by Mark Tufo
Harry had raised his hands immediately with the first command, but this second command actually made him laugh. “Are you serious? Who says ‘or you’re done’ for Christ-sake!” Harry said to the person behind him. He knew this was a dangerous situation, but he couldn’t control the outburst. He realized it probably hadn’t helped.
“Listen,” Harry continued in a calm voice as he tried to defuse the situation. “As you can see, my weapon is holstered, and if you will allow me to remove my ID from my right rear pocket we can step this all down a bit.”
“NO YOU LISTEN! I GAVE YOU A LAWFUL ORDER AND I EXPECT YOU TO COMPLY!” Squeaky Voice was beginning to piss Harry off.
“Okay Slick, a little lesson here. If you are going to order a suspect to ‘comply’, have a fucking idea what compliance you are seeking! You ordered me to ‘freeze’ – done. You ordered me to ‘show you my hands’ – done. NOW WHAT THE FUCK DO WE DO NEXT?” Harry finally shouted the last in frustration as he remained facing the door with his hands up at shoulder level.
“I DON’T KNOW WHO YOU ARE BUT THIS IS A POLICE STATION! HOW THE FUCK DID YOU GET INTO A POLICE STATION AND INTO A SECURED WEAPONS ARMORY?” Squeaky continued, still shouting.
Harry’s angst was growing by the second with this bullshit. “I have identified myself as a police officer, so that should answer both of your questions, and since you are seriously beginning to piss me off, I think this little chat is over!”
Just as he finished speaking, Squeaky racked a shell into what was obviously a shotgun. Harry’s sphincter constricted so tightly at that sound he thought he would only be able to shit rabbit pellets for a month. That is, if he didn’t get his head blown off first by this twit. He was certain this guy would shoot any moment and he needed to respond quickly.
Just as Harry was deciding if he could pull his weapon and dive for cover, a second voice joined the conversation. A slow, deliberate, commanding voice that you would always remember once heard; a unique deep bass of a voice.
“Yeah, that old man isn’t a real cop anymore. He had to retire because of his advanced age and because the department wouldn’t allow him afternoon naps. I also heard working interfered with his evening programming of Wheel of Fortune and Jeopardy. Oh, he plays at it on the weekends, but that doesn’t really count, does it, old man?” That last bit was directed at Harry.
“But I’d make a suggestion here, Rook. I’d probably lower that Rem you are holding on that old man before he takes it away from you and shoves it so far up your ass that your tonsils become the barrel sight. While you’re at it, you might want to keep your damn voice down!” Deep Voice said this time directly at Squeaky.
But Harry knew that voice. Dropping his head slightly and experiencing relief so profound he almost sobbed, he said, “Yeah, well, you’d better remember that due to my advanced age, sudden shock could cause me to have a heart attack. I sure as hell don’t want your ugly mug giving me mouth to mouth!”
Turning, Harry watched his friend Derrick Washington, wearing the black jumpsuit with the muted-color sleeve patches and sewn-on cloth star that identified him as a SWAT officer, enter the room and approach, closing the short distance between them. Harry grasped Derrick’s outstretched hand, pulling him in for a quick one-armed hug.
“Jesus Derry, it’s really damn good to see you, man,” he said with no small amount of emotion.
14
The first time he had met Derrick Washington was when a group of new rookies had been assigned FTOs, Derrick being assigned to Harry. It was not often that Harry was at eye level with someone, but this mountain of a man not only could look him straight in the eyes, he could probably bench press him with little effort. This huge African American guy who approached him on that first day of assignment stood 6’5”, and was 240 pounds of solid muscle. With his smoothly shaven head, at first glance he reminded Harry very much of a younger version of the actor Ving Rhames, and that deep bass voice only confirmed the impression.
Derrick Washington was a natural as a police officer, and every FTO he rotated through during his first several weeks in the department, including Harry, gave him the highest of reviews. He was a natural on the streets and developed a good reputation within the neighborhoods he worked. He had a firm knowledge of police procedures almost from the first day, as if he had been working the streets for years. His size also beguiled a hidden talent that more than once had surprised a few folks who thought they could outrun this hulk of a man. Derrick was fast!
