by Mark Tufo
Tenants with the misfortune of running into Edna while trying use the elevator could always look forward to another of her pleasantries. In that loud, screeching voice, much like a herd of cats in heat, she would shriek, “Hold the elevator! Hold the elevator! I’ve gotta get my mail!” Edna had the ability to make strong men cringe, women weep, and small children run screaming in horror.
Harry immediately saw that Edna was definitely the worse for wear as she struggled to regain her feet, all the while emitting a low, menacing moan. The tattered housecoat she wore, which had been her ever-present trademark fashion statement, was hanging open, exposing torn flesh and a missing breast. The remaining one sagged almost to her stomach, which, in and of itself, was enough to give Harry nightmares for weeks. Her hair was disheveled, with clumps missing, and both bruised arms bore what appeared to be numerous and severe bite wounds. What chilled Harry the most were her bloodshot eyes and a foamy reddish-white substance which dripped very slowly from her slightly opened mouth.
Once on her feet, she raised bloody, arthritic hands, resembling the same claw-like appendages as her cohort Katy, and moved toward Harry with purpose in an impossibly fast manner for someone of her age and current physical condition. As she quickly closed the short distance between them, years of training took over and Harry delivered a front leg kick that sent her crashing back into Katy and the corpse. Katy, whose physical condition rivaled that of Edna’s, now turned her full attention also on Harry. To his horror, both of these monstrosities began to struggle to their feet, and he knew their intentions were not to discuss a plumbing issue or why the elevator was not working.
With more adrenaline flooding his system than he had experienced in years, he screamed at them, “What the fuck is the matter with you!” Harry then withdrew the .45 caliber Glock, quickly pulling the slide back to chamber a round, and shouted “STAY DOWN! For the love of God, stay the fuck down!” He took several steps backward, bringing up the Glock and depressing the first trigger safety, took a standard firing stance, and lined the sights up on the first target.
His words only seemed to agitate them more as they continued to stand, slipping a few times in the pool of blood that now covered a large portion of the lobby floor. Once again his reflexes and training took over, as he realized this was a failure-to-stop scenario and deadly force was required.
That thought passed through his mind within seconds as he rapidly fired the Glock four times in succession, delivering two of the heavy rounds center mass first into Edna and then Katy. Harry wondered how he was going to explain shooting two old ladies in the lobby of an apartment building. This will look good on KRON News tonight, he thought.
Over the years Harry had heard the various forms of public condemnation that were usually generated from police-involved shootings that resulted in a death. “They should have just shot him in the leg,” and even once during a very emotional witness deposition, someone had said, “The cops could’ve just shot the gun out of his hand!” Police officers are trained, and have drilled into their very souls, that the use of deadly force is an absolute last resort. But unfortunately there are situations in which a cop has no alternative.
Police officers do not start their shift with the wanton desire to take another human life, even those of the worst of violent criminals. But if innocent people are in a life-threatening situation—if indeed the officer is in fear for his own life—a cop is trained to shoot. They shoot to permanently eliminate the mortal danger that required that decision in the first place. Hollywood theatrics of shooting a person to wound them or shooting a weapon out of someone’s hand are simply not realistic in the adrenaline-filled moments leading up to the use of deadly force.
In the 1980’s when Harry first began his law enforcement career, there was not the concern over terrorist activity that had grown over the years since, nor were there as many heavier caliber assault-type weapons in the hands of those seeking to conduct nefarious activity. But the use of deadly force was very much a part of the instruction and training recruits had to master.
The Mozambique Drill, also known as the failure to stop drill, or just failure drill, is a close-quarter shooting technique in which the shooter fires twice into the center mass of a target, momentarily assesses the results of the hits, then immediately follows up with a carefully aimed shot to the head of the target. The third shot is aimed to destroy the brain or brain stem, killing the target and preventing the target from retaliating.
