Boston Under Siege (Book 1): Virus:

by Willson, Fisher

  Tactical vehicles roared through dark empty streets of Cambridge with the last couriers and equipment in the cargo hold. Trips sensed everyone was scared from the unpleasant odors of nervous sweat as they jostled back and forth. At the training facility, some people put on airs, but it’s just bravado covering for fear. I’ve been known to do it meself. But this time, Kentigern, haud yer wheesht, keep your own counsel. I’m not sure we’re really ready for what’s coming, but ready or not, deployment is scheduled for tomorrow. Wonder where this undisclosed location is? Patience, Kentigern, you’ll know soon enough.

  The armored truck groaned taking a corner. Trips held onto the metal bench beneath him as his stomach lurched from the pitch downward. The engine whined, and more unpleasant odors of exhaust and bad breath filled the cargo hold. Someone called out they were trying to suffocate them. He laughed with everyone else, craning his neck hoping to reach breathable air. When they unloaded, he was drenched in sweat.

  He gulped in the stale underground air; only slightly better than the truck. He walked over to the chart on the wall and found his assignment. He was to attend the evening briefing in the command post, upstairs. He squinted at the diagram of the Cambridge-side Galleria. Great, now you get to hike up to the mall. Just super. But, heck, you can do some window-shopping. See what you want to pillage when all hell breaks loose. Joy.

  He trudged past the elevators and yanked open the door to the concrete stairs. On the last level, he found Dewey crouched in a wide window scanning the city through binoculars. A burst of artillery gunfire echoed across the Charles River basin.

  “Taking in the evening air laced with the sulfurous fumes of fired munitions?” Trips sat down on Dewey’s windowsill and watched Dewey track the battle. “So, is that noise for the Science Museum?”

  “Been waiting on you. Sure did take you a while.” Dewey shrugged. “You could have taken the elevator.”

  Trips shook his head. “Nope. Don’t trust ‘em.” Trips watched the explosions refracting like fireworks. “Think they'll take it back tonight?”

  “You have trust issues.” Dewey smiled. “Just hope they don't wreck ol' T-Rex.” Three Apache helicopters whooshed past, and Dewey ducked, holding his baseball cap. “Jesus!”

  Trips chuckled, opening a package of Chiclets. “Trust issues, huh? Gum?”

  “What? No, I want to go home!” Dewey tugged his Bruins cap on tight. “You going in? Soup’s on.”

  As they entered the mall, Trips switched his phone from maps to calls.

  Dewey shook his head. “You’re not going to get a line out. It’s restricted.”

  “All of Cambridge is a dampened zone?”

  Dewey shrugged. “Pretty much. Communications are localized. Isn’t that why Ich is working on a system of our own?”

  “Yeah, yeah, right. Wish it was working. I haven’t spoken to Ami or Ichiro, for that matter, in ages.” Trips stashed his phone and sniffed the air. Warm scents of grease, sugar, and salt made his stomach growl. “Food, I smell food. S. O. S, baby.”

  “C’mon,” Dewey said. “This way. Eminent domain. They took over the food court, but they’re not serving tacos or Dunkins, unfortunately.” He grimaced. “Creepy Army chow.”

  Trips’ face fell into a downward pout as they looked down into the atrium of the food court. It was a circus of infantry and couriers. The counters for coffee, Chinese, Japanese, and Italian takeout were dark, but in front of the stalls were tables staffed by military personnel in Hazmat suits, serving slop from oversized aluminum pots. Dewey pointed at the snaking line toward the aluminum counters.

  Trips grimaced. “Not hungry. Just get me something from a machine. I got a meeting. I'll catch up with you.”

  “For plop? You s'pect me to wait in that line for some kind of horrendous rehydrated be-urkey teri-yucky chow main? For all we know it’s zombie guts.” Dewey sat on a bench next to a wishing well festooned with fake shrubbery. “No thank you. I'll wait here, and we’ll break into Dunkie’s later.” He held out his hand. “Gum?”

  “You should eat. You'll feel better.”

  “I’m not going in there alone.”

  “Won’t be nothin’ left.”

  “I’ll take my chances.”

  “No idea how long I'll be. You’re a big guy, don’t be a pussy, and get me something good. If it’s fucking cow mein, they’ll have rice. Get some fucking rice.” Trips tossed Dewey the pack of gum then headed toward command. The manager’s offices were cordoned off with an armed guard. Trips saluted and presented his ID lanyard for scanning, then went to join the meeting in progress.