Harry had witnessed several foot chases in which a suspect would suddenly bolt like a bat out of hell with Derrick hot on their heels, surely thinking that they were home free, only to be suddenly tackled and taken down. Harry had to chuckle at times seeing the expressions of pure astonishment on a suspect’s face, as they tried to figure how this huge man had caught them.
Derrick was one the most intelligent and qualified people Harry had ever met; he was also a genuinely nice guy with a heart as huge as one of his biceps – at first glance, those biceps seemingly the size of a normal average man’s thigh. He completed a Masters in criminology, had graduated top of his academy class, and had recently enrolled in Golden Gate University’s law program. Derrick had always talked about becoming an attorney but maintained that any lawyer, whether defense or prosecution, should spend time as a street cop to understand all levels of the judicial process.
Derrick Washington had been accepted into the SWAT program five years prior, becoming a sniper who could put a round downrange with awesome accuracy, although most of the squad wanted him to remain on the breaching team. “Hell, we don’t even need the Stinger Ram with Derry since he just busts doors open with a fist,” his team had jokingly agreed when he was offered the sniper position, one of the most essential positions in this highly specialized police unit. Although the center of many jokes about his size, Derrick was highly respected by the squad when it came to doing the job. Each member felt a sense of safety knowing Derrick had their backs.
Looking past Derrick, Harry said, “Who’s the kid?” referring to the young man that could easily pass for eighteen years old, but since he was in a full police uniform, albeit torn in several places, he had to have been at least twenty-one.
“This is Officer Frank Lewis. April 1st was his very first day on the streets with an FTO, and he had just gone 10-8 when the calls began about the zombies. Or whatever the hell these things are. He’s been through some shit, Harry, but he’s alright,” Derrick replied.
“Frank, I would like to introduce you to a very good friend of mine,” Derrick said, turning slightly toward the rookie who was still holding the Remington Model 870P shotgun, but now had it pointed toward the floor and slightly to the left. “This is Harold Lancaster. One of the best cops this city ever had, and the guy who taught me a great deal when I was a rook like you.”
Jerking his head up abruptly, wearing what Harry swore was a look of sheer terror, Frank said, “You mean like THE Harry Lancaster? Jesus, I heard about you in the academy!” With obvious mortification he continued. “I’m really sorry about all this Mr. Lancaster, I just didn’t know who you were, and …”
“Don’t sweat it, kid,” Harry interrupted in an even tone, giving Derrick a quick glance of ‘been talking shit again, haven’t you’. Derrick just chuckled and turned to look at something on the ceiling that had suddenly become extremely interesting.
“We’ve all been through more than any human being should the past few days, and that’s bound to make a guy a little nervous.” But Harry respected the fact that even though this kid was under a huge amount of stress, he had remained in control, specifically in not immediately shooting him, and that spoke volumes for this rookie’s potential. “Thanks Mr. Lancaster,” Frank responded, obviously relieved. “It’s been crazy out there. My FTO and I had just gone in service when everything went crazy. There were high priority dispatches flooding the radio, assigning units to riots breaking out all over the City. The car laptop actually crashed with
the amount of information being sent out on it.” Frank took a breath, looking at some distant point unseen. Harry and Derrick remained silent and let him collect his thoughts.
Frank Lewis had grown up in Florida, in a family of cops, and for as long as he could remember, becoming a police officer was all he’d wanted to do. His grandfather, father, and an uncle all served with distinction. At twenty-two years old, just after graduating from San Francisco State, he had entered the academy to carry on the tradition. Being very youthful in appearance, and standing only 5’8”, he had put up with a lot of good-natured ribbing from instructors and some of the other cadets. He had heard on more than one occasion the comical references to the SFPD starting a Jump Street Squad, with Frank being their very own version of Johnny Depp.
But he had done extremely well in his academy class, had garnered the respect of all through hard work and determination, and was looking forward to beginning his career. His friends had kidded him about April Fools Day maybe not the best day to start that career, but he had laughingly shrugged that off at the time. He had found himself thinking about that suggestion many times over the past few days, and wondered if any of those friends were still alive.
