Rise & Walk (Book 2): Pathogen

by Gregory Solis

  Hours after eating and dressing, she heard a commotion from the street behind her apartments. Rushing to her kitchen window, she saw a man standing by two black jeeps parked in front of Hobbs’ Liquor store. She scrambled to open the window to call out to the man for help. As she tore the window open she noticed two more men exit the liquor store carrying boxes of alcohol. It was then that she noticed the men were armed with rifles. She took her hand from the window, with the thought that looters might not be the best people to ask for help, but it was too late. Her rush to open the widow had caught the attention of one of the men who now looked up at her with a sinister grin.

  Eleven

  Jack Mason entered what looked like a large office on the second story of the house on the opposite side of the hall from the master bedroom. He moved quickly to a sliding glass door and peered out onto a balcony. Opening the door he saw a number of spent shotgun shells on the tiled floor. Next to the shells sat an automatic Skeet-throwing machine with a few clay discs left in its rack.

  “He shot skeet from his office balcony? What a Dick.” Mason said out loud.

  If there’re shells, there must be a shotgun. Jack thought as he closed the curtains and turned on a standing lamp. Next to a bookcase was a large oak cabinet. He opened the cabinet and smiled. Inside he found two double-barreled shotguns. One was a very expensive looking over-under twelve gauge shotgun, the other an old double barrel Remington. In a drawer underneath, he found two full boxes of shells and an old World-War II era, German Lugar as well as a half-full box of loose shells. The Luger was easily recognizable. He was never a fan of the Nazis but they did manufacture some fine weapons. Though the pistol was most likely actually used in the war, making it over sixty-years-old, he knew its reputation as a reliable weapon. There was an empty magazine for the Luger but no nine-millimeter bullets for the vintage pistol. He pocketed the pistol and examined the over-under shotgun. It was the finest, most expensive shotgun that he had ever seen. He had no idea how much it might have cost but the ornate design etched into the silver plating said to him that it was worth quite a bit. Stamped in its side, he read the manufacturer’s name; Browning Citori. He ran his hand over the polished silver and felt the intricate etching of the design work. He released the lock and cracked open the breach. The front part of the barrel dropped towards the floor and Mason quickly pulled two shells from the half-open box. He loaded the long barreled shotgun and flicked it closed with a very satisfying metallic snap. It wasn’t an automatic rifle and a mound of ammunition, but a few boxes of shells and a shotgun this beautiful was better than nothing.

  Downstairs, in the family room, Nikki’s eyes grew wide when they fell on the Television. She quickly snapped up the remote control from the coffee table. The large display mounted above the fireplace hummed to life. As the image became clear, she recognized the actors, one a beautiful redheaded English woman and the other a floppy haired blond young American. The film was a romantic retelling of the ill-fated voyage of the Titanic. She frowned as she watched Leonardo Dicaprio pretend to draw Kate Winslet. She remembered that this film had played in their small local theatre for an entire summer when she was a kid. She hated the film for its sappy, unrealistic romance. How in the world could a woman as beautiful as Kate Winslet ever fall for a boy like Leo? The movie was too much of a silly fairytale for her, though her friends ate it up.

  She tried to change the channel but the television only responded with the word, “Input,” on the screen. She thought that she must be on preprogrammed movie channel. Why else would this sappiness be playing during a disaster? She wondered. Nikki found the button labeled TV on the remote and pressed it. The television erupted into a Breaking News story; the volume so loud that Nikki jumped and fumbled to turn it down. She looked behind her with nervous surprise, not wanting to appear foolish in front of the others. When she realized that she was alone she turned her attention back to the broadcast. The studio was brightly lit and expansive, like all major network newsrooms. A beautiful woman sat at a table with two men, as if it were any other normal news day. Nikki slowly increased the volume.

  “So we will air the Vice President’s remarks live at ten a.m. eastern time tomorrow. “ The woman looked to the side and nodded, clearly receiving instruction.

  “Now we are going to re-run a press conference from earlier today by the Secretary of Defense, concerning the return of overseas troops.”

  Nikki shook her head and pressed the channel button. She wasn’t interested in world events at the moment. What she needed was local news. She stopped on the Oregon station but it only played a washed out rebroadcast of the previous network’s feed.

  “…hastily assembling at ports and airbases with an emphasis on force protection…” She changed the channel again; trying the Sacramento station. An onscreen graphic said ‘Please stand by’ and underneath, just as had been with the other channels she scanned, a black strip with white letters crawled across the screen. The crawl used words like ‘National Emergency’ and ‘Await further instruction.’ Nikki changed the channel again to an independent station out of San Francisco.

  A very serious woman sat at a cluttered news desk sorting through a handful of papers as she spoke. A large half empty bottle of Evian stood on the desk. The woman looked out of place as she lacked the highly styled hair and make-up of a network newsreader. The top of the screen flashed ‘Evacuation ordered for San Francisco.’ At the bottom a graphic said, ‘Avoid any infected persons.’ An image of a man in white silhouette with a flashing red target on its head was in the lower right hand corner of the screen with the words, ‘Susceptible to head-trauma,’ underneath. The woman drank from her bottle and furrowed her brow as she read.

