Bishop nodded and took the implements from his cohort. He carefully raised Jackson’s arm and placed the block of wood underneath; Jackson moaned quietly as the drugs seemed to take effect. Bishop looked up at Hooper. “I’m gonna need you to hold his shoulders.” Hoop grimaced but acquiesced. Bishop looked at his subordinate and sighed.
“Sorry about this, bud,” he said as he raised the crowbar above his head and quickly came smashing down with crippling force. The crunch of bone reverberated throughout the small building, with a sickening snap, and even with the influence of powerful painkillers running through his veins, Jackson screamed and instinctively tried to pull his injured arm away.
Hoop did his best to hold the flailing man down. The broken arm hung limply to the floor as Jackson tried in vain to pull it protectively into his chest.
Bishop grabbed Jackson’s arm by the wrist and pinned it to the floor.
Jackson’s eyes were wide open as he watched Bishop retrieve the scalpel from off the floor.
Quickly, Bishop began to cut into the communications officer’s flesh, drawing the scalpel around the man’s arm just below the tourniquet and well above the bite wound, separating the infected flesh from the main portion of his body.
The lower portion of Jackson’s arm came free, and blood merely oozed from the now-opened stump. Jackson’s eyes rolled back in his head as consciousness left him.
Bishop grabbed a wad of gauze from within the medical kit and pressed it firmly to the remaining portion of Jackson’s arm. He then began to wrap the stump tightly, thankful that the tourniquet had done its job—only a small amount of crimson leaked from the ragged stump. Bishop was glad that the poor man had finally managed to pass out, allowing him to at least momentarily escape the pain.
Bishop replaced the unused portion of medical supplies back in the first aid kit lest they should happen to need them again, which, in this type of situation, was more than likely going to be the case.
Bishop climbed to his feet, leaving the passed-out form of Jackson on the floor where he lay. Figuring with the amount of morphine he had given the soldier, he’d be out for a few hours, if he survived, that is. Bishop may not have known much about the K5 strain, but he knew the infection and mortality rate was off the charts like nothing they have ever seen before. From the reports that he’d read, once infected, the disease was always fatal, but the reports had never described anything even resembling what they were seeing now. It was almost as if the disease killed and then resurrected its victims. He knew that was impossible; however, he did have a fleeting suspicion that whoever had acquired the pathogen had made some kind of alterations to it. Bishop had seen many men and women take fatal gunshot wounds out there on the highway and just get up and keep coming as if nothing had happened. It wasn’t until someone scored a headshot that the bastards went down. He couldn’t quite wrap his mind around the whole thing. All he knew was that he and his men were going to have to keep a close eye on Officer Jackson.
Jackson lay still on the floor, his pallor taking on a grayish hue in the pale light that flooded in from the broken windows at the front of the store. His eyes remained closed as his orbs rapidly flittered back and forth under the thin membrane of his eyelids, as if he were dreaming.
Bishop could only assume that whatever the man was experiencing in his unconscious state had to be flat-out nightmarish, judging by the expression etched across the black man’s face. A mixture of fear and pain flashed over the man’s hardened features.
Bishop turned as the sound of someone entering the front door quietly resounded throughout the room. An old man in a black uniform stumbled in through the entryway, cursing as Jones followed closely behind. His slightly balding head was coated with sweat, and thin wisps of white hair clung to his forehead and temples as he limped across the front of the store and over to the island that resided in the shop’s center. He paused as he came to stand by the countertop, leaning against its cool surface.
Marvin glanced over the top of the counter and down at the shop keeper who, only a short time ago, he had been forced to dispatch. The old Marine stared at the ruined corpse, with a continence of cold detachment. As if someone else, somewhere far away had committed the act.
Bishop eyed the man closely, studying the old man’s reaction, and knew instinctively that this man had seen combat, which meant he was a soldier, a soldier like himself. This he may be able to work with.
A noise from the rear of the store caught their attention as Officer Scotty came bashing through the metal door that led in from the garage.
Winters’ smirked as he saw the robust form of a man carrying in the damaged case that had resided on the workbench where he had left it.
