by JE Gurley
“Other countries? Hell, they’re in worse shape than we are.”
“For now, they are.”
He led them to a row of houses just north of the helicopter landing area and stopped in front of one. “This is your house. It will be much easier if we keep your group together. I’m afraid you will have to do your own cooking for now. Supplies will be sent to you. Do not, I repeat, do not wander off. Our men might shoot first and regrettably find out you’re not a zom later. Make yourselves comfortable. Later today, I will drop by with a map of the area and your work schedules.”
Susan raised her hand.
“Yes, Miss McNeil.”
“How many other teams are here?”
“Yours is the third.”
“What do you do for fun?”
Hurley scowled. “Fun? We have no time for fun, Miss McNeil. “We have similar facilities scattered around the country, all working hard toward a solution to our problem.”
Hurley left, leaving them standing in front of the house that was to be their new home.
“At least it’s bigger than the cabin,” Cuthbert said, tossing a cigarette butt to the ground and crushing it.
“Not by much,” Susan moaned. “Looks like we share rooms.”
The others entered the house, but Erin remained outside, allowing the early morning sun to warm her body. After the months of freezing weather in the mountains, being so near the ocean was a relief. If they were prisoners, at least their prison was beautiful with palm trees instead of snow-covered pines, pelicans instead of ptarmigans and whales instead of wolves. She had removed her coat earlier during the ride west, but her sweater was still too much in the warm climate. As she was pulling it over her head, a voice startled her. She yanked the sweater off and spun around.
Confronting her was a short, thin man, slightly balding with a thin gray mustache. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to startle you. My name is Charles Lucas.”
“You just caught me off guard,” she said quickly. She looked around. “Where did you come from?”
He glanced in the direction Captain Hurley taken. “I was hiding beside the house until he left.” His voice left no doubt as to his feelings toward the captain, sentiments she shared.
“I take it you don’t like our overseer.”
A smile flickered on his lips bit quickly disappeared. “He’s not a good man. Where are you from?”
“Atlanta by way of Colorado,” she replied. “My name is Erin Kostner.”
“CDC, huh? I heard what happened in Colorado. They tried to keep it from us, but we have ways.”
She wondered if he was referring to the actions she had taken or just the demise of the base. “What ways?”
“Oh, just ways.” He glanced around. “You must do what they ask or they will refuse you the serum.” He shuddered. “I’ve seen it happen.”
“Is anyone any closer to a vaccine?”
“We’ve managed to extend the potency of the temporary vaccine by several weeks, but that’s all.”
“How many researchers are here?”
“With your group, we now number twenty-seven, though we rarely see each other. They prefer that we work separately and report directly to Corzine.”
“A civilian in charge. That seems odd.”
“He is an odd man, but he is not a civilian. His rank is Major, but he orders higher-ranking officers around like he enjoys it. Some say he brought the vaccine with him from Europe. It is evident from the way others defer to him that he is somehow important to the project.”
She decided to ask about the zombies. “Is anyone doing research on the zombies?”
Lucas backed up a couple of steps. “No, no. No one works with them.”
His reaction surprised her, as if the subject frightened him. “Why?”
He shook his head. “They don’t want us to.”
She insisted. “Someone must be doing research on them. If not here, then where?”
“I implore you; show no interest in the zoms. The military is working on something, some way to kill them, but we are not involved.”
“They’re mutating,” she said, watching for his reaction.
He glanced around uncomfortably, but showed no surprise. “You knew, didn’t you?”
His voice broke as he said, “Yes, but please don’t bring up the subject around the others.”
She pressed him for more information. “What do you know?”
Lucas shifted his feet, and looked as though he was going to run away, but he answered. “Yes, you’re right. Some of them are mutating, but not all. Their dead skin is sloughing off, replaced by a very thick, very dense layer of new flesh. Their skeletal structure is morphing, creating a bony plate protecting their heart and vital organs. Even their muscles are strengthening. They can reproduce. Their young are as wild and inhuman as the adults are. They are animals, but what kind of animal I do not know.” He grinned, but thought better of it and let it slip from his face. “I’ve named them homis mortuus venator.”