  “Do not attempt to leave safe areas without a plan and some sort of protection. The Bay and Golden Gate bridges have been sealed. There’s no access through those routes. The ferry landings have been completely over run by infe...” The woman stopped, lowered her head and then rose back up to look directly in the camera.

  “…Over run by what ever these things are. The government is saying infected, others say they’re dead. Whatever they are, they’re deadly. If you’re still in the city and have the means, get out. Get together with your neighbors and arm yourselves. What we’re hearing from law enforcement is that there’s hardly any law enforcement left; just a few cops hunkered-down here and there.” Something caught the woman’s attention off camera.

  “She’s back? Okay. We’ve established contact with Allison…”

  Nikki remembered that the boys were from San Francisco. She dashed up the stairs and called out to them.

  Tony jogged into the office and saw Jack standing behind the desk.

  “Can we get this place secure?” Jack asked without looking up.

  “Yeah,” Tony said looking around the room and out the balcony, “I wasn’t sure about the sliding glass door in the back. Usually that’s a pretty big weakness but its not made outta glass either.”

  “Like the mansion, huh?” Jack said looking up.

  “Yep, I think its bullet-resistant Lexan.”

  “Weird. Cool, but weird.” Jack said. “With that and the outside fence, I guess we’re pretty safe here tonight.”

  “I searched the garage and the other rooms. All I found was this Forty-five and a single walkie-talkie” Tony said ejecting the magazine and locking back the slide. “Only one clip though. Did you find any Forty-fives?”

  “No. None. Did you find any Nine-millimeters?” Jack asked.

  “No, no other ammo anywhere.” Tony answered looking around the room. “Why wouldn’t this cat have more ammo?”

  “I know I would.” Jack grumbled. He picked up the Luger and tucked it in his belt. “I’m gonna keep this one. I got a few hundred rounds at home. You think a guy who ran an ammo factory would have more shit?” Mason said looking at the hardware on Lance’s desk.

  Tony spun the .45 and reinserted the magazine, “I’ll hold on to this.”

 
; Jack snatched up the Citori over-under shotgun. Tony grabbed a box of twelve gauge shells and the Remington double-barrel shotgun.

  “We should give this to Veronica.” Tony said. Jack nodded and stared at the remaining ammunition heaving a heavy breath. Footsteps pounded up the stairs and Nikki’s voice called out.

  “News is on; they’re talking about San Francisco.” Her voice cracked.

  Tony set down the shotgun and shells then headed to the stairs. Jack paused and looked at the telephone on the desk. He slowly reached for the phone, lifted the handset to his ear and heard nothing. He tapped on the buttons and heard the tones but the phone made no connection. Jack tossed the handset onto the cradle with a hard plastic crash. He tightened his right hand into a fist and left the room.

  Twelve

  Alexandra sat at her desk in her suite trying to decide if she had all her ducks in a row. Her briefing was complete and sent off to the leader of Richardson’s personal security team, her laptop and spare batteries were ready, her satellite link and sat-phone were packed. All that was left was to make a few calls and try to get some sleep; if that was possible. She didn’t like the idea of accompanying Richardson and knew that she would be expected to serve as little more than his assistant. But there was more than just resentment at what could be seen as a temporary demotion; Alexandra was finding herself reluctant to leave her staff at the facility. She snapped up the phone and dialed the extension for her Chief of Security. The phone answered after a single ring.

  “Security.” Said the voice of Keith Cavanaugh.

  “Good evening Cavanaugh.”

  “Evening ma’am. What can I do for you?”

  “The Old Man ordered me to accompany him tomorrow. I’m leaving you in charge of the facility until I get back.” She said fishing a Camel light out of a pack on her desk.

  “Affirmative, he informed me of that himself; any special instructions?” He said.

  “Just keep everyone safe. I can get him to sign off on an Aries Team for back up if you like.” The phone was silent.

  “Cavanaugh? Are you there?”

  “Yes ma’am.” He cleared his throat. “No, I think my team will be just fine.”

  “You don’t like Aries do you?” She lit her smoke.

  “I don’t like Mercenaries. I had the displeasure to work with some contractors in ninety-one. They’re undisciplined, sometimes out of shape, and frankly a little too barbaric for me.” He said unapologetically. “And they’re paid too damn much to be working next to enlisted personnel.”

  Alexandra nodded. She liked Cavanaugh. He was an old soldier, what they used to call Regular Army, who put in his twenty before going into security. She set her cigarette in the ashtray and smiled at his candor.

  “Anything new in the world?” She asked as she kicked her heels off under her desk. She stood, stretched, unzipped her pencil skirt and allowed it to fall to the floor while listening. Gonna need some jeans and hiking trainers for tomorrow, she thought.

