by RW Krpoun
We worked well together; the pair deferred to me as a leader while feeling comfortable offering ideas and suggestions, and neither was afraid to pull a trigger. If anything, they were more aggressive than I was about killing infected. We burned through a lot of ammunition (and a lot of infected), and fired two sets of extinguishers, which lightened the truck’s load a bit, although we still had enough to make storage complicated. The truck’s body took some more battering and we lost what razor wire we had left, plus the passenger side mirror.
Lunch was sandwiches in the center of a big parking lot; we ate in the cab because the rain was still drizzling down. “So, what effect has the rain had on the infected?” I asked.
They pondered the question. “They seem a little less enthused,” Key ventured. “Less…I don’t know, eager? I mean, its not like they get emotional, but that’s how I would describe it.”
“They don’t care about getting wet,” Jake shrugged. “Either way. They still stayed indoors except for sentries, but they came out when we showed up or they heard the noisemakers.”
I explained my early encounters a week ago. “It still bothers me they changed their tactics. We need to watch, and avoid getting complacent, because if they changed once, they can change again.”
“It’s a virus,” Jake shook his head. “It shouldn’t be flexible.”
“You wouldn’t think so.”
The rain forced us to avoid rescues which would require us to leave the pavement because I wasn’t going to risk getting stuck, but there were plenty of targets available and so few teams actually out and working that we never crossed paths with any. The site had assigned team numbers up to one fifty six by now, but less than fifty still showed active. I didn’t bother to tally up the number of posts, e-mails, and tweeter-thingies asking for help, but it was a heart-breaking number.
By sixteen hundred we had fired off two more rows of fire extinguishers and I was down to four magazines for my AK; the pair had made a major inroad into the case of 5.56mm, and we were pretty worn out, but we had gotten thirty-one more people out, and the used car lot had given its all. I had given away the folding-stock 870, the Browning Hi-Power, and the .22 target pistol I had picked up to survivors who looked like they would put them to good use.
The rain had stopped, although it was pretty cloudy; we were standing on top of the truck on an overpass studying a strip mall containing a big hobby super store and ten smaller units arranged in a sort of U shape. There were thirty-one survivors inside, most of whom having been there since Monday. They were unarmed, but they had water and lights and some food, but not much anymore. They had the hobby store and the right side of the U barricaded and connected with holes knocked through the walls, and they had managed to get onto the roof as well.
The problem was that the place was surrounded with infected sentries, and there were a couple hundred holed up in the left side.
“The problem with the bus,” I lowered my binos and passed them to Key. “Is keeping the infected off of it with only two shooters. If we rescue someone else, we could let them drive, but how much can you trust somebody you just met? And that still gives us just three shooters. If we run in and drop off some guns, maybe they could help provide cover fire, but if they panic, they we’re out there without the cover fire we were planning on.”
“If we use the truck and try for several trips over the space of a day, we stand the risk of getting mobbed,” Jake shrugged. “At least the bus could hold the whole group.”
“It boils down to the fact that our team isn’t big enough to provide cover and control a group that size, and while they obviously have their act together to some degree, we don’t know how they will react when help shows up.”
We stood in silence, mulling it over.
“OK, how about this,” I suggested. “Jake drives the bus, Key drives one of your trucks, both buttoned up. I stay up here with my scoped AR-15. You guys whip in and take position, I take out the sentries and lay down cover fire. The survivors jump onto the roofs of the vehicles, and you guys pull out when the infected reach your vehicle or I give the word. We meet up someplace, I shoot any infected still hanging on, and we’re done. We repeat it if we don’t get everyone the first go-round.”
They thought about it. “If the survivors panic, the only ones who get hurt are them,” Jake nodded.
“Works for me,” Key shrugged.
“We’ll have to have vehicles set up where we drop them,” I took out my phone. “You two will stay inside your rigs-I don’t want anyone getting the idea that we owe them a ride or looking to trade up, vehicle-wise. We’ll do some prep work today and do the extraction tomorrow after some sleep. Good enough?”
They thought so. Both were visibly tired, and I was dragging; combat stress really takes it out of you.
The contact at the mall was Marvin Pyle, owner of a head shop who sounded like an ageing hippie. I had already talked to him twice.
“OK, we have a plan,” I announced when he answered. “But we can’t do it until tomorrow morning.”
“Tomorrow? Why?” He sounded indignant.
“Well, first because we do not have the vehicles and weapons on hand to make the extraction, and we do not have the preparations for your group’s evacuation from the Zone in place. If we tried to mount it today, your group would likely still be within the Zone when the sun sets. As you know, they get more aggressive at night.”
“Couldn’t you evacuate us to a secure site, and get us out of the Zone tomorrow?”
“If we had a site, sure, but we don’t.” Not one I would trust thirty-one strangers inside.
“You live in the Zone, don’t you?”
“You are in a secure site right now,” I pointed out. “They can’t get in at you, and you’ve got water. As I said, the logistics of the matter are just one problem. The other is that we are physically exhausted-we’ve been fighting infected and extracting survivors all day, all week, in fact. We’re not in the kind of shape an operation of this size requires. After a night’s sleep, sure.”