  Command personnel were in the middle of examining the various staging areas for the East Boston offensive. There were notes and maps regarding the proximity to the airport. Trips shuddered remembering his encounter with zombies on the tarmac as he examined the material.

  The tactical unit Trips was assigned covered the North End, which was the Italian neighborhood jutting into the harbor. The Coast Guard had the shore, but his group would take the cobblestone side streets to find any hidden enclaves of zombies or vampires and expose them while placing any remaining citizens under observation in quarantine.

  The brief pointed out that the North End was likely heavily infested, being one of the oldest sections of the city, and that the Paul Revere house would serve as headquarters. Trips fidgeted, quelling his urge to run as he bounced his knee a mile a minute.

  Figures, he wrote over his doodle of a pizza in the margin. Then he changed it into a no-entry sign. And here I’d been thinking reconnaissance meant coming home with brimming gift baskets of wine, salami and Italian bread for Ami. Now I just hope I survive. Recon syndrome, he wrote on the label of a bottle of wine doodle.

  Under photoshopped images of army troops and couriers was the tagline ‘Working Together.’ Phh, right.

  Trips dismissed the idea and turned the page to a map. He studied the course of alleys, parks, stores, restaurants, and apartment complexes, remembering what he could about the terrain. The swath of land between the highway and the harbor will take all week to cover, barring any unforeseen circumstances. The brief noted that units would be comprised of troops and couriers. They’re not taking into account the looting factor, and somehow, I can’t envision this rosy ‘Working Together’ poster being in any way accurate.

  He chawed his flavorless gum and played with his pen, twirling it over his knuckles as his stomach rumbled. A new map on screen got his attention. It was a detailed view of his section.

  The presenter said, “It is anticipated we will take the Science Museum tonight. This will extend our staging area. Initial reports say the vamps are most vulnerable at Hanover near Mass General because of the human contingent there. They’re fighting back and keeping them at bay, and it's messing with their heads. We'll be fighting for the tunnel, so if you find you need backup, troops may be at the ready to assist, but check with your CO before calling for the National Guard.”

  The commanding officer for Trips unit stood up and took the pointer from the other presenter. “We’re counting on crossover as needed, and we’re reliant on the Coast Guard. Our unit is small and tight, and we’re fighting ready, but they're using trucks as barricades along 93, and this could pose a significant threat.”

  Trips raised his hand. “Why's that, sir? Why are we concerned with Route 93?”

  His CO smiled. “Ever had a two-ton semi chasing you, man?”

  Trips flushed as his foot quaked. He wagged his pen, nodded and slouched back into his seat.

  The commander tapped the laptop on the table, and the map on the screen changed to a high-speed three-dimensional run through the streets. “Get in and get out. That’s all that is required of you. Identify if they’re human, zombie or vampire if possible, but it is not required. Simply pinpointing where you saw something is all we need. We'll do the rest. Do not patrol the waterfront without troops accompanying you. The cut off is Prince Street, though I'd dearly love to take back the Old North.”


  Trips slouched and twitched a half smile. “The British are coming.”

  The commanding officer’s jaw clenched. “What’s that Kentigern?” Trips’ eyes went wide; he sat up straight and shook his head. “That’s what I thought. This isn't a joke, Kentigern.”

  Trips cleared his throat. “Yes, sir, I mean, no, sir.”

  “We'll expect you back here at oh-five-hundred. You’ll gather as much intel as you can manage. Understood? Get some rest; you’ll need it. Dismissed.”

  As Trips headed back, he noted the food court was dark. His stomach rumbled and cramped. He found Dewey in the smoking area of the garage. “Dewmeister.”

  Dewey exhaled and stomped on his cigarette butt. “Hey. What'd they say?”

  “Nothing. Same. We run through the North End, no pizza allowed. Mark the doors of the ill, the dead, and then rescue as required. D’you manage to get me something to eat? I’m starvin’.”

  Dewey smiled, leaned over his guitar case and pulled out a Dunkin’ Donuts box.

  Chapter 19: First Mission

  No pigeons, Trips noted, as he stared out the window of the Paul Revere house at the Tudor two-families on the cobbled hill in the North End. Guess the zombies ate ‘em. He watched wisps of early morning fog rise from the cobbles, and tried to remember a poem about little cat’s feet and fog, but beyond that, nothing came, then he surrendered his attention back to his commanding officer’s final briefing.

