Palazzo cast her gaze to the men holding the street kids at bay. Both of them bore marks from the initial takedown. There was a roadmap of scratches on the construction worker’s arms. Another man who intervened lost the tip of his finger, whether it was on the ground or had become lunch for one of the attackers, she hadn’t a clue.
Even before the Humvee had stopped moving, a pair of soldiers wearing the newer Multi-Cam fatigues and carrying stubby black rifles leaped from the rear doors and rushed forward with plastic flex-cuffs at the ready. On the heels of the first two soldiers, a compact man wearing fatigues in the same camouflage pattern, only his bearing captain’s bars stitched in black, hopped from the passenger seat. At once the African American captain had the crowd under control with his booming voice and intimidating body language. After moving the odd assortment of passersby back and telling them to stay put until his men could take witness statements, he looped around front of the rig and was met by his driver, a rock-solid sergeant, who was gazing down the ramp feeding into the garage.
Nodding his Kevlar helmet in the direction of the incredibly tall man filling up a good portion of the exit ramp floor to ceiling, the sergeant said, “Fight’s left that one. He hasn’t moved from that position since I’ve been watching.”
“Stop right there,” bellowed the captain whose nametape read Castle.
The tall man made no reply. His arms hung limply at his sides. His shoes made scuffing noises as his legs moved in a slow front-to-back shuffle, but he was going nowhere, and for some reason his head was reared back as if he was about to belt out a war cry or howl at a nonexistent moon.
Reacting to the recurrent movements, the sergeant shouldered a stubby rifle and aimed it at the tall redhead.
As another Humvee pulled onto the sidewalk next to the ambulance whose light bar was still flashing orange and red, the captain waved the soldiers over and then looked at his driver. “Remember,” he said to everyone in earshot, “you’ve got to stop aiming for center mass. Unlearn that shit! Head shots only from here on out. And somebody cut that poor bastard down if he’s still alive.”
Nods went all around. In unison a couple of the soldiers said, “Copy that.”
The last part of the lead man’s speech caught Palazzo’s attention. Rising from her dying partner’s side, she called out, “He’s one of them now. It’s just that his hair is twisted up in the sprinkler head. Figured it best to just leave him there and stay clear.”
Having to see it for himself, the captain drew his Beretta semiautomatic from its drop-thigh holster, clomped down the ramp in his combat boots, and took up station a yard and a half in front of the odd sight.
“Got yourself in a pickle, did you? he said, clucking his tongue. “Not once, but twice judging by the feed bag those other two made out of your neck. I feel kind of sorry for you, fella. At work and minding your own business. And this unforeseen turn of events falls in your lap.”
Aroused by the nearness of the voice, the thing that used to be Don Bowen stretched its arms to full extension and with pale probing fingers brushed the angled stack of extra magazines secured in horizontal pouches on the front of the captain’s uniform.
Eyes locked on the immobilized creature, Captain Castle called out, “Corporal Gearhart, get Hitman Actual on the horn and let her know containment at grid two has failed. I recommend moving the perimeter one klick north, west and south. See what she says first. I don’t want to step on anyone’s toes here.” He stood there staring at the pallid human shell, ignoring the steady scritch, scritch, scritch of the thing’s nails dragging against his nylon chest rig. He looked up at the infected’s stretched-out neck. Ignored the gaping wound exposing muscle and veins and such and instead fixated on the bobbing of its Adam’s apple as the thing moaned and arched its back in a failed attempt to gain purchase on the meat it knew was so close.
There was a commotion on the street, but Castle didn’t pay it any attention. Instead he beckoned a pair of soldiers down the ramp.
“You two make a quick sweep of this garage then seal it up.”
The men nodded and hustled off, M4 rifles held at the high ready and sweeping the area in front of them.
“And men,” Castle called after them. He tapped two fingers to his helmet, creating a hollow thunk each time. “Head shots only.”
After nodding in understanding, the men turned back and disappeared around the corner, into the gloom.