“You have to push yourself-isn’t that your job?” Marvin snarled.
“Actually, I’m retired, and the rest of the team are college students, so there’s no job involved. We’re volunteers in the purest sense. Marvin,” I cut him off. “What you need to understand is that this is not a discussion. I’m telling you what we are going to do, and you can either accept it or find a way out of your predicament yourself.” I hit the red button and stowed the phone. “Let’s go set up another car lot and call it a day.”
“I’ll write out and print up the evacuation directions tonight so we won’t have to find more maps,” Key volunteered as we climbed into the cab.
“Good idea.”
After the car lot we stopped off at the gas station we had hit on the way out this morning; while I fueled up the truck they broke open the propane exchange case and loaded up all the cylinders, empty or full, into the rear of the truck. I knew how to operate a propane filling station, so empties were fine by me.
The team phone ringing made me jump; it was Ted. “What’s up, Doc?”
“I’ve done a preliminary study of the notes in the folio,” he ignored my humor. I don’t doubt he hated my guts, but I couldn’t care less. “There is some very exciting data in it regarding other sources which should uncover the entire matter much quicker than I had expected.”
“Wonderful. Let me know how it comes out.”
“Wait-you wanted proof that this can help, correct?”
“Yeah.”
“There are two points I have found in this new material which should help convince you: first, according to the information, the dead formed into ‘rivers’ and attacked the lands of the living.”
“Like human wave attacks? They’re already doing that.”
“Not exactly-the use of ‘river’ is rather clear, suggesting a column movement. Second, the king had his men coat their javelins in rock salt so they would slay the dead. Can’t yo
u use rock salt in firearms?”
“Yeah…no real range, and zero stopping power,” I said slowly. “I can’t see how it would help.”
“I do not believe the use of the salt was a metaphor. Can you try it?”
“Maybe. Look, if what you have is so compelling, why not tell the Feds? Why bother with me?”
“The CDC is the primary agency in this matter, and a theory based on other than medical science is not welcome. Believe me, I have tried. I have even contacted other rescue teams within the Zone; sadly, you are the most responsive of the few who are left.”
“Why this city?” I asked. “You said this guy was obscure.”
“He is. Its not commonly known outside academic circles, but the University there has one of the premier collections of Sumerian artifacts and material available, and the teaching staff included several of the top scholars in the field in the USA. Admittedly, it’s a small sub-field. The safety deposit box Tanner’s team located belonged to a retired professor.”
“You would think this sort of thing would be in books and pictures all over the place.”
“Books, yes, but books which do not focus on this king’s exploit save as legend, filtered through the opinions and beliefs of the author. What I need is raw data from the source material. Photos of most of the University’s collection were on display on their website, but the site went down on Friday, and as I’ve said, the matter is obscure. By the time I had a focus to my theory and had been rebuffed by the government, too many sources of data had been lost to me, which is why I sent Tanner into the Zone. I expected he would take a day or two, but he spent two days setting up a base, and you know the rest.”
“So what you need is photos of Sumerian stuff, mostly at the University if its still standing, some in private collections?”
“Yes, specific items. And some books which are out of print and not available in my location.”
“I’ve got a rescue op in the morning, thirty-odd people we need to extract. I’ll call you when we’re done, and see what else you’ve gotten from the folio. “
Dropping the whole matter seemed like the most logical thing to do: Ted was probably a crank. But what he wanted wasn’t all that complicated. If it turned out we had to extract gold antiques, well, that would be something else. Maybe.
“Who was on the phone?” Key asked, handing me a cold soda.
“The mad doctor. He liked the folio you guys got him. If you two are up for it, let’s do some shopping before we knock off for the day.”
Chapter Twelve
The neighborhood was still largely clear-two blocks from my place an office strip-mall had burned down; I guessed a vehicle had crashed into it and started the fire, but it was just a guess. The fire was out now, anyway.
I stowed the full propane cylinders in my dumpster and put the empties next to it before pulling around to the front door and unloading my stuff. The truck parked, I cleaned the AK and my gear, showered, and washed clothes, my standard routine. The power and lights were still working, so life was good.
My share of the fruits of our last minute shopping expedition were about forty pounds of meat, an equal amount of deli cheese, a lot of high-end plastic wrap (because I promptly froze most of the meat), one loaf of somewhat stale bread, a half-dozen cases of canned goods, ten cases of bottled water, a five pound sack of rock salt, three one-pound boxes of sea salt, a couple blue cardboard containers of table salt, a selection of cans of pepper and spices, a top-end loading press, sacks of shotgun shell wads, boxes of shotgun shell primers, and ten pounds of gunpowder. Plus a couple books on reloading and some odds and ends of reloading tools. Jake and Key had gotten more food out of the trip and their own loading gear. I had recovered a dozen empty shotgun shells amongst the goods stacked atop the truck, legacy of the earlier operations.
