by Rich Baker
“Yeah, that’s me,” he says, irritated at the interruption. He stops fidgeting for a moment and fixes his gaze on the EMT. “You are?”
“Ted Williams. My bus is affiliated with PVH,” he says, using shorthand for Poudre Valley Hospital. “Look, Sergeant, this is out of control. People are still in there attacking each other. I can’t send any of my guys in there, and the people we’re treating out here are dropping like flies. I can’t evac them fast enough.”
Almost on cue, an ambulance turns on its sirens and crosses North Street, which runs, aptly enough, along the north side of the arena. It continues past Westfall Hall dormitory (which, thankfully is almost empty now that classes are over) before turning right onto Laurel Street, the main east-west thoroughfare that marks the northern boundary of the campus.
“Gotcha, Ted,” Foster says. He’s heard enough whining from the EMTs over the years. They’re all adrenaline junkies but don’t want to be in any REAL danger. “We’re about five minutes from going in there. I’m just waiting for a few more units to show up. I don’t know what’s going on tonight, Ted, but there’s shit going down all over town. The last day of school is normally pretty crazy, but this is something else altogether. My lieutenant is going to give us the rundown in a minute so we can hopefully get in there and shut this thing down.”
“Sarge?” Williams says. “Your LT went down about five minutes ago. Has no one told you?”
Foster checks his radio and finds that in his fussing, he’s knocked the mic loose and hasn’t been hearing any updates. I thought things had just gone quiet, he thinks, but hell, someone should have grabbed me by now! Embarrassed, he reconnects the cable and turns his attention back to the EMT.
“Went down? What the fuck happened?”
“One of the people we thought was dead jumped him, and he’s en route to PVH right now. That was his bus that just left.”
“Come again? A dead guy jumped him? I’m not following.” Foster thinks the EMT may be suffering from shock.
“We were working on this guy, had a wicked neck wound like he’d been bitten. I mean, his neck was ripped wide open. We couldn’t clamp the bleeders, and he bled out. No pulse, no pupil response, nothing, just these crazy black spider webs spreading through his blood vessels. I moved to the next triage. Couple of minutes later, there’s this commotion, and Neck Wound is all over your LT, just ripping at him. One of your guys busted Neck Wound in the back of the head with his rifle stock, and it was like someone hit the off switch.”
Foster is stunned. “So the dead guy is dead again?”
“Yep. I think the kid—Muesli or something like that, a young guy—snapped the guy’s spine right at the base of the skull. He’s pretty shook up about it. Anyway, the guys told me YOU’RE the one in charge now, Sarge, and they need you over there.”
Fuck me, Foster thinks to himself. This is a goddamn shitstorm, and I’m right in its fucking path. No way is any of this ending well.
He’s interrupted by a salvo of gunfire and yelling from multiple people. He grabs his Windham, slams the trunk on his cruiser, and starts running to the front of the gym.
He finds a grisly scene. The police are all training their guns on the people who have been bloodied in the melee inside the gym. Several bodies lay on the ground, and the remaining EMTs have fallen back behind the police line.
“STAY BACK!” one of cops yells at a woman who is staggering to her feet.
One of the EMTs is bleeding profusely from a wound on his arm, and a couple of other EMTs are tending to him. Ted leaves Foster to check on them.
The young cop Ted had referred to, Misselli, not Muesli, comes running over to Foster while the other cops scream instructions at the wounded.
“Sarge, this is FUBAR. These people are just attacking us like wild fucking animals. You heard what happened to LT?”
“I heard.”
“The medic over there just lost a huge chunk of his arm when one of these fuckers bit him. Sarge, it fucking ATE the hunk of flesh. I’ve never seen anything like this shit! We tried tasing him, and he wasn’t even affected by it. He’d stop when we juiced him, but soon as we’d turn off the current, the fucker would come right at us like nothing had happened. Jennings had to drop him, and we dropped three others that were closing on Jennings.”
Foster thumbs the mic on his radio as he scans the increasing number of dead bodies on the lawn.