  When his team was finally released outside, Trips breathed in the salty chill and scanned the brick row houses, slate roofs and granite cobbles of the landmark square. His forbidding had shifted into excitement as the fog lifted. “They’re wrong, it’s not going to rain,” Trips said, to no one in particular. “It’s going to be a beautiful day, and I am so ready to ride.”

  He buckled the strap under his chin and tapped his helmet. Maybe this won’t be so bad after all. He watched his team line up in formation behind him and tested his microphone. “Delta One this is Red Hawk.”

  He was pleased he got to pick a new name. The only condition was it had to stay an R name. Red Hawk is way better than Red Rocket. “Requesting permission to depart the friendly area. The seek-and-destroy route is as briefed. Estimated Time to Return,” he looked at his watch, “five hours. Mark.”

  Everything was all set for a beautiful ride. He swung his right leg over the top tube of the bike. The metal was cold leaning against his thigh as he secured the mitten caps over his fingerless gloves. He eyed Tony De Marko. “Tone, I told you to wear more than a hoodie.”

  Tony De Marko was hard at work keeping his bike stock still as he stood on the pedals. He jumped to the ground and then nodded, shivering, and tugging his sweatshirt tight. “Yeah, yeah, I know.”

  “Cargo shorts? Damn, Tony.” I know, if you could you’d be in boxing shorts and gloves. You’re so proud of being named after the North End boxer. Can’t say as I blame you. Who was he? Your mother’s cousin? Trips reached in his bag and slapped down an extra pair of gloves on Tony’s handlebars. “Loaner pair, my friend, and you know you’re a pain in my butt.”

  Tony pulled on the gloves. “Thanks. Nice. It’s fucking freezing. Let’s ride already.”

  Trips nodded, chewing his gum vigorously. He agreed. He was more excited than he expected. He twisted his mittened hands over the grips of his handlebars and clicked into his toe clips as a crackly voice came over their headsets. “Please stand by.”

  Tony shivered. “Ah, c’mon! Let's ride already!”

  “Red Hawk, you’re A-Okay to go. Remember from the Paul Revere house to the Aquarium is snugged up and do not venture beyond Prince. Silence is golden.”

  “Understood,” Trips said. They were to operate in radio silence. He hoped he and his crew could keep quiet. He nodded at Tony to take the lead and waited for everyone to head out before he joined the ride.

  The deafening roar of the Humvees and rattle of the cargo trucks seemed to ruin any stealthy advantage the silence of bicycles offered, but Trips wasn’t calling the shots. Whatever.

  Lights flashed from the escort Humvees, and Trips flowed into the middle of the pack. Bike tires slipped over wet cobbles as Trips assessed his riders. He demonstrated how to ride in these conditions by jagging back and forth. He got some attitude, but he expected it, and soon the group was riding like a finely tuned machine sloping around corners and jetting behind triple-deckers, brick row houses, and bow-front Greek Revivals to check rear entrances for signs of activity.

  As the group broke into twos and threes, Trips clicked the map assignments on screen. A pair of grunts joined each pack of riders as they clambered up and down the alleys searching for zombies, vampires, and humans.

  Bewildered and frightened people were escorted to medics for quarantine. Zombies were wrangled into a canvas-covered cages. Sometimes they had to break up families that thought they were protecting their zombie relative. That was the hardest to watch, but for the most part the operations were going smoothly, and Trips was proud of his team sweeping along the ruins of the North End. They were cleaning up Boston.

  Chapter 20: Mapping Progressive Patterns

  Ami rolled across the bed, hopped up, and straightened her black tee and jeans. Her stomach gurgled. She hadn’t eaten all day, and it was late. She flicked on the solar lights and slipped a tape into the cassette player. Ichiro’s proto-punk mix-tape started with the Stooges, which made her think of Trips, so she glanced at the GPS on her phone.

  Yep, he’s still hanging around with Dewey and Snake at the Paul Revere house in the North End. They’ve been there for days. She put the phone back in its cradle and went out to the kitchen.

  At least they’re together. She leaned on the kitchen windowsill and gazed at the dark horizon. I wish he’d come home, or at least call. All of my messages have gone straight to voice mail. She sighed, and tried to put it out of her mind as she rummaged around for something to eat. She settled on sardines, crackers and olives, then sat in bed eating and examining a tourist map of Boston.