“Dead Hunter man,” she said, trying to digest his information. Some of it she knew, and some she had guessed, but when linked together, it presented a gloomy prediction of man’s future. She wondered if the Neanderthals had grasped the significance of their first meeting with Cro Magnon man. Just as homo sapiens replaced Neanderthal through interbreeding or forcing him into extinction, had nature decided that mortuus venator turn for dominance had arrived? Was man, as a species, destined for the rubbish heap?
Lucas suddenly became very nervous. “I must return before they miss me,” he said. “Remember, you will be watched.” Before she could query him for more information, he turned and walked away brusquely, disappearing around the side of the house.
At that moment, Susan stuck her head out the door and shouted, “Are you coming in, or what?”
Erin nodded. “Yeah, I guess so,” she replied distantly, her mind still turning over the information Lucas had divulged. Had man played a role in his own extinction or was it simply nature’s toss of the dice, a combination of genetic material creating a new species? Either way, the future looked very bleak.
“Good, because there are seven of us and three bedrooms and I’ve insisted that you and I get a bedroom.”
Great, she thought. The world may be ending, and I have to settle a dispute over sleeping arrangements.
24
For two days and nights, the group remained on Cowles Mountain discussing the pros and cons, of which there were many, of Jeb’s idea, discarding it as too dangerous and finally returning to it when no one could come up with a better plan.
“It might work, Vince said, “If Mace is a Hunter. They would never believe I could capture three of you alone.”
Mace shook his head. “I don’t want to leave Renda.”
Renda spoke up. “I’m safer with you on the outside.” She looked at Jeb. “Jeb’s the only one who can recognize Karen. They would never believe I was a Hunter.”
“They would if they saw you in action,” Mace replied, smiling.
She squeezed Mace’s hand. Her mood had improved over the past two days. Jeb wondered if she had been neglecting her meds. “You say the sweetest things.”
Jeb was still adamant about one part of the plan the others had vetoed. “I still say a boat is safer.”
“We can stash weapons in the Hummer, just in case,” Vince answered. “Besides, going for a boat is more dangerous than just going straight for the bridge. We have to go through the zombies either way.”
“You’ve seen how they deal with zombies,” Jeb reminded him. “What if they simply cut loose with the machine guns?”
Vince grinned. “Then, my friend, we’re dead.”
Mace shrugged. “It’s your plan.”
“Yeah, well, it still sucks.” Jeb was beginning to have doubts. It was a bold plan, simple and direct, but a thousand things could go deadly wrong. He sighed. “Okay. We do it your way. If we die, I just want to say I’m sorry in advan
ce.”
* * * *
They chose 5 a.m., just before dawn, as the perfect time to make their frenzied run through downtown San Diego. Fewer zombies would be wandering around at that time, but the sound of their engine would certainly draw a few unwelcome guests their way. Jeb was not happy trussed like a Thanksgiving turkey in the back of the Humvee, and from the disgruntled expression on Renda’s face, neither was she, but they could not risk waiting until the last minute for that part of their charade. If their plan was to work, the military had to be convinced that they were munies. The ropes were very secure, so tight in fact, that Jeb’s writs were raw from chaffing.
Vince manned the M60 while Mace drove. Jeb wondered if Mace was deliberately hitting every pothole and bomb crater in the street, as he slammed repeatedly to the floor, and bounced from side to side like a pinball. The .32 caliber LM5 derringer duct taped to the middle of his back dug into his flesh with each feat of floorboard gymnastics. The 4-shot derringer with its 2-inch barrel was in invisible and might withstand a casual pat down, but if the military employed a metal detector, he was doomed. He only hoped, they assumed the Hunters would have checked them thoroughly. Renda carried a similar weapon, a 5-shot .25 caliber version of the LM5. He had not asked where she had secreted hers.