“We were dispatched to Market and Van Ness to back up several other units. When we arrived there were five or six units on scene with the officers trying to push back maybe twenty or thirty people that seemed like they had gone crazy. By the time we got out of the car those people had taken down all those cops and were tearing into them with their hands and teeth! Both Baker and I shot into the crowd, putting a bunch of them down, but all that really seemed to accomplish was to draw their attention to us!” Frank pleadingly looked from Harry, to Derrick, and back again, with tears forming. “They didn’t fucking care that we were dropping people all around them! Baker finally yelled at me to get back into the car, but before he could make it to his side a mass of those people just swarmed him!”
Harry had known Jim Baker; he had been an FTO for several years. Baker knew what he was doing, was a good cop, and Frank could not have had a better example for his first few weeks. Harry was saddened at yet another person perishing at the hands, or claws, of the infected. But what Frank said next reminded him yet again that there were worse things now than death.
“I dove in my side and crawled over the center computer swivel to get behind the wheel. It took me a couple seconds to get my set of keys off the ring and into the ignition, but by that time those things were at the left side of the car pounding on the windows. The right side was blocked with all them on top of Baker. I got the car started and tried to back up, but there were too many of them around the car by that time.” Frank again paused to collect himself.
“I began to shove the transmission into drive and reverse repeatedly, knocking down whatever was at the front and back of the car. Seemed like this went on for hours. I know it was probably only a few minutes, but I was just about free. That’s when the right side window finally exploded inward and I saw Baker trying to crawl through!” Frank’s voice rose at the memory of the event that was most assuredly seared into his mind forever.
“Baker’s face was almost completely gone!” Frank continued with a haunted look on his face. “No nose, his lips ripped off, and one eye hanging out of the socket. He had his mangled arm and head in the car. I raised my weapon and blew his head off! After that I threw the car in drive and pushed the accelerator pedal as far as it would go. The car finally broke through those fucks and I tore out of there.” That clarified what had happened to the car Harry had seen parked at the side of the building.
“I didn’t know what else to do,” Frank said pleadingly to both Harry and Derrick. “I know I should have done more for Baker, but my God, I didn’t know what more to do …” Frank finally broke into wracking sobs but quickly recovered. “I just didn’t know what else to do.”
Harry clearly heard not only what Frank said, but how he said it, as if he had now given up entirely. Harry and Derrick exchanged quick glances, then Harry said to Frank, “Listen to me kid, I knew Jim Baker fairly well and he was a good cop. But there were two good cops in that car in a situation none of us could ever hope to understand, that none of us were trained to handle. You did the best thing possible given the circumstances, and thanks to keeping your head, one of those two good cops made it! You made it and that’s all that matters right now. We will all have time to grieve our losses at some point, but now is not that time.
“The three of us have survived so we know others must have. I served this city and its citizens for twenty-five years, and I for one will not allow this fucked-up shit to destroy what might be left out there! We are going to keep our emotions in check, take all the crap we’ve seen and had to do, and we are going to use that as our motivation. We are going to use the loss of friends and family, of brothers and sisters in the department, the people we never met, and we are not going to give up. We are going to remain professional and do our jobs; do whatever it takes to survive this! Do you hear me Frank?” Frank continued to stare at the floor until Harry said again a bit more forcefully, “Do you read me, Officer Lewis!”
That seemed to snap Frank out of it. He looked up at Harry, and with a bit more steel in his voice, said, “Yes sir, Mr. Lancaster, I read you, whatever it takes to survive. But I don’t think you could understand what it’s like. Having to kill your partner?”
Harry slowly nodded, keeping his eyes locked onto Frank’s, and said, “Kid, I know exactly what it’s like to deal with these things, and let me be real clear, that thing that looked like Jim Baker was not your partner when you shot it. Jim Baker was dead the moment those things swarmed him, and nothing you did or did not do would have changed that.