“Two-fifteen to dispatch,” he says into the mic.
“Two-fifteen,” comes the reply acknowledging him, the “two” indicating his rank as sergeant and fifteen being his unit number.
“Situation at Moby is code Charles. Multiple subjects code Black, code 6. We need to lock the site down, request code 10 on North Street at Shields.” Foster uses police shorthand to tell the dispatcher that they are encountering civil unrest (code Charles), that there are people dead (code Black), showing signs of mental instability or are under influence of drugs (code 6), and he needs covering units (code 10) to shut down traffic on Shields Street. Shields makes up the western border of the campus and, along with North Street, is the other main entry point into the arena’s parking area.
“Copy 215. All units occupied; will code 10 ASAP …” the dispatcher trails off, and a new voice comes on the radio.
“Foster, Hutton.”
Shit, the chief! Foster thinks. I’m in the crosshairs of this thing now.
“Copy, Chief,” he says to the mic.
“I’m calling in every off-duty officer on this, Foster. The sheriff’s department is in the loop, and we’re setting up a command center. All sheriff on-calls are being brought in as well; we’re going to run joint jurisdiction on this. We have shit like this all over town, Foster, at least twenty code Black so far outside your location. We have massive fights where parties have gotten completely out of control, Old Town is a fucking blood bath, and I don’t know what the hell is happening at PVH, but it’s not good. Now this shit at Moby. Put this riot down, Foster. If you have to drop everyone who resists, you put this down.”
The pause after the last statement let Foster know the chief was done. “Copy Chief,” he says as he clips the mic onto the bracket on his shoulder. He turns back to the situation the rest of the cops are facing, knowing they all heard what the chief had to say.
Foster looks hard at the woman who has now regained her feet. She looks like she’s dead, he thinks. She’s turned gray and has black lines tracing the paths of her blood vessels where they are near the surface of the skin. She is not responding to the commands shouted at her. Suddenly, she launches into a dead sprint, charging the line of policemen, snarling like a mad dog the whole time.
“WE WILL FIRE! STOP WHERE YOU ARE” the cop named Jennings yells at her. A second later, he shoots her in the chest. She barely notices, the impact from the bullet turning her on a slightly different course, but she’s still coming.
Foster raises his M4 and fires a three-round burst. All three rounds hit her in the chest, and she falls forward, skidding on the concrete within five feet of the closest cop, who takes a few big steps back. To a man, they’re all shocked when the woman pushes herself up from the concrete. Her face has some serious damage from the slide she just did. Her skull is gleaming through her forehead, a ragged flap of skin hanging down from the wound. There’s no blood. Her nose is broken, and a couple of her teeth have gone missing. She launches forward from a crouch, straight at Foster.
A single shot rings out. Misselli has his AR aimed at her head. His aim is good, and her forehead collapses as the bullet penetrates her skull. The woman topples to the concrete face down, this time for good. Brain matter and an oily fluid seep onto the concrete under her face and start to drain toward the street.
“They’re fucking zombies,” Misselli says. “Holy fucking Jesus, they’re zombies. You have to shoot them in the head.”
“Bullshit,” Foster says. “It’s some sort of aerosolized PCP some asshole pumped into the arena. They’re all fucking whack
ed out. Has to be some explanation other than zombies."
Still, he thinks, the head shot stopped her cold after three hits to the chest didn’t seem to faze her …
A moan stops him in his tracks. The cops all look up from the dead woman to see another half dozen of the gray-fleshed ghouls looking at them from the triage area. One by one, they launch into sprint mode and the officers open fire. This time, they all aim for the head, even the dubious Foster, and they make quick work of the six reanimates.
Foster surveys the scene. There are another thirty or so people with various wounds still waiting for treatment. There were a lot more, but some of them fled when the shooting started.
That can’t be good, Foster thinks. We’ve done a piss-poor job of securing the area. If these sickos get into the neighborhoods, this will go from an ugly situation to a straight-up ass-fucking real quick. Where are those damn code 10s? Then he looks up at the gym and blanches at what he sees.