Scotty carried the large case over to his commander and flipped open the lid. “Empty,” he said dryly to his captain.
Bishop nodded, studying the interior of the case briefly. He looked over at Marvin, still leaning up against the counter, pretending to be interested in some scratch-off lotto tickets in a small clear plastic case atop the counter.
“Where is it?” Bishop asked with a slight edge to his voice.
Marvin ignored him and continued to study the scratch-off tickets seeming to take interest in one in particular. “Money Pit—five dollars for a chance to win big, match any three like symbols, win the amount listed below, chance of winning up to one hundred thousand dollars,” he said, ignoring Bishop.
Bishop stepped closer. He wanted very much to start hounding the old man, to pry the information he wanted out of him; but judging from what he had seen thus far, he didn’t believe scare tactics were going to get him very far with this one. No, he was figuring him for a soldier, probably Vietnam, Korea possibly judging by his age. No, he was going to have to try to appeal to the old man’s sense of duty, to his sense of patriotism.
“Jones, take your weapon off of this man,” Bishop barked.
Jones flinched at his commander’s order, eyeing him dubiously. “Sir?” Jones questioned, furrowing his brow.
Bishop shot the man an annoyed glance.
Jones nodded, retreating away from his captive, and walked past the counter over to the front window and came to stand next to Vindetti.
Vindetti looked over and gave Jones a cursory glance, cocking what looked like a sly grin on his gnarled pockmarked features. Jones glanced at Sal out of the corner of his eyes. “What?” he said annoyingly.
Sal smirked, ignoring him, and turned his gaze back out into the parking lot.
Jones stared at the man for a moment, and then followed suit, hefting his weapon and aiming out through the shattered front window into the parking lot. Sun glinted off the shards of broken glass and created a serious of shifting shadows in the gas station’s interior as clouds slowly shifted in the sky. “Asshole,” Jones muttered.
Vindetti stifled a laugh just as he thought he saw movement to his right. His neck jerked right in the direction of the lambent shift, and he studied the surrounding area. Nothing, he thought, as he searched the area around an abandoned fuel truck.
“What is it?” Jones asked, taking notice of Vindetti’s actions.
“Just thought I saw something. Guess it’s just nerves,” Vindetti replied, still gazing in the direction of the fuel tanker. Jones nodded in agreement.
“Been a lot of that going around today,” he said, scanning the area as well.
Bishop approached Marvin Winters and leaned up against the countertop next to the old man. “Sorry about that, sir,” he said, gazing over at the old timer.
Marvin remained quiet using his fingernail to scratch the surface of a lottery ticket. Marvin blew off the latex dust, smiled, and held the ticket out for the captain to see. “Would you look at that. I just won twenty bucks,” he said with a slight giggle and stuffed the ticket into his lapel pocket.
Bishop let out a breathy sigh. “The contents of that case, sir? Where are they?” Bishop said, trying his best to keep the irritation out of his voice.
Scot
ty held up the open case, showing it to the old man.
Marvin pretended to inspect it, adjusting his glasses he peered inside. “That’s a fancy case, bub. Sorry, but I have no idea.” Marvin gave a dismissive wave of his hand and turned to select another lotto ticket.
Bishop grabbed the old man’s liver-spotted hand. Marvin halted his movement as Bishop tightened his grip.
Bishop leaned in close. “I don’t have time for games, sir. If you hadn’t noticed, there is a shit-storm going on outside, and the contents of that case may be the only chance we have of stopping it,” the commander hissed.
Marvin looked over at the captain. “You mind taking your hand off of me, bub?” Marvin said flatly.
The captain released his grip and held up his hands. “Look, I can tell you’re a reasonable person, so let’s cut to the chase. You have information that we need. Give us that, and you’re free to go,” Bishop tried to fake a smile, but it looked out of place on his hard features.
Marvin eyed him suspiciously. “Let me go, just like that?” Marvin made an example by walking his index and middle fingers across the countertop. He considered for a moment and shrugged. “Nope, still don’t know what the hell you’re talking about, chief.” He smiled.
