Houston, 2030: The Year Zero

by Mike McKay

  Chapter 23

  When Mark arrived to the Station, most had already reported on-duty, summoned by the automatic emergency notification system. A large LCD screen in the hallway was on, switched to SRTV news. Instead of its usual night test table, the local station transmitted an electronic map, with the estimated path of the approaching hurricane and Doppler radar rainfall. The Station looked busy: almost everyone was on the phone, trying to improvise some kind of emergency response.

  By the emergency roster, Mark and both junior CSIs were assigned to a Coroner team. Presumably, they would go around the districts and decide if any dead were strictly the hurricane's victims or due to human violence. To investigate the latter, the Station had another emergency team, headed by Alex the Russian Bear, with Alan Moss for a medical examiner and two deputies for firearm support.

  Mark found his team members in the garage shack. Natalie, in her scene coverall and Tom, dressed only in cut-off jeans, stood on top of a deflated Zodiac boat and scratched their heads how to bring the little monster to life. The Police obtained these boats from military surplus, – back then, a category of surplus still existed. During the acquisition, the boats were already in mature age. Now, ten years later, the synthetic rubber was at its final.

  Natalie stomped the goddamn rubber with her bare foot. “We christen this mighty ship USS Hole in One,” she announced, breaking an imaginary bottle of Champagne over an imaginary ship hull. “In these boats, we make the first clients of our mobile Coroner office – ourselves!”

  “More likely, we end up clients of our Shrink,” Tom smiled. “To dare in such a piece of junk through a hurricane, – you must have five-inch cockroaches in your head! But if we put enough patches, and on calm water, it may hold a couple of bodies. Hopefully.”

  Mark nodded. “Should I give you a hand with your Hole in One?”

  “Please don't! We infect you with our five-inch cockroaches in the head…”

  Mark returned to his office. After labeling each murder location with a felt-tip, he removed the pins and folded the map from the wall. He synchronized his phone, unplugged the keyboard and screen from his laptop, pulled all the folders from the desk drawers, and packed everything into a carton. With the same felt-tip, wrote: FBI CASE EVIDENCE. EVACUATE – FIRST PRIORITY.

  Mary called Mark around half-past six, a bit upset. “Mark! Samantha wants to go to the 'Fill! I said: no way! But she keeps telling me it's OK.”

  “Is she alone or with Frederick?”

  “Altogether. Fred's Marty too. On Mike's trike.”

  “It's OK, honey. Let Samantha go. After all, in case of floods the 'Fill is the highest point in Houston.”

  “The highest point, my ass! OK, she may go. But Pamela and Patrick are staying home. SRTV says, schools are officially off.”

  “Of course, honey, everybody else stays. You know what to do. Check the windows. Make sure the phones are fully charged. And the torch-lights. Ask Patrick to find our emergency radio, somewhere between his toys… Get few bottles of water upstairs…”

  “C'mon, darling! It's not my first hurricane,” Mary replied. Now her tone was all-business. Surely she did not need any of Mark's instructions. Before the Meltdown, the Government spent millions of taxpayers' dollars to make stupid TV clips: WHAT TO DO IF THERE IS AN EMERGENCY. Now, living in the state of permanent emergency for the last fourteen years, the famous American common sense kicked in, and everybody knew what to do without any clips.

  Mark helped Benito Ferelli to pack the Station Chief's archive, then wandered around the Station, offering help here and there. In the CSI conference room, Alan Moss was cleaning his service Glock while two young policemen and Alex removed storage grease from Uzi guns and stuffed magazines with ammo. Not a bad idea, Mark decided. He returned to his office and pulled rags and oil from the bottom drawer.

  Benito popped his head in. “Cleaning your gun, Mark? Go, check the weapons' room. The Sheriff had been a good boy today, – by his orders, we can open the reserve ammo.”

  “I have two full clips already.”

  “Still, go get more, dude. You never know when you need 'em. Store is no sore. And – should you get Uzis for Natalie and Tom?”

  “I think, we can skip it. Unlike the clients of Bear and Alan, our customers will not shoot back. The dead don't know how to shoot, even if they're – zombies. But lose an Uzi, – and we have to write excuses till Christmas.”

  “Probably, you're right,” Benito said. As it often happens in emergency situations, now they had absolutely nothing to do. Within the resources available, the Station was ready. Even acorn coffee and fresh sandwiches had been sent to the Station by proactive shop owners. Mark finished assembling his gun and went to the weapons' room for the extra ammo. As he walked past the lobby, the news screen flashed an update: the hurricane had been promoted to Category-5.