“I’ve seen and dealt with the same shit over the past several days, young man, on a scale you couldn’t begin to understand, and I know there is no escape once they swarm a living person. You didn’t kill your partner, Frank; you killed a mindless, crazed zombie, a thing that would have ripped you apart without hesitation! I have killed dozens of these things and I know it isn’t easy to live with …” Harry was suddenly flung back to the first day of the infection, and his first experience with the infected.
Pushing the memories of what had happened in the apartment building and his little trip to the station back into the recesses of his mind, Harry, who had continued to look into Frank’s eyes while briefly reliving the horror of his first day, said, “Yes Frank, we will do whatever it takes to survive,” while placing a reassuring hand on the young rookie’s shoulder.
Frank nodded slightly and repeated, “Whatever it takes, and you can count on me, sir.”
15
“You didn’t mention how we hooked up, Rook,” Derrick said with a slight smile, obviously trying to break the tension.
“Oh, that?” Frank replied. “Well, I was headed up Van Ness thinking I should get back to the station. I had just crossed Geary when I saw Officer Washington running down the sidewalk ahead of about twenty zombies. It was pretty awesome, too. He had that big Remington 700P rifle strapped around his shoulder and was really booking it. I pulled up about a half block in front of him thinking he would get in the passenger side door, but instead he jumped on the roof and just yelled ‘Go, go, go!’ Guess he hung onto the light bar. I thought I lost him a couple times before we got here, too.”
Harry had to laugh at the image of Derrick Washington running ahead of a bunch of zombies, with a rather large sniper rifle strapped on a shoulder, and then jumping onto a police car’s roof and hanging on for dear life from a light bar. He was probably cussing every inch of the way, too.
“Damn, Derry,” Harry said through a stifled laugh, “why didn’t you just get in the car?”
“Yeah, well, so I wasn’t thinking so clear at the time. With zombies trying to eat my ass and all, you know!” Derrick responded with a comical expression on his face, which included crossing his eyes for effect. Harry, and even Frank, had to cover their mouths to hide the growin
g smiles at that. “Okay, okay, back to current events here, guys,” Derrick said. “So what’s our next move?”
Harry related the interview he had seen on GNN and what Scott Allen had said. He also told them about how the zombies were affected by the fog and about the Sovereign Spirit’s website and what he had read on their blog.
“So I’m thinking that we follow the Commodore’s example. We get supplies and we get to the marina. Once we secure a couple of boats, I’m thinking we head out to Alcatraz. But we still need a way to do all this, and that’s the reason I came here in the first place. Our handguns are not going to cut it out there and I was hoping the station still had long guns and ammo. But we are going to need more than those three AR15s back in the corner. The shotguns are good, too, but we need to be able to put some serious firepower down range,” Harry said, looking around the nearly empty room that had once stocked a sizable amount of various weapons. “We’re also going to need to figure out a safe way to get around.”
Derrick smiled, saying, “I think we can help you out with that. Have a look in the ammo closet.” He tossed Harry a set of keys.
The ammo closet was not a closet at all, but rather a room attached to the main armory and accessible through a steel reinforced door. Harry took the keys, unlocked the door and flipped on the light switch. Stepping into the room, he said with a great deal of satisfaction, “Okay, now we’re talking here.” He saw box after box of ammunition for rifles, shotguns, and pistols. There were at least a dozen AC4 riot shields, several AM2 full body riot shields, and cases of tear gas grenades, flash bangs and full body riot gear. It was everything Harry had hoped to find and more.
Derrick and Frank had followed Harry into the room, and Derrick began an inventory assessment. “Harry, you know that Central is the main SWAT Division location with ammo being dispersed throughout the City from here. We had just received a new shipment of ammunition on March 29th. When the Rook and I got in, we made a quick count. We’ve got at least eighty thousand rounds of NATO 5.56; thirty-five thousand rounds of .45 and 9mm; forty thousand rounds of ‘00’ and twenty thousand less-than-lethal polys for the shotguns; five hundred tear gas grenades and about eight hundred flash bangs. There’s at least a thousand PMAG 30-round magazines for the ARs, too.”