time," Woodsy said.

  Elliot shook his head. "Again, a different situation. This isn't meeting a neutral party in the open or on our terms. This is close quarters combat. This is ingress, incursion. We do it this way or we don't do it."

  Woodsy nodded again. "Okay."

  "That ramp entry is on the corner of the building, so presumably the space at the bottom opens up to the left, spreading beneath the ground floor. Woodsy, you and I are going to do what's called slicing the pie. At the bottom of the ramp, I'll move left and you'll move right. There's an imaginary line from the bottom of the ramp across to the far diagonal corner. Anything to the right of that line is yours and to the left is mine. We are responsible for our own slice. You getting this?"

  "I'm not an idiot."

  "Good to know. When we leave the ramp, you'll follow your wall to the closest corner while sweeping your slice, and at that corner you will stay until I reach mine to the left. When we both signal clear, we advance along the side walls, clearing obstacles as we go. Obstacles might be cars, pallets, trash cans, pillars."

  They all flinched as two birds speared through the canopy above, one chasing the other, squawking. It went on a while and Elliot slow-breathed, scanning the bush again. Sound like that could mask the approach of hostiles.

  When the birds had moved out of the immediate area, Elliot continued, "If the next obstacle is on your side of the room, I pause while you clear it. Then we move on together. You pause while I clear them on my side. We move together. We reach the next entryway to get into the building interior. I'll take up a cover position while you either input the code or use that hooligan bar."

  Jostling the twelve-pound fire department pry-bar in his pack, Woodsy said, "What if the hooligan doesn't work?"

  "You'll apply the shotgun to hinges or locks. That doesn't work, we'll makeshift a battering ram."

  "What if that doesn't work?" asked Jimmy.

  "Then we wasted our goddamn time, didn't we?"

  "Let's get on with this," Woodsy said, wiping sweat from his brow. "We still have to get out of here before dark."

  "Two more things first, because I don't plan to die today. One, neither of you sweeps a weapon across my position or each other's. You have your zone, you stick to it."

  "Have we swept our weapons across you yet?" Woodsy grumped.

  "We haven't had a situation where you really needed them yet. Two, when we pass that fence, we're walking in a triangle. We're walking in a hurry, but a careful hurry. Jimmy, can you walk backwards without falling over?"

  "Yeah."

  "Right. Woodsy and I will be shoulder to shoulder. You'll be right at our backs as we cross that yard. Again, Woodsy watches right, me left. Oh, and three: as I said, Jimmy will be on that ramp when we reach it, lying down, facing out. Jimmy, you will not look back into the garage once you're there. You will keep watching outwards."

  "Wouldn't we be better with Jimmy in there with us?" Woodsy said.

  "You gotta argue every point? Do what I say and we all live."

  Maybe.

  "Fine," said Woodsy. "Then I'll repeat my point. Let's get on with it."

  Elliot took the cutters from his pack, left the pack where it was and moved to the fence.

  Part Three: The Killing Floor

  13

  It didn't go as planned.

  ⁓

  Inside the building was white and grey.

  All of it.

  The room they'd entered off the garage.

  The stairwell to the level below the garage.

  This corridor.

  The air was flat. Filtered. All Elliot could smell was his own body odor. And Woodsy's.

  He followed at Woodsy's heels while the former cop hissed curses. Elliot had a few of his own going.

  It was far warmer inside the building than outside; even without his sweater, Woodsy had a triangle of sweat darkening the back of his t-shirt. Elliot could feel the same on his; with his weapons missing from his belt, he felt as good as naked.

  The corridor ended in a T.

  The man walking three metres back from Elliot said, "Left."

  Woodsy turned left. Elliot followed with a backwards glance; he'd have about a second to turn and brace himself to catch the man trailing them off guard—

  "I wouldn't," the man said.

  Elliot swore and gave up that idea.

