Patient Zero

by Maberry, Jonathan

  “Balls. You may be a world-class pain in the ass, Jerry, but you’re also the best of the best. I got no time for second team. You got the magic and you were available. You want me to beg? Is that it?”

  We glared at each other, but then I could see something shift behind his eyes. Something I’d said had hit the mark. He stepped back and flapped an arm at me. “Ah . . . shit!”

  “So what does that mean? Are you in?”

  We were inside the shower room of the crab plant and he looked down at the floor as he absently rubbed the spot on his chest where bullets had cracked his sternum. “Thirty years, Joe. Thirty years on the job and I never so much as caught a scratch. Not a splinter, and then that asshole damn near punches my ticket. If I hadn’t had the Kevlar I’d be dead.”

  “Yeah, man, I know. Upside is that you did have the Kevlar. Universe threw you a bone.”

  “Christ, you been reading The Secret or some shit?” He scowled at me and then sighed long and deeply, wincing a little as he did so. Then he gave me a crooked little smile. “You’re a total pain in my ass you know that? You at least save that Cigarette boat for me?”

  “Um, well, no,” I said, “. . . we kind of blew it up.”

  “Crap.” He turned and looked around at the ruined shell of the shower room. “All right, dammit, let’s get this dog and pony show on the road.”

  I offered him my hand and we shook. “Thanks, Jer. I owe you on this.”

  “You owe me a frigging boat.”

  “I’ll see what I can do,” I said, wondering if Church had a friend in that industry.

  There was an FBI forensics investigator on hand to assist Jerry and I was amused to see that it was Agent Simchek—my old friend Buckethead, who’d braced me at the beach and dragged me into this mess. He didn’t return my nod and only gave Jerry a hard and unsympathetic stare. The FBI never likes playing second chair to ordinary cops. Simchek carried a full evidence collection kit and an air of disapproval.

  I wasn’t fluffing Jerry’s ego when I said he was the best. I’ve worked with him on the task force and on a few other cases that had connections between Washington and Baltimore. I’m good with a crime scene, but Jerry is better than me or anyone I ever heard of. If there was any way I could persuade him to sign on to the DMS as head of forensics I was going to give it a hell of a try. Church said that I could have whatever I wanted.

  Jerry looked at the rows of lockers behind which Skip had been hiding. “There was a struggle here.” He squatted down, careful of his chest, and looked at the floor and shone a penlight at different angles to evaluate the shadows cast by dust and debris. He asked Simchek for evidence markers, and received a stack of small plastic A-frames. Jerry put four of the numbered orange markers down on the floor and started to get up, then settled back down on his upturned heels and narrowed his eyes for a moment, then grunted and said, “Clever.”

  Simchek and I looked at each other. Jerry frowned for a moment and then added a fifth marker, right between the first and second set of lockers. That’s when I saw it but I can’t pretend that I ever would have seen it if Jerry hadn’t spotted it first. It’s why I asked for him. Simchek, to give him credit, was only a half-step behind me.

  “Is that a door?” he asked.

  “Uh-huh,” Jerry said as he stood. “I understand one of your boys went missing here at the infiltration point. There’s no other way out of this room except the corridor and the doorway that they blasted. Scuff marks pretty clearly show that he was using the first set of lockers as a shooting blind. I figured that unless he’s a damn fool there had to be another access point, otherwise it would have been impossible to sneak up on an armed sentry. Another door made the most sense, so I looked for one and voilà! But we won’t open it until the bomb squad checks it out. But I’ll bet you a shiny nickel that this puppy opens silently.”

  I made the call and we moved on but stopped almost immediately as Jerry and Simchek both had their first look at what filled the corridor. The air was thick with blowflies. Corpses were sprawled singly or lay together as if in some grotesque dance; they slumped against the walls or lay in pieces. Beyond the first few bodies was a mountain range of the dead. The air was heavy with the drone of blowflies.