I set up the loading press and examined the books only to find they didn’t have load recipes for rock salt, so I started experimenting. When I had loaded up the handful of hulls I had I went outside with the cardboard box from a twelve-pack of sodas and tested my efforts. I ended up reloading each hull two or three times, but after two hours I had worked out loads for rock or sea salt, although either only had a range of about twenty feet. The table salt was completely useless-the granules were too small. I loaded six each of rock and sea salt, marking the bases of the rock salt with a wet erase marker.
It was probably a complete waste of time, but it was entertaining, and I had also picked up two twenty pound bags of buckshot, so the reloading set-up wasn’t going to be a waste. Expanding my reloading capability was definitely something I needed to look into in the future. Today, though, I was tired. At least my knee wasn’t hurting any worse. It might be a little better even-I had cooling gel slathered on and a hard brace giving it extra support, and had popped an anti-inflammatory
Tomorrow we would get those people out of the mall, and then shoot some salt into infected, and then I would likely tell Ted to go to hell. And then we would cruise around the Zone and get some more people out, and shoot infected with stuff that would work. Saturday, more of the same. Maybe we would take a break and snipe off some bunches of infected-we were out of audio bait, even the sensors I had gotten from Home Depot, but there were certainly more to be looted out there.
The change still nagged at me: the infected had changed tactics. That meant that there was an aspect of the virus that we did not understand, which meant that we could get hit with a sudden change of tactics. In the spring of 1940 the Germans had roughly the same amount men, aircraft, and artillery as the Allies; the Allied tanks were better armored and had better guns. But in a matter of weeks the Germans had won a complete victory because they employed a new doctrine. They couldn’t beat the Allies in a stand-up fight, but they didn’t need to. The same thing could happen to my team: the rules could change and catch us unawares.
On impulse I called Ted. “I thought I would let you know I’m set up to test both rock salt and sea salt on the infected tomorrow. Even if they work it still won’t be much of an advantage.”
He sounded tired. “I suppose not, but if it works it will provide substantial support for my theory.”
“I just can’t see what his big weapon could be. He didn’t have a lot to work with, technology-wise.”
“Perhaps that was an advantage, in this age its not uncommon to over-think a problem. Our state of technology means that a single organization can be swamped with data and options.”
“Possible. Anyway, we’ll know tomorrow. If the salt doesn’t pan out for you, what then?”
“Then I shall start anew with the material I have. Perhaps it was an error in context or translation.”
“You’re not going to give up?”
“You are staying in a Zone, and you sound surprised?”
“Good point,” I conceded.
“Besides, it’s the only theory I can apply to my field. If I am to make a contribution, this will be it.”
“Why did the virus appear now? Its been centuries since the mound builders went under.”
“That I do not know. There are no connections between the three outbreaks I have tentatively identified, and none between those and this crisis. There’s just too little data.” He paused, hesitant, and then plunged ahead. “I would like to send you copies of all my material. Redundancy is crucial.”
“OK.” I didn’t see any harm. “Not that I could get anything from it. Aren’t you in contact with your colleagues?”
“Not many, and not recently. They scattered at the onset, and few have surfaced on the Net since.”
That hit an odd note with me. “Where exactly are you?”
“In a library annex in Portland, Maine. Inside a Zone, I’m afraid. I have power and water and supplies for some time.”
“Ted, is your building secure?”
“Reasonably so, although since I never leave there is no fear of an infected assault. The building is wheelchair-friendly, so I can continue my work.”
&
nbsp; “Shit, I thought you were in a secure area.”
“There wasn’t time; this annex is the best source of material for my theory in the Portland area.”
“You’re alone?”
“Yes.”
Crippled and alone, and still fighting back-I was feeling like a heel. “Look, I’m sorry I put you through the hoops earlier.”
“These are trying times,” he said, rather diplomatically.
I wondered if he was lying to me, working on a sympathy angle to keep me working for him. “Have you got a target list for your materials?”
“I have the next items plotted. Shall I send the information?”
“Yeah, do it. I’m not committing to the op, but I can be mulling over the tactical considerations.” My phone beeped. “My battery is dying. I’ll call you tomorrow after I’ve tested the salt.”
I’m no ace at the Net, but Ted, if that was who I was talking to, was indeed a crippled professor from Portland-he had a picture and brief bio on the school’s site; his e-mail address and phone area code checked out, too. I decided to take him at face value until I knew more. So far all he wanted was information and a field test of rock salt-I couldn’t see any basis for a scam.
But I kept in mind that Tanner had trusted this guy, and Tanner was now dead.
I watched some HBO before I went to bed; they were running marathons of their series. What channels were still up were running shows without ads or news, just entertainment, even old sporting events. The horror channel was off, though.
It was pretty good, about a bunch of dysfunctional police officers in Baltimore. I enjoyed it-they didn’t shoot anyone, just slogged through paperwork, bitched about overtime and funding, and couldn’t find a witness anywhere. It was like being back at work.
Friday morning I dug out the entry gun holster from my Patrol gear and clipped it to the back of my vest; it held the cut-down well enough. Yesterday I had picked up a six-round shell-carrier made of ballistic plastic that clipped to the side of the receiver; the cut-down held five shells, so I dropped the last rock salt into a vest pocket. It was a lot of weight to add for an experiment, but I was pretty confident that it would just be a temporary measure.