The glass entryway is packed with people. Gray-faced people. Gray-faced people just staring at them hungrily. The double set of outer-and-inner doors at the entryway seems to have them confounded for the time being and the glass that lines the side of the building is holding, for now. The other policemen see Foster’s gaping mouth and follow his gaze.
“Holy shit,” says Misselli. “There must be two hundred of them.”
“They said there were about 2000 in attendance tonight,” Jennings says. “What if they’re all like this?”
“Then we’re going to need more ammo,” Foster says, pulling himself together. “Look, you guys heard the chief. He wants us to stop this here and now. Everyone gear up, load up, and let’s get ready to go in.” He points to the entry with the horde behind it. “But we ain’t going in through that door, I’ll tell you that for nothing. We need another entrance where we don’t have such a large welcoming committee. Jennings—find me another entry point. Everyone else, get your gear!”
The men head to their cars to get more equipment—helmets, tactical gloves, shin guards, elbow pads, and more ammo and magazines for their rifles. In the triage area, more victims start moaning the horrible, raspy sound that Foster now knows means only one thing. He puts a full magazine in his M4 and heads for the moans.
It’s going to be a long night.
Chapter 6: The Kids Aren’t Alright
Friday, May 17, 2013 – Z-poc plus 30 minutes.
While Sergeant Foster is dealing with the situation at Moby Arena, Ben Puckett shifts his 1978 Toyota FJ Land Cruiser into second gear as traffic slows down, yet again. He lets out a sigh, which elicits a response from Toni.
“Ben, we’ll get there. You know traffic on College sucks,” she says. “But getting all pissed off isn’t going to make it go faster.”
The truth was that traffic on College Avenue sucked most of the time; it was just especially bad tonight. School’s over, and many of the students have already left, he thinks, so why is traffic so slow?
“I know,” he replies out loud. “I’m just ready to cut loose, and these people REFUSE TO GO THE SPEED LIMIT!” He yells this last part past the windshield at the cars in front of him. Toni just shakes her head.
They get closer to Laurel Street, where Ben wants to turn left, and he can see lights flashing as a police car pulls through the intersection and stops next to an unmarked police car that is already blocking the westbound lanes of Laurel. He sees the people in the double left turn lane trying to merge back into the northbound traffic, which is what has everything so jammed up. Laurel Street is closed.
“Well, what the hell is going on here?” he says. He cranes his head, but no matter what angle he tries, he sees no accident, no emergency vehicle other than the squad cars parked across the westbound side of the intersection.
“I don’t know why the street’s closed, but why does that cop have a machine gun?” Toni asks.
As they creep closer, Ben sees the short-barreled rifle slung from the officer’s uniform, which is no normal patrolman’s uniform. He’s wearing black cargo-style pants, black boots, a black shirt covered with a tactical vest. The word ‘POLICE” is emblazoned across the front and back of the vest. He has multiple magazines for both the rifle and his pistol in various pockets on the vest. He’s preoccupied with something in the trunk of the car. As they get closer to the cross street, he can see a second officer in the middle of the intersection, directing traffic north. He’s dressed in a similar fashion.
They crawl along as people still fight to merge back into traffic. When they finally get near enough to be heard, Ben rolls his window down and asks, “What’s going on?”
“There’s been an incident at Moby,” the officer says.
“What kind of incident?”
“It’s a police matter. Please keep traffic moving.” The officer waves him forward.
“What kind of incident? What does that mean?” Ben persists.
“Keep it moving! Let’s GO!” the officer shouts, waving Ben forward, signaling that Q&A time is over.
Ben looks at Toni for a second without saying anything. She finally breaks the tension.
“That’s messed up,” she says. “‘A police matter’? That’s the best he can say? He’s dressed for a bad day in Afghanistan and all he can say is ‘it’s a police matter’?!”
