ocalypse (Book 10): Drawl (Duncan's Story)

by Chesser, Shawn

  “Wouldn’t take it if she did,” Duncan answered, his frame now filling up the entry to the tiny kitchen. “My numbers hit.”

  Charlie shook his head. “Thought you were done with that. And I thought you were supposed to be out looking for a paying gig.”

  “I’m borderline geezer, now, Chuck. So are you. Hell, every time I go up to the VA hospital they want to stick something up my tailpipe. Going up that hill makes me more nervous than a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs.”

  Charlie had his hands planted on his hips. The vein snaking down his temple was beginning to throb because the money he’d just squirreled away was eventually going to be returned to his friend once he found work. To help pay for first and last on a place of his own. A new start, so to speak. Now, however, he wasn’t so sure if that was sound strategy.

  “You’re not that old,” he said. “You just can’t put down the bottle. And that leads to you taking shortcuts to try and get ahead.”

  “Tell that to the AARP,” replied Duncan, ignoring the latter part of the previous statement. “Those bloodsuckers have been trying to get their hooks into me since I turned the old double nickel.”

  “Sixty is the new forty.”

  “I’m not sixty, a-hole,” Duncan said playfully.

  Charlie laughed. “You’re closer to sixty than fifty, though.” And your liver is pushing seventy.

  Duncan pushed past the shorter man, muttering something about the pot calling the kettle black. He opened the fridge and took out the next to last Budweiser. Working on a decision, he paused for a second with the cool draft hitting his face. Shrugging, he reached back in and snagged the last bottle by its slender neck.

  When the door sucked shut, Charlie was reaching out to receive one of the beers. But there was no handoff as Duncan spun the other way, raised both bottles out of reach, and crabbed past Charlie on his way back to the sagging sofa.

  “You’re never going to change, are you, Old Man?”

  “Hope not,” Duncan replied. “Because they broke the mold when they made me.” He sat down hard on the couch, getting jabbed in the butt by a faulty spring for it. Grimacing, he scooted sideways a foot, snatched up the remote and turned on the television. “Come get yer beer, ya crybaby. Let’s see what the snakes in D.C. are up to now.” And as he took a swig of his Bud, he couldn’t help but think about Matilda, an old family friend he called ‘Aunt’ whose tiny Ladd’s Edition bungalow happened to be due east of the Hawthorne bridge, barely a mile removed from the madness happening downtown.

  Chapter 13

  The guttural growls emanating from the bowels of the subterranean parking garage froze a number of pedestrians in their tracks. Rooted on the sidewalk and framed in the golden rectangle of afternoon light, heads swiveled and bodies squared up slowly to face the unnatural sounds banging off the walls and ceiling of the cavernous echo chamber.

  The half-dozen passersby who had been hustling along the sidewalk away from the Square stopped only long enough to peer at the source of the sound, then continued on with an added degree of pep in their step.

  The opposite was true for a pair of businessmen wearing suits and ties and a young woman clutching her preschool-aged boy by the hand. All three, walking in the direction of the Square and likely unaware of what the others already knew, stood gawking at the ambling ashen forms, one of them so tall its head banged continuously on the angled soffits and low-hanging water and electrical conduits.

  Arms outstretched and with a chorus of moans escaping their wide open maws, the nearest two forms passed under the fluorescent overheads, the stark white cone of light exposing them for the bloody spectacles they were.

  A few paces behind the others, the seven-footer sporting a shirt drenched in crimson head-butted the hanging low clearance warning sign, stumbled forward clumsily at the base of the ramp, and crashed face first onto the oil-dappled concrete.

  All at once came the sickening wet crunch of cartilage meeting concrete and a sharp crack-tinkle as teeth shattered and bounced up the ramp in a wide spreading arc.

  “Are you OK?” called the woman, instinctively drawing her child to her hip.

  The man said nothing. All that was coming out of him was a dewy gurgle as he struggled to rise.

  Low in timbre, the menacing growls of the other two intensified as their combat-booted feet hit the incline. Ignoring the fallen man, the pair locked eyes on the woman and boy and reached out for them.

  Seeing all of this unfolding, one of the businessmen backed away from the entrance and pulled a thin phone from a leather holster perched horizontally on his hip. In the next beat he was tapping furiously on the device’s glass face.

