ZNIPER: A Sniper’s Journey Through The Apocalypse.

by Ward III, C.

  After that, she showered, dressed, and was out the door of her small and simple two-bedroom condo located in the smaller-size city of Berkley, just on the northern outskirts of Detroit, Michigan. She’d bought the place because it was close enough for an easy drive to work yet far enough to shield her from the negative energy of the big city.

  Every day she asked herself why she didn’t buy a bigger place with the piles of money she made, but the truth was she was still in the giant hole called “student debt”; and besides, living here alone, she was more than comfortable. She wasn’t really a materialistic-type person who needed to keep up with the Joneses with a trendy McMansion. Someday, if things worked out, maybe she’d entertain the topic of moving in with her boyfriend.

  As her garage door opened, the dashboard clock turned to 4:00 AM—just in time to check for the daily travel instruction. Her employer, customer—whoever it was—had a ridiculous security protocol that required her to get to work differently each and every day. “For your security and ours,” they’d said when briefing her at new-hire orientation.

  Her phone chimed, right on time, and a text read “696-10.” This meant she was to meet the shuttle at the Park and Ride carpool lot at exit 10 off highway 696.

  Perfect, she thought while grinning to herself. It was the closest of the five pick-up locations, and there was a drive-through coffee shop right there. She’d have plenty of time, but just in case, she pushed down the accelerator of the aging yet reliable car. Again, she could afford to drive a nicer luxury car, but she didn’t for a couple of reasons. One: she didn’t want the hassle of it getting stolen or broken into as it sat unattended at the Park and Ride. And two: her employer “recommended” that they drive an inconspicuous but dependable automobile to and from work. Once they were at home, they could drive whatever they desired.

  Sitting in the Park and Ride lot, she reclined back, listening to a morning talk show with a comedian doing a hilarious bit about Hot Pockets—yesterday’s show, actually, because the rest of society was still snuggled in bed. After scanning through new emails on her phone, she read a message from her boyfriend asking if she would like to meet at the lake cottage this weekend. That sounds amazing, especially after last month’s project, she thought.

  She saw her ride just as she was bringing her nuclear hot and oh-so-delightful chai tea latte to her mouth. A white shuttle bus with miscellaneous hotel advertisements plastered on the side and a big “Private Party” sign lit up above the front windshield pulled in, did a loop, and stopped, facing the lot entrance.

  “Let’s go save the world,” she said to herself, trying to find enthusiasm as she turned to lock her car.

  Standing next to the shuttle’s open side door was an elderly man dressed casually in a pair of jeans and a long-sleeve sweater holding a clipboard and a pen, marking off names. As Anesidora approached, she overheard the conversation between the next passenger and the keeper of the clipboard.

  “Sorry, Betty, you are not on this shuttle today.”

  “But my instructions were”—the flustered woman pulled out her phone to show Mr. Clipboard, and the look on her face went from triumph to defeat—“Shit! Wrong location!”

  “Call your supervisor for instructions. They may send another shuttle for you, or you might get the day off work,” he said sternly.

  “I’m already here, though, can’t I just...” The woman’s begging trailed off.

  He looked at her blankly because they both knew—they all knew—that the mere suggestion of breaking security protocol could lead to harsh reprimands. The act of actually breaking security protocols could bring termination, extreme fines, or even incarceration, or all the above! This was all part of the same new-hire orientation, which every person—from the janitors to the executives—attended. With this brief came a phone book–sized packet that required no fewer than ten thousand signatures and initials, resulting in writer’s cramp for a week.

  Betty turned and walked back to her car without another word.

  “Name?”

  Anesidora’s answer of “Anny” was awarded with a nod as she stepped past Mr. Clipboard and up the shuttle stairs. Even though this shuttle bus could fit a couple dozen passengers, it typically only transported about half that, and she wondered if the other shuttles throughout the city were jammed full of workers or if this spacious ride was a perk of her position.

  Small talk about sports, weather, and upcoming vacations could be overheard as she took her seat next to a window. She nodded to the young man sitting across the aisle from her. Without taking out his earbuds, he smiled and said, “Morning.” A couple of years ago, when she’d first stepped onto a similar shuttle, she thought everyone was being rude and insolent to the new girl, but now she understood the invisible wall of privacy that everyone respected.

  She was known by her nickname, Anny. Even after the two years on this project, she only associated with a handful of individuals which she’s still clueless to anyone’s real or full names. Another part of the ridiculous security protocol that she often believed an overkill. But for every rule, there is a reason. Not only did anyone not know her real name but there was also absolutely no way to legally trace her association to this employer, customer, whoever it was.

  Technically she was self-employed, a 1099 contractor, responsible for her own taxes, health insurance, etc. etc. etc. She was even coached on how to create a fictitious company and open a business checking account so she could get paid without direct association from her employer, customer, whoever it was. She was recruited before she had even finished her second doctorate from Perdue University. A recruiter from a company called GENUTEK had given her just enough information to pique her interest. The job description seemed to be molded perfectly for her, and the pay…well, the pay was way more than any new graduate could possibly expect. Of course, there was the risk of becoming clinically antisocial. Even though in her new career she would be creating scientific breakthroughs daily, she would receive no publicity, nil credit, and their work would go completely unnoticed by the rest of the world.