  Around noon, Bear's team got their first call: an armed robbery – a food shoppe owner was shot. Alex, Alan, and two deputies packed themselves into yellow Police raincoats and went to investigate. Mark's team was not invited. A bullet to the forehead, – hardly a Coroner's case.

  Before the Meltdown, there used to be massive raids on supermarkets during the natural disasters. Even law-obeying citizens ran in to get themselves a tin of baby formula or a shrink-wrapped pack of bottled water – for free. A Police cruiser would be dispatched. Most often than not, the policemen stood peacefully at the entrance and watched the show. The United States was not China or North Korea, and nobody could give orders to shoot the armless, even if not strictly non-violent, crowd. Besides, all these Walmarts and Walgreens were insured, – a little looting was hardly a loss for their millionaire owners. No supermarket looting tonight – due to complete absence of supermarkets. The owners of tiny stalls and shoppes would protect their twenty feet of shelf space with their dear lives. Those twenty feet – all they had, and none of the insurance companies survived the crisis. Now the owners were sitting inside, their doors and windows – bolted shut, cartridges – in the gun chambers, and the fingers – on the triggers. No looting anymore, but a tough quick-draw competition, the Wild West style.

  Around half-past one, Mark's phone beeped with a private call. Mary sounded upset again. “Mark? Davy's fever is back! One hundred and three degrees! We should see a doctor, what do you reckon? Ris wants to go alone, but with her belly…”

  Mark glanced through the window. Outside, heavy rain pounded the parking lot, but looking at treetops, the wind was not too strong yet. “You're right, honey, Clarice can't go. Wait for me: I can be home in…” He checked the tree crowns again, “two hours.”

  “Two hours? By the time, we can find no doctor. I go myself!”

  “Wait! Don't go alone. Take…” He wanted to say ‘Mike’, but corrected himself: “Pamela!”

  “I better go with William. Clarice has a baby sling, so we can put Davy behind William's back.”

  “Great idea! Call the doctor's office first.”

  “I tried Doctor Smiths five times. It says the phone is switched off or out of network area.”

  “Never mind. Maybe, his battery got flat, or something wrong with the tower. Go anyway. If Smiths is not in the office, there is a licensed paramedic down the same street… Mister Bhapari, if I remember right. Try to find someone. Oh, don't forget to take all the money with you.”

  “All the money?”

  “God knows how much the medicines might be, especially antibiotics. We still have twenty-six grand from my last salary. And ask Clarice, she saved two thousand for her new sandals.”

  After Mary disconnected her call, Mark suppressed an urge to drop everything and run home. Unfortunately, neither the hurricane, nor Mark's emergency duties could be canceled. Let's hope our Davy has only a little cold…

  Tom scratched his fingers at the door jamb. “Problems?”

  “My grandson has a serious fever, a
nd we need to take him to a doctor, but the weather… Just look outside. How are your Zodiacs?”

  “Inflated and holding. So far… Natalie went to take a nap. In the slammer, we have no other occupants. No arrests since the evening. The employees should be allowed to use the customer facilities once in a while! Good news: my script retrieved the Pentagon DB records, and I got them sorted, as you requested: special forces, from twenty-five to forty, and all. With all the filters applied, we have sixty-nine additional hits, on top of the records you have already. Should be in your mailbox.”

  “OK. Let's see our catch-of-the-day.” Mark opened the evacuation carton and extracted his laptop. Under a minute, he had the first personnel record on the screen: “Bradley, Samuel O. West Point, 2012… Bradley… Such a cool surname for a cadet.”

  “Like the General Bradley, or M3 Bradley, the fighting vehicle?”

  “I guess, both. His cool surname worked well… Graduated – with honors, 2016, half a year before the Meltdown. Second Lieutenant, assigned to the UN Peacekeeping force in Somalia, 2017. An Army Achievement Medal. First Lieutenant, Mexico, 2018. Got a Silver Star.”

  Mark continued reading. After Mexico, – Libya, 2020. The First Lieutenant was promoted to Captain and participated in the ill-conceived operation Gas Shield. Then, simultaneously: a Distinguished Service Medal, a Purple Heart, and an honorable discharge from the Army. The last known address was listed as The New Hope Homes Open Type Institution for Disabled Veterans, at Wallisville Highway, Highlands, Texas. The boxes for phone and e-mail address both contained quiet NA. A West Point graduate with honors, decorated with medals, and honorably discharged Captain Samuel O. Bradley became a purged record.

  “This one is unlikely to be our client, Tom,” Mark said, closing the PDF. “One of those Gas Gangrene boys.”

  “Gas Gangrene?”

  “I'm sorry. That's an Army joke, I heard it at our local market. Never mind… You, Tom, better go join Natalie in the slammer. Arthur is a Cat-five already! We will have a busy night. While you two rest, I'll shuffle the records. And then – I wake up Natalie, and catch some Zees myself.”