  Meanwhile, gaping at what he thought to be victims of a vicious mugging, businessman number two shielded his eyes against the flashing lights atop the inert ambulance and began to slowly back away.

  Eyes suddenly gone wide, the young woman backpedaled away from what at first blush she thought to be a couple of harmless vagrants, but now knew full well were something that she could not easily explain. Motherly instincts kicking in, she put her child behind her and tried talking the bloodied, cadaverous-looking street kids out of whatever they had planned for her.

  At street level, businessman number one had the phone jammed to his ear and his lips pressed into a thin line. Brow furrowed, this action—basically an inaction in the eyes of the EMTs—drew a pair of disgusted glares as the uniformed man and woman hauled open the ambulance’s rear doors and began to pull plastic boxes from inside.

  Grabbing the equipment by recessed handles, the two EMTs brushed past the inert businessmen, the male EMT telling the suit with the phone to “make yourself useful and vacate the sidewalk to make room for the backup that’s on the way,” and the female first responder taking the time to thank the good Samaritan suit who had waved them down before whispering “Move aside pussy” to the other as she slid her medical kit on the brick sidewalk and took a knee by the woman and kid.

  The male EMT cupped his hands and, ignoring his proximity to the leather-clad moaners, called down to the man struggling to rise to his feet. “Are you bit?” he asked, his voice sonorous and booming in the enclosed area.

  The seemingly dazed man made no reply. Instead, getting his feet underneath him, he stood fully and cast a blank stare up the ramp. In the next beat the EMT’s question was answered when the giant of a man took a step forward, opened his mouth revealing a picket of jagged and broken teeth, and added an otherworldly hiss of his own to the street kids’ eerie moans.

  Craning over his shoulder, in a voice wavering slightly, the male EMT asked his partner if she could see their security team yet.

  She stood and looked up and down the street. “Negative.” She began backing the woman and kid away from the entrance while saying, “They probably had to wheel around the block and are dealing with traffic and one-way streets.”

  The male EMT took out a radio and called Dispatch, stated his location, then added, “I have three more ambulatory deceased. How copy?”

  At once the radio crackled. “Good copy. Three more walkers broke the cordon?” Though fed over a few miles of air and coming out of a tiny speaker with a lot of hours on it, there was no mistaking the tone of incredulity in the responding voice.

  The first of the moaning street kids was now only a couple of yards from the sidewalk and, almost as if they’d materialized out of thin air, a couple of dozen bystanders had gathered. They had formed a ragged semicircle fully encompassing the entrance, the ambulance just outside of the perimeter.

  Walking backward up the ramp, eyes never leaving the three things he had just referred to as ambulatory dead, the male EMT came up against two-hundred-pounds of construction worker.

  “What the eff did they take?” asked the man, his breath reeking of cigarettes. “Whatever it is … I want on that train.”

  Finding himself between a rock and a hard place—the EMT put his hands up in a defensive posture just as th
e snarling street kid curled his dirty fingers into the fabric of his uniform blouse.

  Ten feet to the right, the female EMT had her back turned to the unfolding drama and was trying to disperse the crowd.

  The street kid’s gaping maw was closing around the three outside fingers of the male EMT’s left hand when a fist the size of Thor’s hammer flashed in and shattered half of the teeth from it.

  Recoiling from the semi-warm spritz of aerated blood coming from both the street kid’s pulped upper lip and the laborer’s lacerated knuckles, the EMT cried out for everyone to run.

  “I don’t run from anything or anybody,” said the heavily muscled man as he pushed the EMT aside. He put his bloody fist to his mouth and sucked at the blood there. He wiped his palms on his day-glo yellow vest, curled his hands into fists, and as half of the assembled gawkers fled in terror, laid into the second street kid, raining jackhammer-like blows unmercifully on his face.

  Still moaning through a mouthful of shattered teeth, the first street kid found purchase on a bystander’s bare leg and hauled itself to one knee. In the next beat the woman in tourist attire—khaki walking shorts, Old Navy tank, and canvas deck shoes—found herself dragged to the sidewalk, her gaze still inexplicably locked on the circus-sideshow-sized man at the bottom of the ramp. As she ripped her attention from the flailing oddity, her first death warrant was signed as the street kid’s razor-sharp shards of teeth sank into the soft flesh on the side of her calf. A lightning bolt of pain hit her brain first. Then she screamed and peered down at the damage being created as the weight of the thing latched onto her leg sped her to a painful rendezvous with the ground.