A minute later Gearhart popped his head out of the lead Humvee and called down, “Message received, Captain. Hitman says we should push the perimeter two klicks out from the river to grids six on all three sides.”
“Copy that.” Castle turned towards his men. “Listen up,” he bellowed. “Start processing the witnesses.” He motioned his driver over. Whispered in his ear and sent him away to fulfill a task.
“And someone please cut this one down and get it and the rest of whatever those things are up to Pill Hill ASAP. The pointy heads want as many live specimens as they can get their hands on.”
“I don’t think he’s alive,” said Palazzo, who had formed up behind the captain.
“Figure of speech, Ma’am. Shoulda said fresh.”
Palazzo screwed up her face. Choking up with emotion, she said, “My partner, Morgan, just died. You better take him too … before he turns into one of them.”
There was a hissing of air brakes as a Tri-Met bus being driven by a soldier pulled abreast of the entrance, blocking in the three vehicles, two EMTs, six soldiers and all of the civilians—minus two who had unknowingly become infected and wandered off before Palazzo’s security element rolled up.
Seeing this, and ignoring the cacophony of pleas to be let go coming from the civilians, the captain said to Palazzo, “I’m afraid we’re going to have to commandeer your ambulance. Whoever you work for will be reimbursed for lost revenue, wear and tear and any damages incurred.”
She said nothing to that as the captain began barking the orders over the rising babble that started the process of twenty-one civilians being loaded onto the city bus, Palazzo, still holding her tongue, among them. Morgan, however, was still propped against the building and had just started the turn.
Blissfully unaware of the excruciating pain the big man was experiencing, Palazzo walked six rows in and planted her butt on a hard plastic seat by the window on the driver’s side of the bus. It was a calculated move that spared her the displeasure of seeing her longtime partner become something she was still in denial could even exist.
As the bus pulled away from the curb seconds later, Palazzo saw one of the soldiers drawing down the metal gates to seal off the garage. Then, as the rear of the bus swung around and came even with the ambulance, she caught a good glimpse of the two street kids in their black anarchist’s get-ups, her doomed partner in his newly bloodied uniform, and the incredibly tall parking attendant. All were laid out on the red brick sidewalk. All were trussed with flex-cuffs and wore hoods that concealed their faces. All were struggling mightily and lunging with their hooded heads at the soldiers, who were picking them up and stacking them one at a time on the ambulance floor at the feet of the pair of injured good Samaritans.
A protest was forming on Palazzo’s lips, but one look around at the pissed-off individuals all shanghaied and heading God knows where just like her made clear that any complaint out of her mouth would fall on deaf ears.
The ambulance was no longer hers. Her partner was dead, or as close as it got for the infected. And pissing her off more than losing her ride, Captain Castle didn’t have the courtesy to answer her question and tell her where she was being taken. She did, however, hear him say three words to the driver. And those words—Lima, Hotel, Sierra—all spoken in a hushed monotone meant nothing at all to her.
So she closed her eyes and ran the whole scenario of how Kenny got bit through her head, coming to the same comforting conclusion as before: Short of drawing on the street kid and shooting him dead with a gun she didn’t even have, there wa
s nothing she could have done to change the outcome.
Chapter 16
In hindsight, Duncan’s decision to travel north on 92nd Avenue was no better than the direct route. Cursing under his breath, he jinked the dually Dodge pick-up around slow drivers, avoiding the right lane whenever he saw traffic backed up on cross streets or cars lined up and waiting to get into already overflowing store parking lots. All of the usual west/east running boulevards—Foster, Holgate, Powell, and Division—were beyond busy, with the traffic pattern favoring no particular direction. The cross-competing McDonalds and Burgerville at Powell were doing brisk business with full parking lots and lines of cars snaking up to their drive thru windows.
“Getting a final Happy Meal before the apocalypse,” Charlie said, half-joking. “I haven’t seen people panic buy like this since that storm of oh-eight. And before that—”
“Nine-Eleven,” said Duncan, finishing the sentence. “I’ll never forget seeing fighter jets flying CAP over the Rose City.”
“CAP?”