  “Very well, sir. I'm on my way to the Station jail! ”

  Mark opened the next file. This guy served in the Navy SEALs, and was honorably discharged, but without a Purple Heart, indicating he was not wounded in combat. Either got sick with something very serious, or crippled himself during an exercise? Either way, for a time being, the name should be added to the list of suspects, and the photo – to Show to Espinosos folder…

  After sitting for an hour, Mark selected a dozen of potential candidates. The next personnel form appeared on the screen. Spalding, Eric. The surname was vaguely familiar. Spalding, Spalding – ah! Two days ago, Samantha mentioned this surname. The night watchman at their synthetic gasoline plant. ‘Weirdo,’ she said.

  On the file photo, Mark saw a young officer in the gray uniform of West Point graduate. Manly, a bit skinny, face, slightly narrowed eyes, and a proudly raised chin. Mark began to read the text. Cadet at West Point Academy, 2010. Graduated with honors, 2014. This looked like a copy of the Captain Bradley's record, only shifted two years earlier. Second Lieutenant, special training at the FBI Academy, Quantico, Virginia, 2014-2015. Here, it started getting rather unusual. The young officer was not deployed to fight a war, but sent to continue his education. Well, back then, the USA did not fight as many wars. Afghanistan, Iraq, and later: Iran, Mexico, Quebec, and Romania.

  After Quantico, it became even more interesting. First Lieutenant, assigned to the DOD, Arlington County, Virginia, 2016. What the hell would a mere lieutenant do in the Pentagon? In the Department of Defense, lieutenants mean nothing, while colonels brew coffee for generals and admirals! It made no sense to take a with-honors West Point graduate, cross-train for two additional years in Quantico, and at the end – stick him into routine guard-and-garrison duties. OK, our lieutenant might be related to some big shot in Washington. After the Meltdown, daddy comfortably parked his offspring out of harm's way; no need to go and fight the wars as everybody else.

  But it was not the case! In 2017, the young First Lieutenant got himself a Distinguished Service Medal and a Purple Heart. How can one earn a medal in the Pentagon's five walls? By kissing a five-star general in the butt? At the same time, dislocating your jaw, so a Purple Heart is also due! Sure, they give decorations for butt-kissing, but way below the soaring heights of the Distinguished Service Medal! That could only mean one thing. First Lieutenant Spalding was only listed in the Pentagon, but served someplace else. And not very safe place either, judging by the medals. Very interesting!

  More extraordinary stuff followed. Spalding got promoted to Captain in 2017, and by 2018, – deployed at His Majesty's Royal Navy aviation base in Yeovilton, the UK. But wait! Spalding was not a naval officer, a pilot, or even a Marine. And – not British! What could an American infantry captain do at the Royal Navy aviation base? The file did not have an answer. It stated: 2019, a Medal of Honor, and the second Purple Heart. Captain Spalding did not consume the Royal Navy rations for nothing. Then, quite unexpectedly, Mark read: 2020, The United Kingdom Correction Facility at RAF Lakenheath, the UK. Other-than-honorable discharge followed in 2027, and Spalding was ‘dropped from the officers roll.’ But – no dishonorable dismissal: Captain Spalding remained in the current rank and with all the decorations. The last known address: South Mesa Slum, Houston, Texas. The e-mail address and the telephone number were not listed.

  The file ended with a second photograph: the type of mugshot they make in prisons. Spalding was in a soldier uniform, without the insignia. The full face and profile shots, with computer-generated registration number at the bottom, and height lines over the pale blue backdrop. Exactly five-nine, Mark observed. Instead of the young ambitious West Point graduate from the first page, on the prison photo there was a mature man. His face looked even thinner, the facial features became sharper, and the nose slightly overhung the upper lip. The close-cropped hair was still dense. The eyes. The same, slightly narrowed glance. But now the eyes resembled the ones of a hunted wild animal.

  Mark looked at the prison photo and slowly descended into a panic. Eric Spalding. Assuming the man worked at Frederick's gasoline plant, the source of the information leaks was, naturally, Mark himself! While at home, he often chatted with Mike about the Sheldon Butcher investigation. No, Mark never told the family members anything confidential, but over the last two years Mike became more familiar with the case than anybody from TV. The rest was trivial. At the plant, Spalding would casually ask Mike about the family, and how Dad was doing, and so on. Mike had never kept his mouth shut! Obviously, after Mike had been drafted, Spalding needed a new source of intelligence. That's why he was sucking up with Samantha! Besides, the profile said the serial killer was ‘forensically aware.’ What did Spalding study in Quantico? Behavioral Psychology? Unlikely. His approach to Samantha looked a bit clumsy for a pro. Therefore, he studied Forensics!

