by JE Gurley
“Please be careful,” she said. To his surprise and delight, she reached out, grabbed his hand, and gave it a strong squeeze. Not quite the parting he would have preferred, but her concern lifted his spirits. He hadn’t really expected her to break character and kiss him, as much as he would have enjoyed it. “Please come back safe,” she added.
He spotted Ginson by the door looking eager to get going but not interfering in their parting. He returned her squeeze. “I will,” he promised, meaning it.
He left before she could say anything else that might make him regret leaving. This time he donned a full respirator instead of a simple mask. It was more uncomfortable, but if he was going to spend hours outside, he wanted to take every precaution against the fungus. He readjusted the straps around the back of his head for a tighter fit. Outside, there was a promise of rain in the clouds.
“Maybe rain will knock down the spores,” he said to Ginson. The sound of his voice through the respirator annoyed him but there was little he could do about it.
Ginson glanced up. “Last weather report I heard, didn’t say anything about rain.”
“Maybe we’ll get lucky.”
Ginson snorted. “Yeah. Like luck’s been a close companion lately.”
Kyle had to agree. The convoy consisted of three armed Humvees, five trucks, an APC, and sixty men. Two Blackhawks accompanied them for air support. Miami had been under siege for only three days, but those three days had taken their toll on the city. Dolphin Expressway was blocked. The convoy headed south on 37th Avenue, and then took Flagler Street east. Kyle looked out on block after block of rubble and smoldering buildings. Entire neighborhoods of West Little Havana were in ruins. The Shops at Flagler and Douglas was gone, vanished as if a bomb had been dropped. Of the entire block, not a single wall remained standing. A few people emerged from the ruins along the way to stare at the convoy, but made no attempt to flag them down. One of the Humvees opened fire on a small group of fungus heads trashing a storefront as the convoy crossed Beacom Street.
East Little Havana fared slightly better. Fewer gutted or ransacked buildings lined the street. A few small groups of armed men patrolled the streets. Two bodies hanging from lampposts with placards reading ‘Looters’, spoke to a type of vigilante justice he would have abhorred a few days earlier, but turned a blind eye to now. With a breakdown of civil authority, neighborhood watches were all that stood between chaos and survival. The convoy stopped at one building with an American flag flying on an antenna above the roof and a police patrol car parked out front. Two police officers walked out of the building with eight men and women trailing behind them. None of the people, including the officers wore masks. The people silently climbed into one of the trucks. Their subdued behavior worried Kyle. They acted more like prisoners than people seeking shelter and safety.
A few blocks later, the captain called a second halt at an intersection manned by two patrol cars. Four heavily armed cops eyed the convoy warily, but cleared the intersection to allow the convoy to pass through. This time five people, including a woman towing two small children, marched to the waiting trucks. As before, no one wore masks. He turned to Ginson as the convoy started up.
“No one’s wearing masks. Word’s not getting out to these people.”
Ginson shrugged. “No electricity, no television, no radio. How could they know?”
“Maybe we should drop leaflets from helicopters explaining the situation. They need to reach a quarantine center. We passed more people on the streets than we’re picking up.”
“We can’t force them to go. If we start rounding up people at gunpoint, they’ll start shooting back.”
Kyle sat back in his seat. “You may be right, but at this rate, we’ll never win.”
Suddenly, a slim young Hispanic woman carrying a child raced from an alley. She wore a red bandana over her face. At first, Kyle didn’t think the convoy would stop for her, but the captain raised his hand and the trucks slowed. Captain Isaacson exited his Humvee and helped the woman and child into the vehicle. When he took the child from her to help her in, she threw her arms around him and hugged him. He looked embarrassed by her intimacy.
Downtown, once so beautiful, a tropical paradise, now resembled a war zone. Burned shells of buildings, wrecked autos, bodies littering the sidewalks and streets – he could have been in Damascus, Syria, rather than Miami. Individual zombies rushed at the convoy, only to be shot down by the soldiers in the Humvees. A fire truck, its hoses still strung from hydrants and snaking into one building, was curiously unmanned. Had the firefighters fled or had they died at their posts?