“Combat Air Patrol. Like what was rattling the windows at your place earlier. Air National Guard F-15s outta PDX. With the crap happening in D.C., Chicago, and Vegas … may be that the FAA was worried about someone hijacking commercial jets. Ounce of prevention type of thing.”
“Nate mentioned that all taxi, town car, and bus access to the airport was cut off around noon.”
“Nate?” Seeing a major jam up ahead where eastbound Washington Street fed toward I-205, Duncan rode the truck up onto the curb, edged by a minivan that he could see from his elevated perch was brimming with kids and groceries, and blew across the four-lane against the red.
“Nate’s the taxi driver … oh shit!” Charlie blurted, the sudden burst of speed pressing him into the seat. “You just blew by a cop.”
Flicking his eyes to the rearview, then, reflexively, to the shotgun, Duncan said, “He’s got no time for us. Looks like he’s trying to get on the Interstate. We’re good.” He pushed off his seat in order to see the ramp to 205, which was uphill and to the right. Whistled and said, “Looks like the Friday night five o’clock rush.”
Tires squealed as Duncan hauled the wheel over and suddenly they were passing through a quiet neighborhood on the back side of Mount Tabor en route to Belmont, which Duncan figured would be less crowded going into town than Hawthorne, on a weekend day always clogged with bikes and pedestrians.
Regarding the well-kept old homes, Charlie said, “I remember when we used to tool our bikes all the way out here.”
“Fifth grade, I believe.”
“Those were the days,” Charlie said, nodding. “Before your folks dragged you off to Texas.”
“Couldn’t be helped,” Duncan said, wheeling around a pedestrian who appeared drunk, staggering, arms outstretched and making an awful moaning sound.
“Good for you. Had I stayed I’m sure I would’ve talked you into going off to Nam.”
The words dredged up a bit of guilt. Charlie agreed, silently wishing the subject to turn.
And it did when Duncan honked at a slow-moving Buick with a blue hair at the wheel. “Feed the squirrels, lady … or get off the road,” he hollered.
Up ahead the traffic on Belmont was also moving slow with most of the cars peeling off down 39th presumably to access the Banfield Expressway a few blocks north. Eventually merging with Interstate 5 near the Willamette River, the Banfield snaked a handful of miles west from I-205, splitting the east side down the middle and limiting access to central northeast Portland via a handful of overpasses.
Keeping south of the sunken expressway, Duncan continued threading his way west toward downtown. Four miles and roughly thirty minutes removed from the near collision and close call with the law, he looped back south onto 12th Avenue with the signal at Hawthorne Boulevard dead ahead showing green.
“What do we have here?” Charlie said, his voice trailing off as he spotted a static knot of cyclists in the right lane. Most were still straddling their bikes, front wheels pointed east. They were all looking toward the ground and rooted in place as if in shock. There were no first responders and no wail of distant, but fast-approaching sirens. The Tour de France crowd, to a person, continued gawking, a few of them now dismounting, none of them taking out a phone to make an urgent 911 call. All of which when sorted and put back together led Charlie to believe the unmoving man tangled up in the remains of his bent and broken bicycle was a goner.
“He fought the Ford and the Ford won,” Duncan said, matter-of-factly, as the reason for the growing assemblage finally became evident to him.
“Probably disregarded a red light and paid the price,” Charlie added.
“Don’t get me started on that topic,” Duncan replied. He slowed the truck and inched up off his seat for a better view.
Leaning on the fender of a copper-colored Taurus wagon, on the periphery of a growing dark pool of blood, was an elderly gray-haired man. Tears streamed from his eyes and ran under his glasses, cutting a wet vertical path down both cheeks. His head shook subtly side-to-side as he wrung a tan fisherman’s hat with both hands. Duncan slowed and noticed the man’s mouth going a mile a minute—no doubt explaining, apologizing, and pleading with the usually overly-defensive bike crowd. And as the scene slipped into his side vision, he leaned forward, looked past Charlie, and read the man’s lips. He was saying “I killed him” over and over as he collapsed slowly to the ground, ending up in a vertical heap, back pressed to the car’s front tire and sitting in the glistening pool of blood.