Bishop’s smile faded, and he took a step back nodding.
Scotty stormed forward and slammed the empty case down hard on the countertop and grabbed Marvin by his shirt collar. He thumped him hard against the counter’s surface. “Listen, you old fucker. You’re gonna give us what we want, or I’m gonna tear you a new asshole!” The burly red-haired Scottish officer said, sending flecks of warm spittle into Marvin’s face.
Marvin blinked away the offending liquid and gave a sheepish grin. “You’re gonna have to do better than that, bub.” Marvin brought his implanted joint and artificial leg up, slamming it hard into the large man’s groin.
Scotty’s eyes went wide with shock as the metal implant struck his tender testicles and sent a wave of pain clear up the big man’s chest, causing him to release his grip, and double over in pain. Scotty gasped and reached to cover his nuts before the old man could deliver another blow.
Bishop reared on Winters, slamming a gloved fist into the side of his chin, knocking Marvin off center.
Marvin’s false teeth nearly flew out of the side of his mouth with the impact. He involuntarily bit his cheek in the process of trying to keep his false teeth in place.
Bishop, using his feet, planted them in between Marvin’s legs and shoved him sideways, grabbing his arm in the process. He wrenched the old man’s arm free from the countertop and spun him around like a ballerina dancer.
Marvin went down hard, tripping over Bishop’s feet, his face thumping hard against the flat surface. Blood pooled out from his lips as the captain wrapped the old man’s hands behind his back, effectively restraining him.
“I didn’t want it to go this way, sir,” Bishop spat in Marvin’s ear as he used his free hand to fish around Marv’s pockets. After a moment, Bishop located Marvin’s wallet. He tossed it aside and continued to frisk the man harshly.
Marvin started to chuckle as Bishop searched him. “Stop! Ha-ha! That tickles,” he said doing his best to enervate the man.
“Scotty, pick up this asshole’s wallet and see who the fuck he is,” Bishop ordered.
Scotty mumbled and cursed as he shuffled his way over to the billfold and retrieved it off the floor. He flipped the old tattered brown leather wallet open and thumbed through its contents and retrieved what looked to be a driver’s license and work ID. He held the ID up for his boss to inspect.
“Says here his name is Winters, Marvin Winters,” Scotty said with his slight Southern drawl. “Says also that his partner is a Kyle Walker.” Scotty tossed the IDs onto the shop counter in front of the two men. Bishop studied the small credit-card-sized objects closely for a moment.
“So, Marv, if you don’t know about the information we’re looking for, perhaps your partner does. Where is he?” Bishop sneered.
“Shit if I know, probably a God damn pile of ashes by now after what you people did.” Marvin’s voice began to tremble ever so slightly at the thought of his longtime friend being burnt to a crisp. He just hoped that it had been quick. Or even better, that he had managed somehow to escape the blast. He doubted that outcome; however, the bomb they had dropped on that portion of 95 had no doubt vaporized anything within half a mile of the blast zone. He could remember his days in Vietnam, where the use of napalm was widespread and the subsequent devastation that followed the cleansing fire. What they used here was a hundred times more powerful than that.
“Hey, Cap, check this old biddy out. Maybe we should ask her.” Scotty held out an old tattered photograph of a sweet-looking elderly woman.
Marvin shot his gaze over toward the burly man and the photograph. “You leave her alone, you sons-of-bitches!” Marvin struggled against Bishop’s forceful grip. The captain pressed Marvin’s face harder into the countertop, causing him to wince in pain.
Jones and Vindetti looked away from the window, watching the scene play out just as an explosion ripped through the, air sending metal debris into the store front. The gas station shuddered as a plume of flames shot upward toward the sky.
Jones was knocked to the floor under the weight of a wayward magazine rack that was picked up off the floor and hurled toward him. Shards of glass bit deep into his bicep, and he squealed in shock and pain.
Vindetti ducked and rolled to one side, narrowly missing an oncoming shard of scrap metal.
Startled by the explosion, Bishop momentarily released his grip on Marvin.