  Something else was wrong with Spalding's service record, but Mark could not formulate it yet.

  Mark picked his phone and located William in the Contacts. Before leaving for the Army, William passed his cell phone to Mike, and now it went from Mike to Samantha, but Mark had not bothered to change the name.

  “Hello? Is it you, Mark?”

  “Clarice? Why the phone is with you, and not with Samantha?”

  “Sammy forgot to charge it yesterday, so she left it in the charger this morning.”

  “Very smart of her! Right when we need the phones! Anyway, how are you there?”

  “OK, I guess. The hurricane preparations are all done. We're in the living room, watching the True Lies on DVD. The wind outside – o-oh! The entire house is shaking! I'm worried about Mary, Billy, and Davy.”

  “Not back yet?”

  “No. And Mary's phone is not answering. Jus
t says it's not on the network.”

  “Likely, something is wrong with mobile communications. Doctor Smiths also wasn't answering. Mary and William are probably fine, but simply can't call. OK, I dial Frederick now…”

  Mark hung up and dialed Frederick Stolz. Come on, Mark begged, come on, pick the phone, man! Pick the bloody phone and tell me the name of your night watchman is not Eric Spalding, but Joe Spalding. And he is five feet two inches. Or the opposite, he is a former NBA player, who never served in the Army, due to his basketball-induced hernia. And if he sucks up to my daughter, – it's simply because he's such a sucker.

  After the sixth tone, the telephone started its prerecorded message. “Greetings! You have reached Syntegas. I am the CEO and the Chief Scientist, Frederick Stolz, and I don't have a secretary. If I don't pick up the phone, two possible reasons. One. I'm doing something, from which our little plant can blow up. Two. Ka-boom! Besides the jokes. If you just want to buy some gas, – go to the website: three double-u dot Syntegas dot com. Everybody else: leave a message. I'll call you, honest. But only in the case number one, above. Stay safe!” The phone emitted an answering machine beep.

  Mark grinned. He had not heard this particular version of Fred's answering machine message. “Frederick, this is Mark Pendergrass. If my Samantha did not blow the plant – please call me back.”

  Frederick's website was the same: business blended with fun. There was a page entitled A Bit of Chemistry. At the top, it explained why you can't convert old plastic scrap into real gasoline. Then, in the middle, it suddenly said, “What if you can't, but really want to?” The rest went on explaining why the plant products still could be used in a fuel tank with only minor risk to the engine. A page entitled Customer Feedback contained an officially-looking questionnaire form. Amongst the other things, it said, “In our gasoline, you are not satisfied with: (a) price, (b) octane number, (c) phenols, (d) asphaltenes, (e) odor, (f) color, (g) taste.” If customers clicked the ‘price’ option, a window popped up, “Dear customer! The year is 2030 and not 2015. The price – as is. Sorry.” And if customers clicked the ‘taste’, the window said, “ERROR: Wrong Orifice. Spit out – immediately!”

  Mary, with her computer programming experience, helped Frederick with the website design. Back then, she said: “Fred, you have a major chemical enterprise. Why do you need all these trinkets? As a former programmer, I can assure you they look inappropriate.”

  To this Frederick replied, “Mary, my dear, all the major chemical enterprises work for the Pentagon. Whatever we are doing with the boys is called a hobby! I can't possibly take it seriously, – my former, now completely unnecessary, Ph.D. – disagrees. Nevertheless, because our hobby allows me occasionally to eat my Bratwursts with my favorite beer, I can't complain…”

  The on-duty deputy knocked on the door and reported, “We've got an attempted robbery, at the corner of Beaumont and Erin. Two robbers are dead. The saloon owner says: three more ran away.”

  “OK, this looks like a Coroner case,” Mark nodded. “Can you release my CSIs from the slammer?”

  Mark turned his laptop off and put it back into the box. He replaced his sandals with rubber boots, double-checked his Glock, made a final glance around his little office, now ready for a swift evacuation, and put on his yellow raincoat. Tom and Natalie appeared in the hallway, yawning.

  “Finally, they have a job for us,” Tom said. “But how do we get there? Zodiacs?”

  “Let's try on the bikes,” Mark said, “I wish we had enough diesel for the response vehicles.”

  With the bikes, they had little success. The wind gusts were so strong, it was difficult to even stand straight, less ride a bicycle. They had to push the bikes, which became a useless burden. Notwithstanding the rain gear, they were instantly soaked to skin. Rain water unpleasantly squelched in Mark's boots, and he looked enviously at Natalie, shod in flip-flops and bravely walking straight through the puddles. Her feet were equally wet, but at least the 'flops did not squelch.