  “Holy . . .” Simchek’s voice failed him and he closed his eyes. Jerry sagged and almost leaned against the wall for support. After a few moments Jerry took a bottle of Vicks VapoRub from his pocket, dabbed some on his upper lip, and handed it without comment to me; I took some and gave it to Simchek. Even with the menthol goo blocking out the smell the scene was almost too intense to handle. We literally had to crawl over the bodies in order to get to the far end of the corridor. That’s an experience I knew was going to stay with me.

  When we got to the spur of the hall where the bomb had gone off I saw that a lot of the evidence—the clothes and other items—were gone, blown to atoms along with several members of Alpha Team. All that was left in some places were swatches of cloth and smears of red. Jerry stood for a long time and looked at the clothing that remained, whistling a soundless song.

  Simchek leaned close to me and whispered, “He run out of ideas?”

  Without turning to us Jerry said, “You want to tell an Italian mother how to make gravy?”

  Simchek frowned at me. “What?”

  “He means shut the fuck up,” I interpreted, and Simchek lapsed into a wounded silence.

  Jerry went back to walking the scene but he didn’t say a word. His mood had downshifted and perhaps the scope of this thing had finally sunk all the way in.

  Finally he said, “This is going to take a while, Joe . . . let me work it alone, okay?”

  “Sure, Jer,” I said, and left him to it.

  Chapter Seventy-Four

  Crisfield, Maryland / Wednesday, July 1; 11:54 A.M.

  I SAT DOWN across a folding table from Ollie Brown and for two whole minutes I looked at him and said nothing. He met my stare the whole time. I was looking for him to sweat, to squirm, to look away. He didn’t.

  We were in a small room in the back of a travel trailer belonging to the DMS. His face was gray with exhaustion and there were dark smudges under his eyes.

  “You’re giving me the ‘look,’ Captain,” he said at last.

  “What look?”

  “The one that says that you have a problem with me.”

  “Is that what I’m saying?”

  “You want me to admit that I screwed up? Okay. I screwed up. There, I said it.”

  I waited.

  He sighed. “I let myself get blindsided. If you’re expecting me to make excuses or try and worm my way out of it, then forget it. If you want to bounce me off the team then go right ahead.”

  “You think that’s what this is all about?”

  “Isn’t it? You called me in here, you make me wait here for an hour before you come in, and then you sit there giving me the look. What else could it be about? Or . . . are you going to give me shit about what happened during the firefight?” I said nothing, so he made a face. “Shit. Look . . . sir . . . this zombie stuff may not bother you but it’s scaring the living shit out of me. We were losing in there and I started thinking about what was going to happen. I could see myself being bitten. After seeing those kids yesterday I can’t get it out of my head. So, yeah, I get a case of the shakes. My hands are still shaking. I saw one of those walkers coming up fast and I took the shot. You moved right as I fired and the bullet passed close. Things were getting pretty hairy in there and I was scared out of my fricking mind. There, I admit it. You happy now?”

  No, I thought; I wasn’t. This wasn’t where I expected this conversation to go.

  “Tell me again how you got taken.”

  “I told you twice. I told Dr. Sanchez four times, and I told Sergeant Dietrich five times. The story isn’t going to change because there isn’t enough of the story to change. I felt a burn on the back of my neck and next thing I know I wake up strapped to a chair and some towelhead asshole i
s smacking the crap out of me. Then you, Top, and Bunny come in and you know the rest.”

  I waited for another few seconds, but Ollie didn’t seem like he was about to start sweating anytime soon. If this was all an act then it was a good one.

  What I said was, “Room Twelve.”

  A bad actor would have jumped to his feet, knocked his chair over, and started shouting bloody murder right about then. Ollie cocked his head to one side of me and gave me a look like I’d asked him to explain his involvement in the sack of Rome.

  “Ah,” he said softly, half smiling. “So that’s it.”

  “That’s it.”

  He sat back and folded his arms across his chest. “No,” he said, and he didn’t say another word.

  Chapter Seventy-Five

  Crisfield, Maryland / Wednesday, July 1; 12:44 P.M.

  SKIP LOOKED JUMPY from what had happened in the plant. He’d been pelted pretty good by the falling debris from Dietrich’s rescue and had bruises and butterfly stitches on his face. While he waited for me to speak his fingers kept lacing and unlacing on the tabletop.