“I’ll bet there was a bomb,” Ben says. It’s only been a month since the Boston Marathon bombing and the shootout that followed a few days later, where hundreds of black-booted police and federal agents of different stripes swarmed Boston neighborhoods in search of the suspects. Out loud, he says, “That’s exactly how the cops dressed in Boston after the marathon bombing. They were ready for all-out combat.”
“No way. Here? What would they blow up?” Toni says dubiously.
“There’s a graduation thing tonight in the gym. Maybe someone screwed up and didn’t graduate, and they figure if they can’t, no one can.”
“That’s stupid even for a terrorist.”
“Well, he’s clearly stupid if he didn’t graduate,” Ben replies, and they both chuckle.
Ben turns the corner onto Mulberry Street and heads toward Whitcomb and his date with a keg of beer. He drives the few blocks to Whitcomb and turns left, back toward the campus.
He’s always amazed when they go to a party in one of these houses right by campus. The houses are always trashed, even in their normal, non-party state, but the rent is so damn expensive! The apartment that Ben shares with Keith and their friend Andy is not that much farther from campus—maybe a half mile—but it’s a lot nicer than most of these houses and nowhere near the rent.
Ben spots an open parking space a few houses up from the party so he pulls in before someone else can grab it. He and Toni exit the 4x4 and head toward the noise. Even from three houses away, they can hear people yelling, and the music blaring is overwhelming the neighborhood.
“The cops are going to be here in no time,” Toni says.
“Nah, remember, there’s an ‘incident’ at Moby. They have better things to do than harsh our buzz!” Ben replies with a smile.
There’s a pause in the music and “Good Good Night” by Roscoe Dash begins playing from speakers on the front porch. Out in front of the house, and in the yards of the houses on either side of the party house, there’s a game of football being played—if you can call the skills being displayed playing—which involves the team that gets scored on having to chug a beer. Based on the level of dexterity both teams are showcasing, the game is a shoot-out. Ben and Toni hustle through the yard and into the house.
Inside, the volume is even louder and there’s a small mosh pit in what would be a living room if a family lived here rather than four or five, or who knows how many, college students. A red cup half full of beer barely misses Ben on its way to the wall by the entryway. A kid with bloodshot eyes, a sleeve of plastic cups under his arm and the stench of marijuana on his clothes steps out of the mosh room and heads them off before they can get past him.
&nb
sp; “Two bucks a cup. Keg’s in the kitchen,” he says, apparently assuming they already know where the kitchen is.
Ben gives him a five and the kid stares at it for a minute, trying to come to terms with the higher math of making change, so Ben says, “Keep it.”
“Oh, right on. Here, let me mark you.”
The stoner produces a felt marker and puts a black ‘X’ on each of their right hands. “So I don't charge you twice!” he says, and re-joins the moshers in the living room.
The kitchen isn’t hard to find, and when they get there, Keith is running the keg, filling the cups for the people in line and filling his own whenever it needs it.
“We should have known!” Ben says. Keith’s modus operandi at a party is to get control of the keg and fairly dispense the beverage. By fair, he means pouring beer for people while ensuring he and his friends get filled first when they’re empty. Then, once he’s reached his desired level of drunkenness, he leaves the keg to whoever is next in line.
“Benji!!!” he shouts once he catches sight of them. “Get over here! Fill up! You—step back a minute, let these guys get the night started!” He gestures for the person whose beer he was filling to step back. The kid protests, but only a little, and Keith fills Toni’s cup first and then Ben’s. He holds his own cup up while thrusting the spigot back at the kid in line who has to quickly get his cup under the valve to keep from getting splashed with beer.
With his cup held high, Keith shouts, “For those about to rock, we salute you!” He clacks cups with Ben and the two chug their beers, Keith finishing a few seconds ahead of Ben. He pauses the line to refill their beers and turns to Toni.
“Toni, you’re driving tonight, right?” he asks.
“Sure. I love driving your drunk asses home in a forty-year-old SUV that doesn’t have power steering,” she says.
“You’re the best,” he says, either missing the sarcasm or ignoring it. It’s hard to tell which. “I can see why Ben likes you. Plus, you’ve got a great rack.”