Boston Under Siege (Book 1): Virus:

by Willson, Fisher

  “No! No, I met him at a briefing with the Colonel. He gave me his number. He gave it to me!”

  Trips’ jaw ached from clenching it for so long. He glanced at the picture on the phone screen. It was a photo of Ami and Alexx hugging, identifying the caller as Alexx. He whispered under his breath, “Pretty girl, 'eh Dad?”

  “What?”

  “Nuthin'. I gotta go. Keep me informed.”

  Alexx marveled, “Wow, you sound just like him!”

  Trips grumbled goodbye, then pulled through the intersection. Minutes later, he rolled toward the gate at Mount Auburn Cemetery. Donning his gear, he scrolled to Ichiro's number. “Come on, Ichiro, pick-up.”

  “Dude, I heard. Why didn't you pick me up at HQ? You’re such a douche! The guys and me are on bikes. You totally hosed us. It’s like a monsoon outside.”

  “Alexx called Dad.” Trips sighed. “Just get here.”

  “How? I can’t just, like, call a fucking Uber, Dude.”

  “Ichiro,” Trips sighed, “my phone’s dying. I gotta--”

  Ichiro interrupted. “Just wait for us. I’ve got something kickass to show you. You’re gonna love it. Skippy says he can get us a ride. We’ll be there.”

  It’ll be too late. “Right. See you soon.” He hung up and released the safety on his wrist rocket. His phone buzzed. What now?

  Snake’s smiling dreadlocked picture stared up at him. He swiped receive and spoke first. “Don't worry about it, man.”

  “No, man. I'm taking a souped-up cocktail of adrenaline and b-complex. I'll be there, brother. You don't get him all to yourself. Wait for me.”

  “Yeah, okay.”

  “Hey, listen, Trips, man. I'm so sorry. This is like, kinda all my fault.”

  Trips felt a twinge in his stomach. “What?” He exhaled. “How could it be your fault? No. Look Snake, just get straight and come along.”

  “No, man. I told her.” He clicked his tongue. “It's totally my fault.”

  The flutter in Trips’ stomach was turning into a flying knee bounce. “Told whom what? What are you talking about?”

  “Dude, I didn't know. I told Sandy where Ami lived. I didn't think anything about it. I didn’t know that Sandy would get her. She was just askin' when I seen her — somewhere, I forget. Where'd I seen her?”

  “Whatever.” Trips rolled his eyes and swallowed hard. Get a grip, Kentigern. You’ve got to move, now.

  “Yeah, but I seen her with him — that Amos guy.”

  “Yeah. Got it. You told Sandy, and Sandy hangs with Amos. Ergo. Okay, thanks. Got it, and I gotta go. See you soon.” He threw the phone on his seat and opened the car door. A blast of rain swept into the front seat. The phone buzzed. Trips ignored the call and clicked on the GPS. Ami's icon didn't appear. “I'm coming for you fucker.”

  His muscles clenched against the cold. The blustery weather made his eyes water as he watched the forest sway beyond the iron fence. “You're so gonna die. I'll find you sweet baby.” His throat clutched as he re-ran the video in his mind. “Turn it off,” he said, aloud. He closed his eyes, concentrating. His mind raced. If they have her phone, they can track you, and they could mask her whereabouts. No one will be able to find you, but it's a chance you've got to take. Do it.

  He clicked the phone off and stepped out of the car. Freezing rain whisked the back of his neck chilling him to the core as he hoisted his sword and bag over his shoulders. He closed the driver’s door quietly and scanned the area with the IR field glasses. His eye landed on a clunky bike against the fence.

  There were two paths up the hill. He calculated the ETA based on a topographical map as he broke the bike lock. The bike was too small for him, but it was better than nothing. You should be there already.

  He glided through the front gates into the forest. Dewey had said zombies were on the loose, but he saw nothing except the green glow of his surroundings through the goggles. As he zigzagged up a small hill, he heard snuffling and the chime of a car door. He stopped just beyond the crest of the hill, masses of zombies were gathered making a meal of someone and their dog. They gnawed on joints of raw meat, the dimming car lamps showing their gore-covered faces and clouded eyes pointing in his direction. He muttered under his breath changing direction, “Stupid. Deserves to die.”