This technique was first developed in the mid-1960’s during the Mozambican War of Independence by Mike Rousseau, who had been a mercenary hired to fight in that war. At some point Rousseau had found himself engaged in a fire fight, armed only with a Browning single-shot bolt-action rifle and a pistol; as he rounded the corner of a building, he came face-to-face with an enemy combatant armed with an AK-47.
Rousseau had been too close to the target at that point to use his rifle, so he quickly drew his pistol and fired two rounds into the enemy’s chest. Unfortunately, the soldier not only stayed on his feet but also managed to hang onto his rifle. Rousseau realized he was in serious trouble as he quickly assessed that the first two shots had been ineffective, and decided to deliver a third shot to the man’s head, killing him instantly and removing Rousseau from mortal danger.
Over the years this technique was perfected and became part of military forces training, and in the late ‘70s was incorporated into law enforcement. With the advent of body armor becoming readily available to the general public, along with the higher accessibility of assault weapons and the ever-growing terrorist threat, this technique has become vital training for police officers. In the new zombie-permeated world this technique would prove how vitally important, and effective, it truly was—many times over.
Harry had not delivered the fatal kill shot to the little old ladies. Two to the chest should have snuffed out any chance at life for those two. Yeah, this is definitely going to look just great on the news tonight, he thought as he closed his eyes momentarily to clear his thoughts. However, it seemed as if all the rules had been tossed as he opened his eyes to see that both Katy and Edna were struggling to stand again, with wounds that would have instantly killed a normal human being!
2
Harry had not changed his stance since the first four rounds had been fired; his training and experience took over once again as he fired two more rounds into Edna and Katy, this time obliterating each of their heads in turn. Both bodies crumpled to the floor and lay motionless.
Thinking the worse, and in a moment of near panic, he aimed the Glock at the corpse that had been Katy and Edna’s breakfast and put a round into its head. “Probably better safe than sorry,” Harry said with an almost maniacal giggle. He then dropped to his knees, having been given a momentary reprieve from the waking nightmare he was in, and emptied the contents of his stomach.
He wasn’t sure how long he had been kneeling, but the dry heaves finally subsided enough for him to get slowly to his feet. Staring at the carnage in front of him, Harry knew he had to get back to his apartment and report this mess. What he couldn’t shake was the tremendous pounding and ringing in his ears from the six shots he had fired in the small lobby area. That was until he realized that some of the ringing was coming from the building fire alarm, which had extremely loud bells. Must have set off the system with the rounds, Harry thought, referring to the shots he had fired and the resulting cordite lingering in the air.
He walked over to the fire panel, needing to step over one of the headless bodies to do so, and silenced the alarm. That helped the ringing in his ears a bit, but the pounding persisted. Turning back toward his apartment, he walked the short distance in a complete fog. All he could think of was getting to the phone he had left on his desk and calling 911. As he passed one of the other apartment doors in the hallway, he abruptly realized that the pounding sound he thought had been in his ears was actually originating from that door. As his head cleared a bit more, and he was better able to focus, he real
ized with rising alarm that the pounding sounds were also coming from several other doors. What caused his blood to run cold was the underlying sound of moaning that also emanated behind those doors.
“What the hell is going on?” Harry said, rushing into the already open door to his apartment, slamming it shut and throwing the two deadbolts into place. “I’ve got to get some help here.” With shaking hands, he picked up his cell phone from the small table in the foyer and dialed 911. It rang at least a dozen times before the number finally connected and a recorded message began: “All circuits are busy now. Please hang up and try your call again later.” Frowning, Harry hit the ‘end’ button, then ‘redial’. As the phone began ringing again, Harry started pacing. “Come on, come on ....” After ringing once more at least a dozen times, it finally connected and he heard the same recorded message.