  The branch corridor stretched ahead for thirty metres. There were several doors along each side. Woodsy drew level with the third on the right.

  "Stop," the man ordered. "Open it."

  Woodsy did.

  "Inside."

  Elliot turned to face the leader of their black-clad and helmeted captors. Another man and one woman flanked their leader. All held short-barreled assault rifles, wore black ballistic vests. They'd hidden their eyes behind tinted assault goggles.

  "I said inside," the leader repeated. He was barrel-bodied with a couple of inches on Elliot. There was no urgency in his tone. No irritation at the delay. The command was matter-of-fact.

  "We're not your enemy," Elliot tried. That provoked a slight smile on the clean-shaven face beneath the goggles. For a moment, Elliot flashed back to The Guy in Al-Kasrah. He hadn't thought about that asshole in years. He said, again, "We're not enemies. We're people like you. We need—"

  "Don't care. Get in the room."

  When Elliot turned around again, Woodsy was already inside. With a growl of frustration, Elliot went in, too.

  A lunch room. Empty counters and sink, a rectangular table, six kitchen chairs. Counters on two sides. An empty cork bulletin board glued to one wall. The door closed behind them. There was no lock, but at least one armed guard would stay out there. No windows, since they were maybe twenty-five feet underground.

  Woodsy slumped into one of the seats.

  Elliot opened cupboards and drawers.

  When he'd checked the last drawer, he slammed it as hard as he could. Not a knife, spoon, plate or glass to be found.

  "Elliot."

  No microwave or kettle to strip the cord from. "We could break a chair. Use the leg. Or," he reopened the drawer, leaning over to study the steel tracks it ran on. "Help me pull this out."

  "Elliot!"

  "What?"

  Woodsy pointed to the ceiling opposite the door. The dark lens of a tiny camera glared at them.

  Elliot reared back and slammed the sole of his boot into the drawer, then whirled and kicked a chair across the room. "Sonofabitch!"

  "SERPs." Woodsy smoothed his thin hair down. "Bastards."

  "SERPs." Elliot stood there, clenching and unclenching his fists, filling his lungs with air, needing intel, needing grounding. This whole damn trip had been a mistake. And he'd known it; he'd felt it in h
is gut the whole time. "What are SERPs? Counter terrorism?"

  "Counter-any-bloody-thing the government was afraid of. Counter-protest, counter-gangs, counter-terrorism." Woodsy checked his palm as if expecting to see color had come out of his hair. Then he slapped the table. "I was a good cop, you know. In my younger days. Then I got into management. Found out what the force was really full of and really for. Everything was about keeping the world the way the politicians wanted it. Not the way normal people needed it." He tapped a rhythm on the table for a while, then seemed to realize again he'd been lost in a memory. And that Elliot was awaiting more information. "SERP stood for Special Emergency Response Police. But these mongrels were never true cops. Too full of themselves. Most were army rejects who didn't make the cut for the SAS. Others were the type who thought policing was about batons or bullets first, discussions later. And that guy running them? That bloke is one true narcissist. I mean it. He's—"

  The door opened then. Elliot guessed he'd find out what Woodsy didn't like first-hand.

  Several "SERPs" crowded outside the doorway. Their helmets were missing this time.

  A smirking cop with Indian features entered the tearoom first. His breast-badge read DA SILVA. Sri Lankan then, thought Elliot—he'd spent time in South East Asia right before the Collapse; Sri Lanka had inherited many Portuguese names during the Colonial era. Da Silva was a little shorter than Elliot but much much bigger, bulked with muscle. He'd be stronger in a clinch, slower in hand to hand. The man was hard as nails, there was no doubting that.

  A female SERP entered next. ERIKSON. Her posture marked her as one of those who'd ambushed them in the garage and marched Elliot and Woodsy down here. Her close-cropped blonde hair reminded Elliot of Angie's when he'd first met her; her dead eyes did not. Something about the way she held herself—the bunched-up muscles of her forearms below her black shirtsleeves or the cruel curl of her lips—told Elliot she was perfectly capable of hurting him if he gave her cause. She'd also be perfectly okay with doing it.