Vince fired his pistol at inquisitive zombies a few times along the way, holding off on the louder M60 until absolutely necessary. Sooner than Jeb was hoping, it became necessary.
“Looks like we’ve got company,” Vince yelled down.
The look of terror on Renda’s face almost made him call for Vince to release them. Fortunately, for their plan, he was quickly too busy to respond. The sound of the big M60, even fired in short bursts, almost deafened him. Ejected hot brass fell on him like embers from afire. He tried to crawl out of the way, but Mace’s swerving rolled him back beneath the gun. The Humvee thudded and bounced as Mace rolled over and plowed through zombies. One grabbed the rear of the vehicle and hung on, its face pressed against the glass, a mask of rage as it clung to the door with one hand, and pounded on the glass with a fist. Just as the glass began to crack, Vince leaned down and shot it in the head with his .45.
We’re getting close,” Mace yelled. “Fire a flare.”
They had retrieved the flare gun from the Hunter’s jeep and assumed the Hunters used it as a signal. Jeb hoped there was no pattern to the flares or their spectacular entrance would be short-lived. 28th Street was luckily free of cars, or else the military had purposely cleared it. Mace made the turn north onto Harbor Drive at a reckless pace. The heavy Humvee balanced precariously on two tires, for several breathtaking seconds, before settling back onto the pavement. Vince shot a single flare and resumed clearing the way through the quickly gathering zombies with the M60. The entire vehicle shuddered and metal crunched when Mace smashed through a barricade onto the 75 bridge over San Diego Harbor. Jeb caught glimpses of ship’s masts south of them at the naval yard.
Now, Vince was firing backwards at the zombies pursuing them. Halfway across the bridge, two .50 caliber machine guns on the peninsula cut loose as well, thankfully at the zombies.
“They’re opening the barricade for us,” Mace yelled.
Jeb hoped that meant the flare had worked and not that they were simply allowing them in before killing them. The Humvee swerved around several more obstacles before sliding to a halt. Behind them, the machine guns kept firing for another five minutes. Jeb was beginning to wonder if they had been forgotten, when he heard a voice calling out from several yards away.
“You in the Hummer. Come out slowly with no weapons showing. You behind the M60, if it swings this way so much as a millimeter, we’ll drop a grenade down the turret.”
Vince slid down from behind the M60 and looked at Jeb. “Well, we’re in.” He touched his new uniform with his old E-6 Technical Sergeant insignia. “I hope this works.” The dirty patch didn’t match the new uniform, and he prayed no one noticed.
“Yeah, what are the prospects we can get out again.”
Mace and Vince exited the Humvee with their hands in the air. Jeb listened in on the conversation.
“Who the hell are you?” a voice, the same one who had spoken earlier, asked.
“I’m Tech. Sergeant Vince Holcomb. I was stationed at Red Rock in Tucson until we were overrun. I’ve been trying to get here ever since.”
“Who’s he?”
“Mace Ridell,” Mace answered. “I was working with Ramirez until he got sloppy. I found this guy wandering around. We have a couple of munies in the back.”
“Ramirez was a sloppy bastard, always playing damn foolish games with the munies. Well, we’ll escort you to the barracks. The General will want to speak with you.”
That was directed at Vince.
“I just want to get back in the action,” Vince replied.
A suspicious sergeant jumped into the Humvee, glanced down at Jeb and Renda and said, “They’re in better shape than most of Ramirez’s munies.”
Mace stuck his head in the door. “And I want top dollar for them. Ramirez was a fool.”
“You’ll get what the others get. You drive.”
With the sergeant keeping his weapon pointed at the back of Mace’s head, they drove through the town to the base, finally pulling up in front of a long barracks building surrounded by barbed wire. Hands grabbed Jeb and Renda and dragged them unceremoniously from the back of the Humvee. The ropes binding their feet were cut, but not their hands. Jeb found standing difficult and leaned against the side of the Humvee until he felt the sting of blood recirculation in his legs.