  He peddled between the gravestones, the freezing air of little consequence compared to the chill of hatred gripping his heart. Zigzagging to the upper path, a gush of water let loose and the bike tires slipped in the thick mud. Trips flipped into the lowest gear and stood on the pedals until the gears seized. A twig cracked. He dropped the bike and turned towards the noise, but saw nothing. Then he heard the unmistakable moan, crouched and unsheathed his sword. Where are you? He sniffed the air. I smell you, foul thing. Trips whirled around at the noise of another branch snap. A zombie was looking straight at him, not five feet away with a straggling gaggle gathering behind it. The zombie roared and lumbered forward.

  “Dash it all.” Trips sprinted toward the zombie, leaping into the air and slashing him from stem to stern. Another glommed onto his leg. He jerked it along and swat at the abhorrent gnawing creature, as he grappled with another. He cracked the sword through its skull, and then aimed the wrist rocket at the thigh gnawer. The creature slackened as the rod cracked his brain-pan, and Trips shook the beast off. He stiffened as cold breath assaulted his neck. Teeth grazed his skin and globs of yellow saliva dripped down his chest. Trips stifled a cry as he raised his arm and fired the wrist rocket until the creature fell off. He quaked, resisting the urge to gather spent arrows and run as more lumbered up the hill. His outstretched shaking fingers helped him figure the best angle for his next strike, then he leapt at the creatures, slicing through putrid flesh and cracking bones until no creatures remained.

  His sword thrust out at the hip, he waited for more. None came. A crack of lightning cast blue and gold light on the forest floor and the sky opened up in a deluge. Trips slurped rain water and plucked wrist-rocket arrows from the wasted bodies, then downed half the bottle of water Alexx had given him, and hiked up the rest of the hill to the tower.

  * * *

  The first movement of Mozart’s Eine Kleine Nachtmusik thundered in Ami’s ears. She tossed her head back and forth trying to escape the sound, the thick headphones squeezing her skull. She couldn’t force her eyes open, and could barely move, bound as she was to the hospital bed. Her body ached. She was freezing cold, and all she wanted was to rest, and they wouldn’t let her.

  Seated at the mixing board, Sandy hovered her finger just above the volume slider. She tried not to cringe, glancing from Ami to Amos standing over her. She knew the gain was up too high because she could hear muffled strains of symphonic music from across the cavernous room.

  Amos glanced at Sandy and gave her a slight nod as he sat down. “Ask her again.”

  Sandy snaked through the rococo furnishings, her heels clicking across the parquet floor to where Ami lay. She removed the headphones but left the eye mask in place. “Where did you get the formula?”

  Ami clenched her jaw and tried to raise her hand, but the straps immobilized her arm. “There is no formula. How many times do I have to tell you? My professor, Dr. Felix Weiland, the director of Black Hall Institute’s laboratory for microbial bioenergetics showed me the slides. It was Department of Defense stuff that didn’t work. The soldiers all died. I don’t know why I changed.”

  Sandy glanced from Amos to Ami. “What happened to the DOD slides?”

  “What, specifically, was on those slides?” Amos interjected. “Specifically.”

  Ami tried to shrug, but she couldn’t. Her shoulders hurt. “Nothing.” She sighed. “The usual. There isn’t anything I can point to. It just happened.”

  “Ami, darling,” Amos sat down in a chair next to the bed, crossed his legs and plucked a piece of lint from his knee. “The thing is, I must replicate your results. Do you understand? The use of your blood is only a temporary fix, and I do not plan on living m
y life,” he hesitated, searching for the words, “with the threat of hemophilia hanging over my head like the sword of Damocles.”

  Ami hissed a laugh and swallowed. “Can I have some water?”

  “What’s so funny?” Amos asked. He glanced at Sandy as she picked up the squeeze bottle of water from the bedside table. Amos leaned back. He nodded. “Yes, if you tell me what’s so funny?”

  Ami rasped, “You said something about living your life.” She smiled licking her parched lips. “You’re fucking dead. It’s funny.”

  Amos snapped his fingers. “Headphones. No water.” Sandy clapped the headphones over Ami’s ears. Amos stood up and straightened his jacket. “When she’s ready, four more pints of blood. We’ll try the replication again.”