  “That was some shit, wasn’t it?” he asked, giving me a nervous laugh.

  “It was memorable,” I agreed, and then I gave him another dose of the long silent treatment. His reaction was the exact opposite of Ollie’s; Skip was younger and more high-strung. His hands and eyes never stopped moving. He was so jittery that it was hard to get any read at all on him. So far he’d been the least “warriorlike” of the team, though admittedly during both battles with the walkers he’d been quick and efficient. Grace said that he’d been half-crazed when Alpha Team found him, and maybe that’s what I was seeing here: the aftereffects of fighting solo against those monsters. I remembered my own reactions after I fought Javad. I freaked, I threw up, and I had the shakes.

  On the other hand, he—like Ollie—had told us that he’d been taken off guard at the crab plant. I studied his face. There was no way to know if the mole was even on my team, let alone whether it was Ollie Brown or Skip Tyler. But of the two choices I found it hardest to believe it of Skip. Maybe that was his shtick or maybe he was as innocent as he seemed. I was too exhausted to trust my own judgment.

  “Our forensics guy figured out how you got taken,” I said after a moment.

  He came to point like a bird dog. “What the hell did happen? Secret door?”

  “Secret door,” I agreed.

  “Son of a bitch.”

  I nodded. Skip looked at the tabletop for a long time and when he raised his head his eyes were wet.

  “I’m sorry, sir.”

  I waited.

  “I should have checked.”

  “You’re lucky you weren’t killed.”

  He looked away for a moment while he took a steadying breath. “Sir . . . after what I saw in there yesterday and today, after what I did . . .”

  “What you did?”

  “I . . . shot women. And kids. Old ladies. People. I killed a lot of people,” he said in a whisper. His mouth trembled and he put his face in his hands and he began to weep.

  I sat back in my chair and watched him. His grief was everywhere. It filled the room.

  I wondered what Rudy was thinking about all of this. The DMS had cameras that no one could spot, and Rudy was in the adjoining room watching it all.

  Chapter Seventy-Six

  Crisfield, Maryland / Wednesday, July 1; 1:18 P.M.

  AFTER I DISMISSED Skip my phone buzzed. It was Grace.

  “Joe!” she said urgently. “It’s Aldin . . . hurry!”

  I ran out of the room and sprinted across the parking lot and into the interrogation van where I saw Aldin lying on the floor. Dr. Hu and two nurses were working frantically over him and the little prisoner was shuddering with convulsions. Everyone was wearing surgical masks and latex gloves. I snatched a set off the table and pulled them on.

  “We’re losing him,” Hu hissed desperately.

  “What’s happening?” I asked, dropping down beside Grace, who was holding Aldin’s feet.

  “It’s the control disease. It’s activated . . . he’s dying.”

  I shot a look at Church. “I thought you said that you gave him the antidote.”

  “We did,” Church said. “It’s not working.”

  “I think it’s a different disease,” Hu said as he worked. “This one’s much more aggressive. Maybe a different strain, I don’t know.”

  I placed my hands on Aldin’s chest to try and keep his body from thrashing, but I was pissed. “Oh, come on, Doc . . . two different control viruses? That’s bullshit.”

  As if to contradict me Aldin went into full-blown convulsions, every muscle in his body seeming to seize and clutch at once. It was so sudden and so powerful that it nearly threw us off him.

  “My—my—” Aldin tried to talk past clenched teeth.

  “Clear his mouth,” I snapped.

  Hu hesitated, looking to Church, who nodded. “The captain gave you an order, Doctor.”

  With great reluctance Hu removed the air tube. Aldin coughed and gagged. “My—children?” he gasped. “Are they—safe?”

  “Yes,” I said, not knowing if it was true or not. “We got to them in time. They’re safe.”

  He closed his eyes and the violence of the tremors seemed to diminish as relief flooded his face. “Thank you. Thank . . . Allah.”

  I put my hand on his shoulder and gave him a little squeeze. He settled back against the floor, the convulsions fading for the moment. “Tell us how to help you?”