Duncan saw the orb ahead turn yellow and gunned it, slipping around the morbid scene and crossing the intersection just before the light turned red.
“You almost ran another red there.”
“Almost only counts in horseshoes and hand grenades,” quipped Duncan.
Ignoring the inappropriate Duncanisms, Charlie shifted his attention to his wing mirror and locked his gaze on the downed cyclist’s bright orange shoes. Then, just as the ticking of the left turn blinker filled the cab, clear as day, Charlie saw the downed cyclist’s legs spasm and the entire group near him recoil at once. Almost as if lightning had struck in their midst, a dozen riders in colorful jerseys emblazoned with the names of foreign bike makes, local microbreweries, and International soccer clubs were jumping off their bikes and leaving the thousand-dollar items where they fell. In the next beat, backpedaling was happening at a furious pace while the dead man rose to standing and started a slow speed pursuit after the nearest among them—the latter action lost on Charlie as Duncan wheeled the Dodge diagonally onto a narrow side street lined with towering elms and hundred-year-old one- and two-story homes.
***
Tilly’s house was three blocks inside of Ladd’s Edition, one of the nation’s oldest planned developments. The enclave, encompassing roughly eighty city blocks, was laid out like a wagon wheel, with the streets the spokes and at the center of it all, a quartet of beautiful rose gardens as the hub.
Duncan pulled the pick-up hard to the left curb and slipped the transmission into Park.
Eyes wide, Charlie asked, “Did you see that back there?”
“See what?” Duncan asked as he stuffed the holstered Colt near the small of his back.
Charlie clicked out of his seatbelt, turned by a degree to face Duncan, and described exactly what he had just witnessed go down in his wing mirror. When he was finished he insisted there was no way he could have been seeing things, then went strangely silent.
“I had more to drink than you today … I think,” Duncan said. “And I didn’t see that dead man moving in either of my mirrors.”
Charlie slid the shotgun behind the seat and out of sight. With a shake of the head he opened his door and stepped out into the street. “Two words,” he said, filling the doorway up and peering in at Duncan, “Optometry appointment.” His eyes narrowed under the brim of his hat just before he slammed the door shut and stalked around the front of the truck.
Duncan said nothing. H
e stepped out of the truck, adjusted his tee shirt over the obvious bulge made by his pistol, then closed and locked his door.
Standing on the grass parking strip a yard away, Charlie jabbed a finger at his friend’s sternum. Speaking slowly he said, “I know what I saw.”
Speaking even slower, his drawl heavier than normal, Duncan shot, “So the guy was unconscious and came to. Big … God … damn … deal.”
“There was waaaay too much blood pooled around him for that to happen. His face was caved in like a pissed off bookie had given him the curb treatment. Plus … the old man who hit him was mouthing ‘I killed him’ … over and over. You saw that, too. And as far as I know, people with compound fractures like that don’t get up on their own power. Joe Theismann ring a bell?”
Duncan grimaced at the visual brought on by just hearing the former pro footballer’s name evoked. The visual even brought back the telltale snap-heard-round-the-world that day when the quarterback’s leg folded unnaturally. Then, thinking back to all the time he had spent ferrying broken and dying nineteen-year-olds out of the jungle and to faraway field hospitals, Duncan dismissed the latter part of Charlie’s statement as false. Running on adrenaline and a will to survive, the human body could keep on keeping on for some time after suffering horrific injuries—greenstick fractures the least of them. However, though Duncan hated to admit it, where the blood loss part was concerned, Charlie probably hit the nail on the head. Because more often than not, after returning to base with an empty chopper, he had personally hosed buckets of blood off the litters and floor of his Huey’s troop compartment. And as he recalled those horror-filled tours in Vietnam, the hose work usually came right after bringing back a bird full of KIAs leaking out under flapping olive ponchos, not a compartment full of walking wounded likely to survive long enough to board a Freedom Bird home.
ocalypse (Book 10): Drawl (Duncan's Story) Page 8