  With the first symptoms of shock setting in, the woman kicked her assailant off and crawled into the dissipating crowd, the quartet of deep furrows gouged from knee to ankle leaving a sticky crimson trail in her wake.

  Chapter 14

  The snakes in D.C. were doing the same thing they’d been doing for more than two hundred years: obfuscating, dodging, misdirecting, engaging in double-speak and, in Duncan’s already jaded opinion, when it came to denying the very existence of the flu that allegedly had seen many of that country’s citizens hauled away by hazmat-suited PLA soldiers for going on three days now—downright lying to the American public.

  Duncan was flicking madly through the channels and muttering to himself.

  Charlie drained his beer and set it down hard on the table. After a long belch he said, “What are you looking for?”

  “CNN or Fox. One of them briefly showed some video with Bethesda in the background.”

  “The hospital?”

  “Yeah … I’ve done some recuperating there. Long ago. I think I saw a pair of helicopters hovering over one of the wings.”

  “Life Flight, maybe?” Charlie said. “Keep it here, though. This is local.”

  On the screen was an interior shot featuring a woman anchor dodging gurneys and medical personnel at the ER entrance to one of Portland’s biggest hospitals. She was trying to keep her composure in the midst of the activity and was doing a fantastic job until an orderly parked an occupied gurney directly behind her. On the waist-high wheeled bed, the prostrate form was covered head-to-toe by a white sheet. The fabric was dotted here and there with crimson, a sight that immediately drew a look of apprehension from the resilient lady.

  But she got over it real quick because, with a shooing motion at the intrusion, she turned her best side to the camera and, bathed in stark white light, resumed her ongoing commentary.

  “It wasn’t one of those sleek Dauphin Eurocopters.” Duncan shook his head. “Nope. Those were Little Birds. The Special Ops community calls them Flying Eggs. I’d bet the house on it.”

  “I gather you would,” Charlie agreed, taking his eyes from the TV long enough to look at the money pinned under the pistol. “So, Bethesda’s a military hospital … right?”

  “Correct. I was reading in a Stars And Stripes magazine that it’s been under renovation for some time. Sounds like they’ll be merging it with Walter Reed eventually.”

  Charlie said, “Way over budget and with a long delayed opening ceremony, I presume.”

  Duncan picked his phone up off the table. “I’m proud of you, Chuck. Hell, for a fella who never served your country, you sure have a firm grasp of how she’s being destroyed.” He flipped the phone open and found the autodial list. He skipped number 1, which was programmed to call the place he’d just been told he would never work again. The name of a very important person in his life was programmed as speed dial number 2. He punched the Talk button and put the phone to his head.

  “Calling Matilda?”

  Duncan nodded.

  “Figured you would sooner or later. She’s going to be pissed you’re worried about her.”

  Duncan said, “I’d file it under concerned.” His face seemed to tighten, however. Brows knitting, he pursed his lips and ended the call by flipping the phone’s two halves closed.

  “No answer, huh? That’s not good.”

  “Yep,” Duncan said. “Now I’m worried. You coming or staying?”

  A puzzled look on his face, Charlie said, “This thing downtown … think it’s spread to Tilly’s neighborhood?”

  “You know me, Charlie. Hope for the best—” Duncan began.

  “—prepare for the worst,” finished Charlie. “I don’t think you have reason to be alarmed. Coming down MLK after work I saw all of the bridges going up at once.”

  Duncan scooped up his Colt and the cash. The latter went in a pocket, the former got worked into his waistband, the holster’s leather paddle securing it firmly to his right hip. “Did they all stay up?”

  “Yep.”

  Duncan locked eyes with his friend. “That’s even more reason for concern,” he stated, snatching the keys to the Dodge off the table.

  “I’m not following.”

  “Get my shotgun.”

  Doing a double take, Charlie said, “Shotgun?”

  “You haven’t taken a peek inside your coat closet since I moved in?”

  Charlie shook his head side-to-side. “No reason to. It’s summer. Hence, no need for a coat.” He padded to the closet which was straight ahead from the entry. Opened it up and came out with a stubby black combat shotgun in hand, barrel aimed at the floor. “You OK to drive?”