Two men marched him and Renda through the gate and into the barracks. Jeb glanced back at Mace and Vince, wondering if he would ever see them again, and received the butt of a gun in his back to keep him moving. The barracks resembled most military barracks, except instead of bunks and racks of firearms, hundreds of double-stacked beds held comatose patients. Jeb’s heart skipped a beat, when he saw the men and women, many with thin, pale faces and withered arms, connected to blood pumps by a forest of tubes. Drips ran from a bank of metered consoles into the patients’ necks, sedatives to keep them quiet. He quickly scanned their faces for Karen, but could not find her in the vicinity. He resisted the urge to race through the room searching for her. A feeling of despair threatened to overwhelm him, when he realized that they would never be able to free everyone. He tried to reconcile his need to find Karen with abandoning the others to their fate.
A fat, balding attendant in wrinkled fatigues rose from a desk and walked over holding a piece of pie in his hand. Jeb caught the aroma of apples over the sterile antiseptic hospital smell and hungered for a bite of the pie. He had not tasted fresh baked goods in months.
“Put them in with the others,” one of their guards said. “And leave the woman alone,” he added, seeing the fat soldier leering at Renda.
The attendant said nothing, but waved in the general direction of a door. One of the guards shoved him forward. When the fat attendant opened the door, one of the guards sawed through the ropes binding their arms and pushed him into the room. Jeb rubbed his wrists as he looked around the room. A dozen or so men and women looked up from cots and stared at them. Unlike the others, they had no tubes connected to their arms.
“You’ve got company,” the attendant called out and chuckled, and then he slammed the door shut behind them.
One man, wearing the ubiquitous gray coveralls Jeb had seen at the FEMA camp, approached them.
“Sorry to see you here, but welcome anyway. My name is Mikal Antonov.”
The man spoke with a slight Russian accent, one of the recent immigrants from that troubled nation. When he offered his hand, Jeb shook it.
“Who are you?” Renda asked.
“We were brought in last week. They quarantine us for two weeks to make certain we will not change into zombies.” His face hardened. “I wish I could, if only for the opportunity to kill that fat pig bastard, Kowalski.” He paused. “You’ve seen t
he others?”
Jeb nodded. “Is that all of them?”
“Yes. Some have died, but most have been that way for months. The drugs keep them comatose. That, I’m afraid, is our eventual fate.”
Jeb reached behind his back and peeled away the duct tape. The man’s eyes widened when he saw the derringer. Renda removed her weapon also.
“It is a futile gesture,” Antonov said. “There is no escape from this place.”
Renda smiled. Her feral grin reminded Jeb of a wolf looking at a lamb. “We’ll see about that.”
“My wife is here,” Jeb told the others, who had by now gathered around the newcomers. “I came to find and free her. Her name is Karen Stone, a blonde. Has anyone seen her?”
“We don’t know anyone’s name.” He indicated the group. “Even, we have not all exchanged names. It seemed so useless.”
Jeb shook his head, disappointed that no one knew her, but expecting it. “No, I think I would know if she were dead.”
One of the women spoke up, directing her words to Renda, to whom she looked with the fervor of an acolyte to a savior. “When we arrived, they were taking five or six people to what one called a recovery ward. He told our keeper that they had been here the longest and needed medical attention.”
Jeb swore. Odds were Karen was one of them if she were still alive. She had been in their hands for over four months. They would have to alter their plans.
The woman continued. “They feed us once a day in the evening. We can overpower the guards and escape.”
Renda looked at Jeb. He shook his head. “No, that’s too soon,” he said. “Our friends won’t be ready until tonight.”
Antonov’s face lit up. “You mean there are more of you.”
“Yes.”
Antonov clasped his hands together and fell to his knees. “Thank God,” he said.
“Don’t thank him yet,” Jeb warned. “If this fails, you just might all die.”
The woman snickered. “You think being one of them is better.” She nodded toward the ward.
Jeb swallowed hard. Karen was one of them.