  The vampires occupy North Cambridge, she tapped the map with her forefinger, and the zombies are migrating toward them. She chewed on a sardine and cracker as she traced a line from the airport in East Boston to her drawing of Sand and Gravel near the Science Museum. She traced another line back to the North End. It made a giant isosceles triangle, which made her think of Trips. Aw…math boy.

  The past few days of deciphering strings of DNA, and metrics on infection rates, has led to mapping zombie and vampire skirmishes, and I must admit, I am noticing some interesting patterns. She sucked the sardine juice from her fingers. Nope, these aren’t the end objectives.

  She fished out one of the remaining olives from its briny confines and popped it in her mouth. She nodded, studying the map. They’re heading toward…

  With a damp finger, she traced a line into Cambridge and squinted, examining the lack of finer details on the tourist map. Yeah, you need to look at this on screen.

  She circled the general area with a pen, just as her foundling cat jumped up, crinkling the map.

  “Well, hello there!” She stroked his orange tiger-striped back, looking into his large green eyes, and spoke in a cutesy baby voice. “Except that the army offensive keeps pushing ‘em back. Doesn’t it, Miss Kitty? I've got to get the laundry. Are you reminding me? Are you? Yes, you are. Yes, you are! You want the fish juice? Yes, you do.”

  As the tabby lapped the juice from the can of sardines, Ami unearthed some chunky sandals. She exited the apartment with the cat on her heels. He stood poised at the top of the stairs, waiting for her, his eyes glinting in the dim emergency lighting.

  Ami shooed the cat downstairs, just as she heard the click of the apartment door-lock behind her. Oh, shit. A lump formed in her throat. My sword, keys, and flashlight are still inside.

  “Dammit!” She clomped down the stairs in her chunky heels after the cat. “Oh, well, we'll just have to go up the back way, Miss Kitty. I’m sure it’ll be fin
e. We were just down there.”

  The cat jetted ahead into the darkened connecting corridor where the lights had been smashed out. Ami could hear the cat’s bell tinkle as she stepped into the dark. She took five steps. She heard the tinkle of the cat’s bell and took five more steps. Oh, no!

  The smell was foul, and the inhuman moan made Ami freeze. A bead of sweat trickled down her spine. She squeezed the sweat-drenched baggie of quarters in her right fist and took a step back just as cold claws gripped her right shoulder. She screamed and reflexively punched a left cross, followed by a right upper cut with the baggie of quarters. A swift kick to the ribs, and she was free. Alexx's W.H.I.P. training in action.

  She followed Miss Kitty scrambling into the laundry room, back into the amber glow of emergency lighting. Ami jammed an old painted chair under the doorknob. The cat hissed backing between the machines as the door handle rattled. Ami yelped as she made eye contact with the clouded eyes of Mrs. Needlebaum through the chicken-wire window. She braced the chair under the doorknob with her foot as the zombie howled and cranked harder on the door handle, watching her neighbor’s face smearing a trail of goo against the glass. She commanded the door, Lock dammit!

  She heard the cat scampering and caught a wisp of yellow fur darting up the back stairs. “Scaredy-cat!” Ami called over her shoulder.

  She yanked hard one last time on the doorknob. It clicked. Thank God, it’s locked.

  She zig-zagged through the laundry carts. Barricade!

  She lobbed the wheeled baskets together into a tangled jumble, then backed against the giant dryers where her clothes rested still warm with the sweet-smelling drycleaner sheets her mother had given her. Take it? Yes or no?

  Before she could decide, the laundry room door burst open. Ami swung around to see Mrs. Needlebaum crawling over the empty carts like a spider. “Oh, God. Mrs. Needlebaum, you’re a vegan, remember?”

  Grabbing the last remaining cart between them, Ami shoved it at Mrs. Needlebaum. The zombie grabbed the other side. They spun. Ami dodged, faking her out leaving the undead woman against the dryers. She charged. Instantly, Ami grabbed the foul rag mop from the corner and knocked her into a cart. The zombie roared trying to rise, arms and legs akimbo trapped in the basket. Ami slapped open a large capacity dryer, then yanked the cart toward herself and ran full tilt toward the wall of dryers, dumping Mrs. Needlebaum into the drum.