Harry hung up and immediately opened the directory on the phone. He located Central Station, deciding to call the report in directly, and pressed the speed dial number he had assigned to the station. Once again he started to pace as the line began to ring. He happened by the coffee table where a universal remote control lay, and absently picked it up and turned on the television. Harry normally started his day by watching the morning news on KRON, Channel 4, but as he stared at what was on the 52” LED flat screen TV, it looked as if the location being televised was somewhere in the Middle East. It did not register just yet that what he saw was actually taking place, live, on Market Street in the middle of downtown San Francisco.
“Central, O’Leary,” a voice on the other end of the line finally answered after ringing more times than Harry could remember.
“Bob?” Harry responded to Robert O’Leary, a desk sergeant he had known for years. Continuing before O’Leary could reply, he said, “Bob, it’s Lancaster. I’ve had trouble in my building. Jesus, I had to shoot two of my tenants!”
“Listen Harry, there has been a department-wide call-in for every officer and reserve as of 0745 hours this morning. I tried calling you but only got your voice mail,” Bob replied. “There’s some serious shit going down and it’s going down all over the City. People are going crazy and attacking anything that moves. We’ve even had to lock down the station. Nobody knows what the hell is going on, but you listen really carefully. DO NOT come in! It’s too dangerous and we’re losing our people left and right. Make sure your place is buttoned up tight and don’t let anyone in under any circumstances. If you see anyone acting even remotely odd, and believe me you’ll know what that means when you see it, do not hesitate! Take them out immediately! Do you copy me?”
The events of the morning thus far with what he’d had to do in the lobby, and now hearing what O’Leary had just said, nearly pushed Harry over the brink! “What do you mean, shit’s going down all over the City?” Harry demanded. “I just had to blow away two old ladies in my lobby that were gnawing on a fucking UPS guy! Now you’re telling me if anybody acts odd I should take them out? What the fuck, Bob!”
With an exasperated tone, Bob immediately said, “Turn on the TV, Harry, see for yourself.” Harry started to respond, but only got a couple of words out, before O’Leary interrupted him. “Listen Harry, I gotta go. You button up tight and you stay put until we can regroup and get the City back in control. We’ve got SWAT backed up with calls and every car is in a different location all over the City. There’s nothing you can do right now, so you wait for further instructions.” With that, O’Leary hung up. Harry could only look at the cell phone in his hand in complete astonishment.
Staring intently at the television that was directly in front of him, he turned up the volume and started to surf the channels in total disbelief. What he saw was total anarchy. There were indeed scenes of mass rioting not only in San Francisco but also apparently all over the country, according to the national news networks. He settled on network news channel when he ran across them in some sort of heated debate over what was happening.
3
Harry watched the new for the better part of two hours, alternatively switching between that and the local channels. They all told the same story: something about a worldwide bioterrorist attack that had affected a large portion of the population. Those infected seemed to then attack and either kill or infect others. It didn’t make any sense to Harry, and obviously it didn’t make much sense to the talking heads reporting the information. As is normal in an emergency involving unknowns, everyone had an opinion on the cause. Shouting matches erupted on some networks between so-called respected experts generating conflicting reports, which seemed to only create more confusion. But the televised images themselves spoke volumes, overshadowing anything the experts or the studio anchors were relaying. Harry finally muted the television to allow what he had seen and heard to be absorbed a bit, and to gather his jumbled thoughts. That was also when the unrelenting pounding that seemed to resound throughout the building came crashing back into focus. He had only one thought: “What is this, fuckin’ Cujo meets Dawn of the Dead?” Walking over to the closed, heavy curtains in his bedroom and pulling back a small section, Harry peered out onto a scene of horror much like what he had been watching on TV.
After viewing the craziness unfold on the street below his window for several minutes, Harry finally stepped back from the window with sudden determination. “Okay, so first things first; I need to check on the rest of the building.” Although he knew what he was assuredly going to find, he prepared himself as best he could. Walking over to a dresser, he opened the uppermost drawers, revealing several boxes of .45 caliber ammunition and four empty magazines. Pulling these items out of the drawer, he carefully lined them up in front of him on top of the dresser.