  Below their necks, every other part of the two SERPs' bodies were covered by either black hard-shell or tough flexible clothing the same color. Da Silva moved to one corner, covering his prisoners with a yellow taser, his cocky smile lifting his cheeks and revealing clean white teeth. Erikson remained by the door, holding her Smith & Wesson .40 cal semi-automatic in a relaxed grip by her side, finger on the guard. Her other hand rested on her holstered taser. Neither one was close enough for Elliot to tackle since he was backed up against a wall beside the sink.

  Their leader came in next. He, too, had lost the helmet and neck-guard. Also his dark glasses. He stood at the table beaming down at Woodsy. His shoulders had rounded with late middle age, his cheeks and forehead wrinkling, a small paunch pressing against his shirt. But his face was rugged, 1950s-movie-star-handsome. Thick black hair showed white at the roots, overdue for its next dye-job. The .40 cal in his holster was clipped in, and he wore no armor over his shirt. With two subordinates in the room, he obviously didn't feel like he'd need those defenses. His glasses had put little dents either side of his aristocrat's nose.

  And the ring and pinky fingers of his left hand were completely gone.

  But the man looked ready the way the woman Erikson looked ready. A star-shaped scar marred the skin above his left eyebrow. And his hands—what was left of them—were big: broad with thick fingers and knobby knuckles. Brawler's hands.

  Following at his heels came a fifty-something civilian woman ... Civilian. It was curious that Elliot's mind reverted to categories like this under stress. She remained in the doorway with slumped shoulders and wary eyes, a notepad and pen clutched to her blouse. Her plain grey business slacks had seen too many washes. Her hands and face were horribly pockmarked and there was something wrong with her right eye, the random flutters of its lids like the flickering of a bad neon.

  Elliot caught movement out in the corridor past her, shadows. More cops, no doubt.

  "Kyle," the leader said. He wore no name tag, so Elliot would take his word for it. His sidearm might be holstered, but he had not left himself completely defenseless, tapping Elliot's confiscated Shrade lockblade on his thigh. He added, "Surname, not first name. I'm telling you that," he said to Elliot, "because he already knows me. Dontcha, Terry?"

  Woodsy's head had drooped when Kyle entered and he didn't acknowledge him now.

  Kyle pointed the blade at him. "Terence Matthew Woods. Never thought I'd use that name or see that face again." The knife tracked toward Elliot. "And you are?"

  "Wondering where the kid is."

  "Hah! Nicely done. He's quick, Jason," he told Da Silva with the taser. "Do you mean Jimmy? Jimmy Schaefer, former resident of Huonville, eighteen years old last December? He's currently a resident of another room one floor up and he's answering our questions to the best of his ability. Unfortunately, the best of his ability isn't proving very useful to us." He tapped the scars on his other hand with the blade. "None too bright. Hopefully you're brighter, my friend."

  These last twenty-four hours, several things had made Elliot wonder just how messed up Jimmy really was. Perhaps the kid was good at playing that part. Maybe that was something he'd learned while a slave to the Druids. He said, "He's just a kid."

  "Sure. And I asked you a question. Your name, sir?"

  "Elliot."

  "First name or last?"

  "Does it matter?"

  A smile leaked across Kyle's features. "S'pose not. American?"

  "Sure."

  "Occupation?"

  "Survival."

  "Before that."

  "Truck driver."

  "Logging? Freight? Garbage?"

  "Sure."

  "Sure. A truck driver. And I'm Father Christmas. What do you reckon he was, Jason?"

  Da Silva narrowed his eyes in scrutiny. "Private security. Cop. Something like that."

  "I agree. Handles weapons like a pro. Had a system for clearing the parking bay. Watches his choke points. Yeah, 'something like that'."