Marvin, feeling the captain’s lapse in concentration, used the opportunity to break free of his grasp. Bishop reached for his sidearm. Marvin spun around and planted his foot directly in Bishop’s abdomen, causing him to double over. Scotty reached for Winters just as he felt something brush across the back of his neck.
Startled, Scotty whirled around only to see blank eyes staring into his. “Jackson?” Scotty breathed, startled to see the man standing on his feet. Jackson snarled and lunged. Scotty tried to sidestep the attack but slipped on broken glass shards that lay strewn across the floor. Jackson fell on him tearing into his windpipe, clamping down hard with snarling teeth. Blood shot out as Jackson wrenched his head back, tearing the tender flesh from Scotty’s trachea. Scotty tried in vain to scream as blood bubbled out of the opened wound, his vocal cords no longer able to create sound.
Scotty floundered on the ground as Marvin began to run toward the door.
Officer Hooper, late to the party, came bursting through the doorway of the garage and into the store. “Hey, what the hell is—” Hoop stopped as he took in the scene. “Holy fuck!” he screamed as he saw the form of Jackson tearing strips of flesh away from his former partner’s face.
Shouldering his submachine gun, Hooper opened fire, striking Jackson in the back. Flecks of deep red and orange blood spilled out from the small wound pattern that exploded on his backside.
Jackson paused in his feast and slowly stood. He turned and faced Hooper and growled in a low feral pitch.
Hoop gasped as he seen the eyes of the man he once knew. The look was both intense and empty all at once. Like pools of nothingness reflecting his very soul. Dark rims lined his eyes, and blood spilled freely from his gaping mouth and dribbled over his chin, staining his shirt. The look of the man was, was horrific. Hoop stepped back slowly, keeping his weapon trained on the man. Hooper, in his mind, knew his friend was no longer with them. That the man he once knew was long gone and was replaced by this, this thing. He knew he should put him down. Yet he hesitated.
“Jackson, man, what are you doing?” Hoop stammered as he continued to back away.
The front door burst open as Marvin made a hasty exit.
Hoop glanced his way momentarily, distracted by the noise. Jackson lunged, throwing himself bodily into Hoop’s distracted frame. Hoop, realizing his mistake, threw his hands up, blocking
the man who snapped his jaws and lunged for his exposed neck. The two men struggled, Hooper doing his best to keep Jackson at bay as Jones managed to push the magazine rack off his legs.
Vindetti crawled to his feet and headed over to Jones’ position, thrusting out a hand to help the big man to his feet. The two paused, watching as Marvin darted out into the parking lot seemingly lost in smoke and flames.
Hoop struggled with the snarling form of Jackson. His bloodied maw lunged and caught the collar of his uniform and tore off a strip of black fabric. Hooper screamed as a smallish wound exploded outward on the forehead of the attacking Jackson. His head slunk down and landed on Hooper’s chest; Jackson’s raging body went slack, all of his weight crushing the wind out of him.
Jones and Vindetti grabbed the dead man by the back of his shirt and hauled him off Hooper. Hoop gasped as air returned to his lungs. He coughed violently and turned to his side, vomiting. After a moment of shaking involuntarily, he steeled himself and sat up.
Bishop stood over him, pistol still clutched in his hand. Alex held a hand out to Officer Hooper. “You okay, soldier? He didn’t bite you, did he?” Bishop said.
“No, sir, I don’t think so,” Hooper replied, still shaking. He looked himself over, checking for any obvious wounds. Spotting none, he took Bishop’s hand. Bishop helped the man to his feet. “Damn, he got Scotty,” Hoop said.
Bishop, as if remembering this fact, quickly turned. Taking aim with his pistol, he fired a single shot straight into the dead man’s forehead. His subordinate’s head jerked sideways as the round punched through his skull. Blood pooled beneath the wound and ran onto the glass-covered floor.
“What the fuck, boss?” Hooper backed up in shock. His eyes transfixed on the man that had just had his throat tore out. “He was dead, Cap. Why would you do that?” Hoop nearly shouted the last part.
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