  Aldin shook his head. “I don’t know. The pills always . . . worked before.”

  Hu looked at me. “We don’t have your pills. We’re using what we found at the first two sites.”

  Aldin suddenly went into another fit and when it passed he looked considerably weaker, more dead than alive. He tried to say something but his voice was barely a whisper. I leaned close, strained to hear. “Save—them—”

  “Your children are safe,” I assured him, but he shook his head.

  “No. Save them. Save . . . all of them. There—is still—time. Save them!”

  “Who? Who do you want us to save?”

  “L—L—” He couldn’t form the word. Blood seeped from his nose. He closed his eyes and a tear of watery blood fell from his left eye. When he opened his eyes one pupil was massive, a clear sign of a cerebral hemorrhage. He was fighting to hold on with everything he had, and I felt myself admiring him for the ferocity of his struggle—and, truth be told, for the lengths he had been willing to go to protect his children; but this was a fight he couldn’t win. He knew it, too. We all did. He forced his mouth to shape the word slowly. “L—Lester—”

  “Lester?” I said. He nodded. “Lester who?”

  Aldin tried to answer, failed, shook his head. He turned and spat blood onto the floor.

  “Aldin . . . who is this Lester? Give me a last name? Who is he? What does he do? Tell me something?”

  “Find L-Lester—” he whispered, and struggled as the next wave of spasms tore through him. Blood was welling through his skin, erupting from his pores. It was like his whole body was disintegrating. With the last fragment of his will he shaped another word and I bent close to him to catch it. His voice was faint, a fading whisper. “B-Bell—Bellmaker . . .”

  And then he was gone. He sagged down and lay utterly still.

  Grace let out the breath she was holding and sat back, pushing a damp strand of hair out of her eyes. She looked at Aldin and then at me. “Lester Bellmaker,” she said. “Have you ever heard of him?”

  I reached out and closed Aldin’s eyes. “No,” I said tiredly. “It doesn’t mean a thing to me.”

  “Doesn’t ring a ‘bell,’ huh?” Hu said in an offhand tone, and I wheeled on him.

  “You’re a half-step away from life on a ventilator, asshole.”

  Hu recoiled. “Jeez, sorry. I was just trying to make a joke. It’s not like he was one of the good guys.”

  “Shut up,�
� Church said, ever so softly. Hu flinched as if Church had slapped him and he got up and walked to the far end of the van and threw himself into a chair.

  I stood as well and looked down at Aldin. “Did I lie to him, Church? Or did we really rescue his kids?”

  Church got to his feet and peeled off his mask and gloves. “We were too late by about three days. The whole village was already gone. Someone let some walkers loose. All of the bodies were laid out for us to find. There was another tape. El Mujahid. It’s on my laptop.”

  I punched a nearby cabinet and left a dent in it. “I can’t tell you how much I want to find this guy. You can keep my paycheck, Church; just promise me that when we find El Mujahid I get to be locked in a room with him. Him and me.”

  “You’ll have to get in line,” snarled Grace.

  “First things first,” advised Church. “We need to identify this Lester Bellmaker. If he’s a link to El Mujahid then we need to jump on it.”

  “I’ll run it through MindReader,” offered Grace. “If his name is in anyone’s database we’ll find him.” She hurried out.

  Church and I stood there, still looking down at Aldin.

  “Did you get anything else out of him?” I asked.

  “Bits and pieces. It looks like the crab plant was the hub of this whole operation. People were abducted, infected, and studied. Aldin said that there was no plan that he knew of to release them at the present time. Once a subject was completely transitioned—his word—they were simply stored. He said that his team was studying the varying rates of infection based on age, race, body weight, ethnic background, and so on. The children in Delaware were part of a new phase of the experiment, but he had few details. Sergeant Dietrich tells me that the blast did not destroy all of those computers you found, which means that we should be able to harvest some or all of fourteen months of their findings. Dr. Hu”—and here he cut a brief, hard look at his pet mad scientist—“thinks that it’ll shortcut the search for a cure.”