  “The boys have been listening to French military traffic. A mixed company of infantry and law enforcement refused to fire on a group of people in Paris. They couldn’t tell who was infected and who wasn’t. They ended up overrun by the crowd.”

  “Jesus!” She said sitting back down.

  “Television coverage was graphic. The French called in ground-attack helicopters supported by Mirage jets. They’re strafing the Left-Bank at this moment.”

  Alexandra put a hand to her forehead and rested on the desk. She had lived in Paris during an internship at the U.S. Consulate while in grad school; Six months of free labor for the government. She looked at her cigarette; the very habit she had picked up on the Rive Gauche. Paris wasn’t as clean as she thought it would be but she still found it a beautiful city. She never could have imagined it becoming a war-zone. She cringed at the thought of fifty-caliber fire pulverizing the grand mirrors of the Café de Flore, where she would study in the afternoons while smoking Gauloises and drinking coffee that could cure narcolepsy. The café had survived the Second World War, but she wondered if it could survive this.

  “Chief.”

  “Ma’am?”

  “I’m filing a company order. It won’t carry any real legal weight but it will shift any responsibility to me if we get into trouble.”

  “Ma’am?” he asked.

  “I’m officially authorizing you to take any an all measures to keep the staff of this facility safe. You have full access to all arms and armament, even R&D ordnance.” She said suddenly feeling guilt that she was leaving her crew.

  “Don’t worry Ma’am. We’re surrounded by desert and double fenced. We’ll be okay.” He assured.

  “I want you to requisition a supply drop tomorrow. Whatever you can get your hands on; put it on the company tab.” Alexandra said.

  “I’ll see what I can do.” He said.

  “You sure you don’t want some help?” She asked reaching for her cigarette. She noticed that her fingers trembled as they found the smoke.

  “I’d sooner teach the Skunks to shoot.” He scoffed. “We’ll be fine Ms. Devereaux, and if you don’t mind me saying so, thank you for your concern.”

  Alexandra nodded solemnly and closed her eyes.

  “Good night Chief.” She said feeling her jaw tighten with stress.

  “Night Ma’am.”

  Thirteen

  A map of San Francisco flickered on the screen with red shaded areas to the north and east. The rest of the map slowly faded from red to orange to yellow as it went south. Thick black lines slashed across the throats of both the Golden Gate and Bay bridges out of the city. A voice spoke over the graphic.

  “Thank you very much Allison, and please thank your guest for us. Stay safe.”

  The image switched to a low lit newsroom bustling with activity in the background. All pretense of a glitzy broadcast under normal circumstances had been dispensed with. This was news; functional, raw, and as it breaks. A young man dashed towards the woman at the desk and whispered in her ear while handing her a paper. He left and she spoke.

  “Okay, we have a tape from a network broadcast that we want to show you. It’s from our competition but we think the information is important so they can bite me about rights and clearances. “

  A muffled voice in the distance said something to the woman. She shrugged and another voice said to her, “The cell phones.” She nodded.

  “Yeah, while we cue that footage I want to remind you about what we have learned about cell phone service across the state. The cellular network is understandably overwhelmed right now but we have some suggestions. The network attempts to route calls around areas of outages so service that isn’t working at one moment may work later on.” The woman said setting down her notes. She looked directly in the camera and pleaded.

  “I know you want to reach out to loved ones. I do, I really do, but please take some of the burden off the network by using your phone; cell phone or land-line, as sparingly as possible. If you can’t get through, don’t try again right away, wait an hour, or two, or try at four in the morning when the load will be lighter. You’ll save your battery and you’ll help us all.” The woman gave a tired smile. Another voice called out to her from off camera.

  “Oh yeah, this is important. If you get through to a cell phone but there‘s no answer, leave a voicemail. We have heard more than a few instances of individuals who couldn’t get cell service to connect a call but they could get their voicemails. So that’s another hint. Text messaging is working on and off in this same manner.”

  The same young man from before dashed back into the scene and handed the woman a torn piece of facsimile paper, then moved off as fast has he had appeared. She read it for a moment then spoke,

  “This is an advisory from Oakland P.D. Apparently they are using civilians and other non-law enforcement personnel to coordinate the securing of the Bay Bridge.” The woman looked off camera and asked, “Is this serious?” Her face looked reluctant and she n
odded before continuing.

  “They are advising their personnel to place identification with the names and address of their next-of-kin in the front right pocket of their pants. “ A heavy weight washed over the woman’s face, “Somebody at OPD is thinking ahead, but Good Lord, that’s bleak.”

  Another shout came from the studio and the woman, reached for her bottle of water. She opened the cap and said.

  “Now let’s look at the tape from our conservative friends in New York.” The woman mumbled something inaudible but clearly derogatory and leaned back to drink from her bottle, the screen faded out.

  Nikki couldn’t help but notice the tension in Jack Mason’s posture. What started out as him leaning against the back of the couch quickly turned into a mangling of the cushions as his hands clenched harder with the ongoing newscast. Tony was another story. He spoke.