They passed the Miami Art Museum. Smoke billowed from the eaves of the tiled roof and the front door was shattered. Paintings and sculptures, some priceless, lay smashed on the mosaic tiled courtyard, discarded by looters. Kyle wondered what type of human being would ransack a museum during a plague, and then recalled some of the heartless characters he had dealt with who wouldn’t think twice about allowing such an opportunity to slip past. He had once attended a fund raising event at the MAM as a guest of one of the artists. Her work, a very vibrant oil painting of highly stylized people dancing around a blazing bon fire, had not been to his taste, but the artist, a buxom blonde, had been. Try as he might, he just couldn’t grasp the underlying theme of the 20th and 21st Century American art displayed at the MAM. To him, most of it looked gaudy and hastily contrived, but then he was a cop and made no boast of possessing a discriminating mind. Still, he hated to see such a building dedicated to the arts damaged or destroyed. A lot of beautiful things were going to be lost forever before the city could recover. If Miami ever recovers.
The Miami-Dade County Courthouse was their final stop. The building looked antiquated compared to Miami’s newer skyscrapers, but its Neo-Classical design radiated an aura of quiet dignity befitting a building dedicated to justice and housing the county’s historic records. The eighty-six-year-old building was a museum, a visual reminder that Miami may appear fresh and new, but its history and its people had deep roots. Rising twenty-eight stories, the building’s base was clad in Stone Mountain granite, while the upper floors were terra cotta tiles stained to match the granite. Massive fluted Doric columns guarded entrances. Topping it was a three-story pyramid.
In a bizarre picture of incongruity, zombies patrolled the slate-paved terrace and the wide steps. The convoy parked in a semi-circle on the North entrance of the building. The Humvees’ machineguns fired hundreds of rounds into the creatures, chipping slate and gouging the granite façade in a blatant disregard of the structure’s historic significance. History, it seemed, took a backseat to present-day circumstances. The machine guns quickly cleared the grounds of zombies.
“Twenty of you remain outside,” the captain called out as he exited his Humvee, and then motioned for the others to follow him.
Kyle was surprised to see the woman with the baby get out of the Humvee as well. Concerned for her safety, he walked over to her. She was pretty with petite features and long black hair. She clasped her child inside the blanket sling with delicate but strong hands.
“Wouldn’t it be safer to remain in the Humvee?” he asked.
She stared at him. He expected to see fear and confusion in her dark eyes. Instead, he saw anger, but in spite of her hardships, she looked determined.
She shook her head. “No. I will not stay out here.” She waved her free arm around to indicate the dead zombies. “I will go inside with the soldiers.”
She reached into the blanket in which she carried her baby and produced a pistol. Kyle could tell by the way in which she held it that she was not familiar with firearms. He was afraid she might be a bigger danger than the zombies.
“Why don’t you put that thing away and let me do the shooting. I’m a cop.”
“Really? Where were you two days ago?” she asked.
Her remark stung. He didn’t blame her for not trusting cops. He had run into the problem many times in the past, especially
among the Cuban population.
“Trying to stay alive. I won’t let anything happen to you or your child.”
She stared at him for several seconds before putting away the pistol. “My name is Rita Hernandez, and this is my son, Tomas.”
“I’m Kyle Bane. Pleased to meet you. Stay close.”
With Rita dogging his heels, he caught up to Ginson waiting outside the entrance. Three soldiers entered first with weapons ready, checked for zombies, and then motioned for the others to follow. The group entered the building carefully through a shattered revolving door, aware that zombies could be anywhere. Kyle spotted a camera set high on the wall tracking their progress.
“Someone’s alive,” he said, pointing to the camera.
The camera wiggled from side to side in answer. A few minutes later, two uniformed officers appeared, walking down the hall toward them. They stopped in front of Captain Isaacson.