  "You're cops," Elliot said. "Hopefully that means you're good guys."

  "We're the authorities here, that's for certain."

  "And we're just people. Citizens."

  "Oh, Jimmy Schaefer is just a people-citizen. Not you, though. Not Woodsy here." He turned to the policewoman, Erikson. "You remember Woodsy?"

  "Sure do." Her smile was grotesque, a mannequin trying on human expression.

  "Assistant Commissioner Terry Woods was right on track to be our next Deputy Police Commissioner. And maybe from there, he'd get the top job."

  "Not a highway cop then?" Elliot asked.

  Kyle laughed. "He tell you that? No. Not a highway cop for about fifteen years. Thing was, Assistant Commissioner Woods was a very naughty bloke and they were about to fire him. Possibly charge him. The story broke a week before the outbreak happened." He put on a newsreader's voice. "Assistant Police Commissioner's cocaine and prostitute habit uncovered. More details after this commercial." He waggled those eyebrows again, then feigned seriousness. "But. A day or two before he was gonna resign or get fired or get arrested, the toxies came along and prevented it. New headline: End of the world lets Police Bigwig off the hook." His grin was back. "Is that not a great story, Elliot?"

  Elliot said nothing. Woodsy's chin was pressed onto his clasped hands. Despite the heat, he was trembling slightly.

  Kyle continued, "Technically, he's still our Assistant Police Commissioner. How about you, Glenda?" he asked the civilian woman behind him. "Remember Woodsy?"

  She gulped an affirmative. Neither she nor Woodsy made eye contact. She glanced at Elliot though. It was quick: he saw fear there, and he saw pity.

  Ah, shit.

  "Glenda used to be our state Attorney-General and Minister for Justice. Before you broke into our facility and we locked you in the garage, Glenda and I were conducting inventory downstairs. Inventory of ... Oh, that's right! The items we were counting were the items you came here to steal, weren't they?
No need to explain them to you then. So, Glenda and her daughter were amongst the people we evacuated from parliament during the outbreak. Girl fell and hit her head. She's a bit brain-damaged these days, unfortunately. A bit ... special. But we take care of her. Because we like Glenda. She's educated. In return, Glenda and the other politicians we saved take care of us. A small price they pay for retaining a relatively affluent lifestyle."

  Erikson's face had returned to stone, but Da Silva let out a small snicker at whatever joke Kyle was making.

  Woodsy cleared his throat. "You...you're rebuilding society here?"

  Kyle sighed wearily. He was still standing between the table and the open door. He pulled out a chair and jiggled it. "Glenda. Guess we're chatting a little before business."

  Tentatively she sat, kept the notebook to her chest.

  "Write down anything they say you think is important." Kyle pulled another chair, sat between her and Kyle. He commenced cleaning a fingernail with Elliot's knife and asked Da Silva, "Am I good cop or bad cop this time?"

  Da Silva grinned. "You're good, I'm bad, Erikson's indifferent."

  "Thought it was your turn for indifference."

  "I need the practice being bad."

  "Right-e-o, then. I'll make some chit chat to put them at ease, then you come in with the threats if and when the time's right."

  Elliot had thought Glenda to be wound as tight as she could be, but she hunkered deeper into her kitchen chair. The notebook crackled in her grip.

  Kyle changed fingernails. "And Erikson shoots 'em if they try anything a taser can't handle."

  Erikson murmured, "Absolutely." She took out her taser. A weapon in each hand now.

  "This is unnecessary," Woodsy started, but Kyle raised the hand with the knife.

  "It's hospitality, Assistant Commissioner. You asked a question; I'll answer it. Yes, we're rebuilding society here. This facility is a cornerstone of that. What's a society without medicine? And that's what you came here for, right? The drugs?"

  "The man does like his drugs," said Da Silva.

  Woodsy dropped his head again.

  "That was a little unkind, Jason."