  * * *

  On the edge of the Tower plateau, Trips watched for moving zombies and vampires littering the soggy field as he sloshed toward the wooden door hanging cockeyed on its hinges. Inside, he took a deep breath, looking down into the abyss, and pulled up a bandana over his nose and mouth. He tapped his sword on the side of the stone pit, waiting. No cataract clouded eyes stared up at him. There was no movement in the dark below. “Okay, in you go, Kentigern.”

  It was even colder, and black as pitch as he lowered himself through the trapdoor. He could taste the rank sour odor of char and spoiled meat as he swallowed down rising bile, breathing in the putrid air. Through the IR glasses he could see lumps of charred flesh. He landed in something mushy. Ugh. Melted bodies littered the floor, and singe blackened the walls. It stank of charred rotten flesh and grease.

  I hope they got ‘em all. He passed down the ossuary hall at lightning speed and into the stairwell crossing. He looked over the railing into the dark passage. Snake said the cages are downstairs,

  “Eenie Meenie,” Trips said. He shook his head. Dammit. I don't know. She might be in Mark's room. “Fuck it.” He padded down the staircase. “Check downstairs first, but be fast. Wicked fast.”

  He crouched as he skulked down the hallway. Two arched wooden doors were closed on either side of the hall. He tip-toed toward the first iron-strapped door on his left, then held his breath listening, but heard nothing. His jaw twitched as he gritted his teeth. Be systematic. He glanced back up at the staircase. Maybe I should go back to Mark’s room. He flipped the sword in his hand. No, you’re here, check the rest, Kentigern.

  He put his ear to the door across the hall. There was a gasp and a cough. He clutched the icy iron door handle, then let it fall soundlessly and listened hard. More coughing. Another gasp and a woman speaking, but he couldn’t understand her words. Everything clenched as he listened. There was a murmur of male voices. He fingered the flat iron lock. It was an old-fashioned lever-lock.

  “Eileanholm,” he breathed as he slipped his hand into his pocket. He knew the type of lock from his uncle's estate in Scotland. As a teenager, he’d break into the whisky cellars and syphon off drams from the sherry casks where the single malt aged. But do you have what you need to open it, boy-o?

  Unbidden, irrepressible memories of Ami with him in Scotland flooded his mind. He tried to dismiss the thoughts, but images of making love on the lumpy mattress, swimming in the moonlit loch, his fear of asking for her hand, and her laugh as they exchanged bike hardware for rings, all raced through his mind as he pulled out every piece of metal he could find from Dewey’s pack. He touched his ring with his freezing fingers. There’s got to be a paperclip, a long wire, something I can use to make a lock pick.

  At the bottom of the pack, he fingered a small felt wrapped tool set. He held his breath as he pulled it out. No way. Dewey, did you pack a lock pick set? Trips sighed. You rock, Dewmeister. You rock!

  He examined each of the metal rods with the squiggly shapes at the end. With the first try, he worried someone might hear. He waited. Nothing happened. No one came. He tried several more times, to no avail. I’ve lost me touch. It’s all gone Pete Tong! An expression he only used when things were at their most dire. You need a wee break, Kentigern.

  He had a few sips of water and repacked Dewey’s rucksack, feeling the bulk of the C-4.

  A wee bit of the criminal element is all you need. Give it one more go. Explosives are the absolute last resort. He set three of the picks between the knuckles of his right hand in a crisscross shape. It took several tries before he could hold it correctly. It’s a long road that’s gone a turning. And longer still until he turned the makeshift key with a soft click. Aye, that’s got it!

  He slipped the lock picks back into their pouch, then heard that hideous laugh from the video. They'll leave. Please leave. Patience Kentigern, patience. Do not fuck this up.

  He waited in the dark, until he hadn’t heard any voices or movement. Just then he heard weeping. It made his blood boil. No male voices. Stay calm. Recheck equipment. Wrist-rocket, loaded. Okay, okay, but just wait.

  His stiff fingers gripped the hilt of his sword, staying limber. He hadn't heard male voices for minutes, but still, he waited. More minutes passed and more solitary weeping; he could stand it no more, and opened the door.

  “Dammit!” Trips exclaimed. There was light in the room; with his IR goggle set to no light, he couldn't see. He tore the IR goggles from his face as blurry figures surrounded him. “Get away from her!”

  The closest figure was on his right. Trips thrust his sword toward the blur.