“I’m Harris, head of security. We sealed off the security center and holed up there.” Harris was a burly man with a deep cut over his right eye. A large bruise, barely visible through the beard stubble of his dark skin, marred his right cheek. Kyle suspected the blood on his shirt didn’t come from his cut. Harris eyed the armed men with obvious relief. “The fourth through tenth floors are sealed as well, but the rest of the building isn’t. These … things are everywhere.” He shuddered. “They’re like animals. They don’t feel pain. They killed two of my men.”
“Take me to security. I need to see the building plans.”
The guard looked puzzled. “Didn’t you come for us?”
“We came for everyone,” the captain told him. “We need to round up everyone and get them out of here and to a quarantine center.”
“Are there any prisoners in lock up?” Kyle asked. The building’s upper nine floors housed a jail facility and a lock up for prisoners during their court trials.
The guard shook his head. “I don’t know. No one’s been that high in the building and came back.”
“What about the security cameras?”
The guard shook his head. “We’re on battery power, this level only.”
“We’ll deal with prisoners later,” the captain replied, “first, we evacuate the personnel.”
“There may be armed officers up there,” Kyle argued, miffed at the captain’s quick dismissal of the prisoners and guards. “We need all the trained people we can get.”
Kyle could almost see the captain’s mind working as he considered the percentages in risking his men in a dangerous rescue that might yield nothing.
“Okay, but only you, Sergeant Ginson, and five of his men. I’ll need the others for the evacuation.” He turned to Ginson. “Go with this man but don’t take unnecessary chances.”
Ginson snapped a salute. “Yes, sir.”
After the captain had left, Ginson stood in front of Kyle and shook his head. “You’re determined to get me killed.”
“You invited me along, remember?”
“I’m coming too,” Rita challenged.
“Absolutely not,” Ginson and Kyle replied simultaneously.
Kyle added, “It’s too dangerous, especially for a baby. Wait for us in the security office.”
Rita was not to be denied. “You promised to keep me safe.”
“You’re not making it easy.”
“I’ll feel safer with you than in the truck, and I won’t be trapped in another room. If anything happens, I want to be able to leave.”
He couldn’t argue with her reasoning. “Okay, but for God’s sake try to keep out of the way.”
A smile flicked on her lips. “For God’s sake, I’ll try.”
They waited while the captain familiarized himself with the building plans. The guards had sealed the building’s other four entrances with furniture piled in front of the doors to keep the zombies out, and had locked the stairwell doors, keeping the creatures inside confined to the upper floors. Without power, the building’s eight elevators didn’t work. Kyle wasn’t looking forward to a twenty-eight story climb up the steps, but there was no avoiding it. After the captain returned from looking at the building blueprints, the entire group went up the stairwell. They encountered a few zombies that were quickly dispatched, but Kyle knew more would be drawn to the sound of the shots.
“We’ll take it two floors at a time,” the captain said. “Check each room and make sure you don’t shoot anyone that isn’t obviously infected. We’ll take the survivors down to the trucks in groups. If you encounter an infected individual, shoot them. Ginson, you and the detective check the jail. Bring anyone you can back down, prisoners in handcuffs. If prisoners are infected, shoot them. We can’t allow them to gestate.”
With Ginson and Walters leading and Kyle staying close to Rita, the small group bypassed the first levels and climbed to the first level of the jail. By the time they reached the 17th floor, his legs were aching. The others took the effort in stride, so he refused to complain. The stairwell door was locked. Walters solved the problem with a fire ax he removed from the wall. Beyond the door, the corridor was dimly lit by patches of sunlight entering through open doors and the windows beyond.
“Spread out,” Ginson said.
By the time they reached the far end of the corridor without finding anyone, Kyle was beginning to believe the trip was a wasted effort. The cell doors were all open. Either no prisoners had been inside, or the jailers had released them to fend for themselves. The last room was a cloak room. A whimpering sound came from behind a closet door. Ginson raised his hand for silence. With two men aiming their weapons at the door, Ginson stood along the wall and reached for the doorknob. Kyle shielded Rita and her child. Ginson yanked the door open. A woman sitting on the floor saw the masked men with guns and screamed. Ginson motioned them to lower their weapons.
“It’s all right, ma’am. We’re here to evacuate you.”