  Accepting the shotgun from his friend, Duncan replied, “I’m good to fly … if I had to. If the FCC allowed me to. Hand me the shells. They’re up on the shelf next to that collapsible umbrella.”

  Charlie complied. Handing them over, he said, “And I didn’t see the ammo up there because it hasn’t rained for a while either.”

  “Let’s git a move on, Mister Magoo. We’ve only got a few hours of daylight left.” Just then, as if the gods had been listening and possessed a wicked sense of humor, the lights flickered on and off, shutting down both the cable box and television. Which was unfortunate, because the screen went dark just seconds prior to the form on the gurney in the ER entry hinging up and spilling the sheet down around its bruised and bite-addled torso.

  Had the power not cut off and had Duncan and Charlie witnessed the cute little news reporter having her windpipe and carotid artery torn from her milky white throat, their crosstown trip may have been aborted and immediate plans to escape Portland drawn up.

  Charlie’s brows shot up. He reached to the wobbly fan and turned the switch to Off. Then he snagged his Mariners cap off the table and pulled it on tight. “Next stop Tilly’s, I imagine.”

  Duncan said nothing. He was already out the door with the box of shells in one hand, pump shotgun in the other.

  ***

  Jockeying the Dodge around on the parking pad had been the easiest part of the trip so far. Getting out onto Flavel was a bitch. Finally, after resorting to the old bull in a china shop method of entering traffic, Duncan had the rig nosing east.

  Charlie shot him a sideways look. “Tilly’s is thataway,” he said, jabbing a thumb over his left shoulder.<
br />
  “You know how much of a cluster 82nd is near the Walmart on a Saturday?”

  Charlie shrugged nonchalantly.

  “Of course you wouldn’t, you bus-riding son-of-a-gun.” Duncan checked his mirror then his blind spot and slid over to the left turn lane where Flavel intersected 92nd Avenue. “It’s a pain in the dick on a normal day. Now with this perfect storm of the Chinese flu threat and attacks downtown, Vegas, and D.C.”—he glanced at the pump gun on the floor near Charlie’s feet and went on—“82nd and all the stores up and down it is the last place I need to be dealing with. Put some shells in that thing, won’t ya?”

  Handling the shotgun gingerly, Charlie figured out on his own how to load the shells.

  “It ain’t gonna bite you. The safety on?”

  There was a soft click.

  “It is now.”

  Chapter 15

  Downtown Portland

  There was a vehicle approaching, heard but not seen, because the female EMT whose nametag read Palazzo was short, even wearing lug-soled work boots. The low growl bouncing off the multi-story buildings was unmistakable. After serving a tour in the sandbox as an Army medic, the engine sound of the AM General Hummer was forever imprinted in her memory. And though she couldn’t see over the assembled crowd, walking her steely gaze from face to face and barking, “Make a hole!” dragged their attention from the two street kids being held down on the ground by a pair of good Samaritans.

  As the human wall parted to let the squared-off slab of Kevlar and metal nose across the sidewalk, Palazzo looked past the jostling crowd and saw her partner applying pressure to the gauze pad taped to his own neck. Though just a handful of minutes had passed since the construction worker intervened in the attack, already the compress was bright red and her right-seater, whose nametag said Morgan, had gone ashen white.

  Based on the flash message all first responders—police, fire, and EMTs alike—had received earlier in the day, she knew he was in trouble. For reasons unknown, the fever associated with this new virus had burned through him real quickly. A minute, two at most, after the kid had bitten him, it seemed. Now he was visibly shivering. So seeing the newly arrived security team, Palazzo went to his side, slid down the building’s pink marble exterior, and put her arm around the big man. A comforting gesture, for sure. One that required a measured dose of vigilance, because if the brief from the CDC in Atlanta had any truth to it—Ken had minutes to live before the effects of the fever on his brain started the chain reaction within him that would shut down his vital organs and snuff the life from him. It was the second part of the memo that troubled Palazzo most and made the vigilance necessary. Because though she had seen enough of the infected after the turn to make her a believer, until she saw it happen with her own eyes, the shred of doubt she harbored about the whole process would continue to nag at her. Which could be a problem. Especially when it came to labeling someone she considered as much a brother as her two biological ones with the dreaded scarlet letter I. Infected. Once you were, there was no stopping the unnamed virus from running its course.