  “Whoa!” The vampire hissed a laugh holding up his hands, “This kid is serious,” he said, as he leapt onto the back of a couch. He pointed at Trips. “Get him.”

  Trips recognized him as the voice from the video. It was one of the vampires who’d taken Ami. Who’d tasted her blood. He could not contain his fury as blurry figures came at him from all angles. He swung wildly. His sword scraped stone, sending sparks into the room. He made contact with flesh. A body hit the floor. He hugged the wall climbing down the steps as the vampires continued their assault. He shot a rod from the wrist rocket into the blurry onslaught. Another thud. He wove the Claymore in wide figure eight arcs keeping his distance. Outlines started to coalesce as a dark object flashed in the hand of one of his assailants. There was a loud crack, and Trips felt a burning sensation in his abdomen, he heard a woman scream and then everything went black.

  * * *

  Trips fluttered his eyes open in the dark and reached for the light, but his wrist wouldn’t move. He heard a jangle of metal on stone then noticed his hands were numb, and he couldn’t feel his feet. Oh, fuck, he thought. He twisted, and the dull ache in his torso turned to fire. Oh, fuckin' fuckity, fuck!

  In a panic, he assessed the damage and tried to remember what had happened. He tasted blood. He remembered. That flash in the vampire’s hand was a revolver. You’ve been shot. And now, you’ve been captured. He spat blood.

  “Oh, now, waste not want not,” said a deep voice in the darkness.

  He knew that voice. “Amos!” Trips fell helplessly into a coughing fit.

  “Oh, now, what a pity to waste even a drop,” Amos said, lighting a match.

  Trips inhaled the sulfur from the match and kerosene fumes; he recognized the squeak of a hinge. “Show yourself, fuckwad!”

  Amos held the lantern high as he climbed the steps toward Trips. “It’s quite something, you know. This place can accommodate all sorts of needs.”

  Trips spat in his eye. Amos laughed. “Mm. Delicious. Just like that tasty little thing, what’s-'er-name?”

  “Ami!” Trips rattled his chains.

  “Yes, yes, Ami.” Amos teased, swiping his finger through his eye and licking it.

  Trips snarled. “Let her go. You have me. That was our deal.”

  “Deal? What deal?” Amos asked, blithely. “I don’t recall striking any sort of deal.”

  “Let her go!” Trips lunged forward, then buckled from the restraints, in pain, coughing.

  “Oh, yes, the video. Well, rules were made to be broken, dear boy. There is no deal,” Amos said, straightening his onyx cufflinks. “New look.�
� Amos skipped down the steps. He preened in front of an ornate mirror gazing at himself in his sharp black suit and cream shirt. “What do you think?”

  “I think you’re an asshole, and your furnishings are an all-out mockery of Versailles.” Trips choked out a laugh.

  “Doesn’t matter what you think.” Amos turned heel with the lantern and skipped up the steps to the door. He stood in the doorway. “I do hope you enjoy your accommodations, but I completely understand if you don't,” he laughed, and closed the door, leaving Trips in the dark dungeon.

  “Fuck you,” Trips whispered. He spat, and went back to assessing his condition. He had all his teeth, and he could see when it was light, and his vision wasn't blurry. He could feel his toes and fingers more or less. The main problem was the horrible pain somewhere in his gut. “Go on; you can’t feel ‘em anyhow.” He banged his wrist on the wall. “Correction. That hurts like mad. Stupid, stupid, stupid.”

  “Yeah. That’s what I keep telling you,” said a small tinny voice.

  Trips shook his head to get rid of the voices, and grunted, trying to yank a hand through the manacles. “Dammit.”

  “Cavalry is on the way, dude,” Ichiro said.

  “What?” Trips blinked in the dark. “Ich?”

  “Yah.”

  “How'd you —”

  “Root-kit with a remote view, dumbass. Had to turn your phone on and off a few times. You run too many apps.”

  “Where's Ami?”

  “I don't know. You tell me.”

  “I don't know. I blacked out...when...Ichiro, I got shot.”

  “Holy shit!”

  “I'm spitting up blood, dude.”

  “That ain't good.”

  “Geez. Ya' think?”

  “I'm telling Dewey. He's got you on GPS with the wall penetrating radar thing.”

  “Cool. He's okay? I mean you're coming?”