Opening the boxes of ammunition, and then picking up the first empty magazine, he started to thumb in rounds. When he finished loading the four mags, he reached to the back of his jeans and pulled the Glock out from where it had been sitting in the small of his back since he had replaced it after the lobby incident. Dropping the mag from the weapon, he reloaded the rounds he had fired. Harry suddenly realized he had not noticed the slight discomfort caused by the large weapon pressing into his skin until that moment. He also realized that the minor discomfort must have subconsciously kept him a bit more grounded in the otherwise surreal last couple of hours of hell in which he had found himself. “No time to sit in the corner babbling incoherently about the possibility of large slobbering dogs or zombies roaming the streets of San Francisco,” Harry said absently, slipping the freshly reloaded mag back into the grip of the Glock, then pulling back the slide to chamber a round. “Work to do right now.”
Harry retrieved the master key that would unlock any apartment in the building from the hook he kept by the door, and ventured out. The first door he approached was only about ten feet from his, but he could hear the pounding and that moaning almost as soon as he entered the hallway. Walking up to the door and using the tenant’s name he called through it, “Jean, its Harry, the manager, are you okay?”
The only response was a more insistent pounding.
“Jean, step back away from the door so I can open it. I want to help you.”
Furious pounding was the only response to Harry’s pleas.
Inserting the master key with his left hand, tightly holding the Glock with his right, he quickly assessed what he was actually going to do. He was afraid that as soon as he unlocked the door, the tenant would surely come out and set upon him.
“Jean, please step back from the door so I can help you,” Harry once again pleaded as he turned the key in the lock, standing just to the left of the door in a standard police door knock position. He clearly heard the key turn the deadbolt with a distinctive click; the pounding continued, with an increase in the moaning, but nothing else happened.
Not understanding why the tenant had not rushed out of the door, Harry grasped the doorknob, still standing to the left side of the entry, and slowly turned it. The pounding became more frantic, if that was possible, which only increased
Harry’s anxiety. He pushed the in-swinging door open just a fraction, maybe two or three inches, and was instantly met with the tenant, or whoever was on the other side, slamming their body into it and causing it to slam shut. Harry nearly pissed himself but quickly recovered. With a slightly trembling hand, he once again grasped and turned the knob, going through the same procedure as before, and again the door was slammed shut with the heavy thud of a body impacting it from the inside.
“God damn it! I’m trying to help you!” Harry shouted in frustration. No intelligent response was given in return from the tenant other than the constant pounding and moaning which was beginning to really grate on his nerves. Staring at the door for several moments, Harry finally said, “Fuck it,” turned the knob once again, and shouldered the door with everything he had. The door flew open, knocking the tenant to the floor some feet back.
Harry was able to see clearly that this was, in fact, the tenant of the apartment. Jean was a young woman in her mid to late 20’s, athletic and in very good shape – a stark contrast to Edna and Katy – although it was quite evident that she had the same reddish eyes and what appeared to be a pinkish white froth around her lips.
Jean quickly regained her feet, nearly jumping up as she rushed Harry, who had already had the Glock aimed in her general direction after he forced the door open. Without hesitation he fired twice into Jean, who was literally thrown back across the room from the impact of the rounds. Although Harry’s experience in the lobby earlier that morning should have prepared him for what happened next, he watched in absolute horror as Jean got up. It was much slower this time, but she still got to her feet, staring at Harry all the while, and started at him again! All Harry could think as he fired a final round into her head was, “Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God.”
After obliterating Jean’s head from her body, he took several deep breaths, glancing at the carnage briefly. Turning, he walked back into the hall, leaving the door ajar slightly behind him. He leaned back against the doorframe and wiped his forehead with the back of his right hand, which held the gun, to remove the nervous sweat that had quickly developed. This time he did not get sick. “Okay, let’s review here, Harry ole boy,” he said in a weary tone. “You’ve now killed three people and mutilated the corpse of a UPS guy by blowing its head off. What have we learned from this so far?”