She stopped screaming and stared at them for a moment before standing slowly on shaky legs. Ginson offered her his shoulder for support. She blinked back the sunlight.
“How long have you been in that closet?” Ginson asked.
“I’m not sure. Two or three days,” she croaked. “I ran out of food and water yesterday.”
Rita offered her a bottle of water. She drank half the bottle, sputtering as she almost choked on it.
“Are there any others upstairs?” Ginson asked.
She shook her head. “I don’t know. After … after people started going crazy, I hid. I heard shots from upstairs.” She looked at the masks everyone but Rita wore. “What’s happening?”
“It’s some kind of plague,” Kyle told her. “It drives people crazy.” He didn’t add that they turned into fungus heads. He figured the woman had enough to comprehend for now.
She covered her mouth with her hand. “Can I catch it?”
Ginson pulled a disposable mask from his utility belt and handed it to her. “Put this on. If you haven’t caught it by now, you probably won’t.”
Whether she believed Ginson’s reassurances or not, she donned the mask.
“We’re going to check the other floors. You need to remain with us until we can get you downstairs.”
She nodded. The next two floors were empty, but blood-stained carpet and smears of blood on walls proved its occupants had not gone untouched by the Cordyceps plague. On the fourth floor of the jail, two policemen met them at the door with weapons drawn. They eyed the group warily, but holstered their weapons.
“We’re glad to see you,” one of the officers said. “Joe and I are the only ones left. I had to shoot two of the guys. They went insane and tried to kill us.”
Kyle stepped forward. “I’m detective Kyle Bane, SIS. What about the floors above? Any prisoners?”
The two officers looked at one another. One closed his eyes and turned away.
“Speak up,” Kyle demanded of the first officer.
“One prisoner went crazy and killed two others. I shot him. I didn’t have a choi
ce. I released the other prisoners. I don’t know what happened to them.”
The officer jumped nervously at the sound of machine gun fire outside the building. Ginson went to the window and looked down. Zombies were attacking troops left with the trucks, but the .50 calibers in the Humvees were keeping them back for now. “Are we done here? We don’t have much time.”
With the three survivors in tow, the group descended the stairs. They didn’t get far before they ran into trouble.
“Damn!” Ginson called out from one level below. “We’ve got visitors.”
Zombies from one of the unsecured floors had been attracted to the noise and filled the stairwell. Now, they surged up the stairs, a mass of once-human flesh covered with fungus cilia. Many of them no longer had eyes with which to see, but their sense of smell and hearing remained undiminished. The guttural sounds they emitted raised goose bumps on Kyle’s arms. These creatures were no longer human, merely vessels for the Cordyceps fungus’ convenience. Driven mad by the plague, they sought release through violence and rage.
The first wave fell beneath a salvo of bullets from Ginson’s men, but death meant nothing to the creatures. They surged over the bodies of their comrades, crushing them beneath their feet as they advanced. Ginson waved his men to fall back, retracing their steps up the stairs. After ascending several floors, Kyle heard more feet on the stairs above them. They were trapped.
“They’re above us, Ginson,” he yelled down.
“Son of a … Back to the 16th floor,” Ginson said.
One of Ginson’s green recruits became overly excited and rushed forward to lob a grenade into the midst of the creatures, unaware of the consequences of such an explosion in a confined space.
“No!” Ginson shouted too late.
The young soldier didn’t have a chance to toss the grenade. He fell under an onslaught of creatures and vanished beneath them. A few seconds later, the grenade exploded. The blast scattered the creatures. Bits and pieces of flesh, bone, and concrete showered down on the soldiers, along with metal shrapnel from the grenade. Ginson took a piece of hot metal in his side and staggered in pain. A second soldier standing beside him was hit in the throat, dying instantly. The concussion shook the stairs and knocked everyone down. At first, Kyle thought the entire stairwell would collapse beneath them, but it soon steadied. The air quickly filled with smoke and the stench of scorched flesh. Walters fired a burst from his M-249 SAW; then grabbed the injured Ginson around the waist, helping him up the stairs. Kyle picked himself up and helped Rita and her child to her feet.