  As time went on, she started piecing together that GENUTEK was only the HR department and a headhunter for whoever really owned this project. Her hypothesis—based on zero facts,—was a US federal agency, probably CDC, Biodefense, or DARPA. There were no GENUTEK business cards, no GENUTEK name tags on lab coats, not even a nice shiny GENUTEK sign in the lobby. Anny didn’t know if all the employees at the Detroit facility were part of GENUTEK or the actual “customer” for whom the research was. As far as she was aware, GENUTEK sold no products, held no patents or copyrights so their only source of funding could come from selling research information or government funding.

  Realizing she had already found the bottom of her latte, she frowned as the shuttle turned down the uneven and pothole-damaged Vernor Highway. She didn’t care for this section of the city; it was terribly depressing and made her sick to her stomach—literally, the smell of raw sewer caused her to dry heave. The SL4 biocontainment lab coming into view was perfectly camouflaged in plain sight, right smack in the middle of Detroit Metro.

  The huge eighteen-story, 500,000-square-foot Michigan Central Station building had been abandoned many years ago and left to crumble, with every entrance covered in graffiti-painted plywood and chain-wrapped doors. That was the camouflage, which brilliantly matched the surrounding buildings on this stretch of deserted street. Some unknown transportation company is the official owner of the building, which may or may not be true. Their “customer” either owns them, too, or is paying them a handsome rental fee for this one-hundred-plus-year-old rotting corpse of an historic building.

  Anny often wondered how the building had been retrofitted for the “customer’s” needs without the public’s knowledge. Being directly on the train track probably helped with material deliveries and construction noise. The building was an eyesore for sure, and whenever the neighbors complained about it, a promise was made by the city and the current owne
rs to clean it up or add replacement windows to the tower. Truthfully, neither the city nor the owners cared about the building’s condition, because they had a well-paying, tight-lipped long-term tenant.

  She overheard the driver talk into the handset of the dash-mounted radio, “Six-nine-six-ten, one Mike out.”

  The radio’s volume was turned down too low to decipher what the response was.

  They passed the building, rounded the corner, and then slowly turned into a driveway behind the super structure. The driver made a sharp turn at the rear of the building, putting them on a sloping ramp leading into an underground parking deck.

  At the base of the ramp was an automated garage door that was activated by the driver’s ID card and a wave to the not-so-hidden surveillance camera. The door rolled up; then the bus slowly entered what appeared to be a shadowy, small single-car garage.

  The door rolled back down with a bang. Anny and everyone else on the bus were half-blinded as bright halogen lights flickered on, not only on the ceiling but in the floor as well. The vehicle-inspection process always seemed to take forever but was finished in less than a minute. Soon, a second heavy solid-metal gate to the front of the vehicle slid to the right to allow them into the parking deck.

  The entire commute from home to here was only about thirty-five minutes. Traffic was light this early in the morning, meaning faster drive time and lower risk of exposure.

  The parking garage, which only accommodated the shuttle buses, was in a similar condition to the rest of the building: dark and damp, with a smell to match the decor. Everyone swiftly exited the shuttle with a smile or nod to Mr. Clipboard, then made their way to a single steel entrance door along the wall, where a fairly large but very fit woman (probably a CrossFitter) with another clipboard stood.

  “Six-nine-six-ten, check in here please!” she half shouted.

  All the passengers, including Anny, passed Ms. Clipboard in the same routine as before: Name? Nod. Next. And through the door they went. Maybe this was to make sure the shuttle didn’t pick up any hitchhikers along the route here? Inside the parking lot exterior door was a singular long, well-lit, very clean (compared to the outside) room with a dozen matching steel doors that had a green and red light above each one.

  Anny walked over to a door with an illuminated green light, opened it, stepped inside, and shut the door behind her. One entire wall of this cramped closet-size space was made up of several lockers, like the kind found in a train or bus station. She opened a locker, grabbed a basket, and started getting undressed. Everything she brought into the building stayed in the basket: clothes, jewelry, watch, phone, everything except her driver’s license. After slipping on the provided hospital-style scrubs, she slid the basket back into the locker and pulled the key, securing the door.

  Exiting the opposite side of the sterilization room, she passed through a metal detector on her way to a caged window, handing her locker key and her driver’s license to a uniformed guard inside. Without a smile, a nod, or a “screw you,” he simply handed back her issued access ID badge, which she quickly clipped to her breast pocket. “Badges must be visible at all times,” she had been told, several times.

  The guard pushed a button, and the large metal door to her left made a loud click, which meant the magnetic lock had disengaged for her to enter.

  “Time to save the world,” Anny said to herself again, breathing out heavily, trying to find motivation to start the workday.

  SHADOWS

  Rifle Setup

  Michael closed his eyes, inhaling a deep breath through his nose and slowly out his mouth. He relaxed completely, letting his body flatten and mold to the grassy hill. With his eyes closed, he could feel the warm breeze push against his cheek while tousling his perfectly groomed light-brown hair.

  He opened his eyes and could see a perfect clear image though the lens. Only one problem: he wasn’t centered on the target. He could easily just lean into the rifle stock to center the reticle, but his dad, who was lying right beside and slightly behind him, would probably smack him. Even his little brother would heckle him for such a newbie mistake.

  He dug in his toes, lifted his belly up off the ground, and shifted to the right just a smidge, realigning his entire body behind the rifle. He closed his eyes again, relaxing, and reopened them to check his natural point of aim. Perfect. He flicked the safety off and felt the smooth curve of the trigger on his index finger.

  “On target,” Michael said.

  “Send it,” said his dad.

  He exhaled smoothly one last time. As his chest flattened against the ground, he watched the reticle naturally move from the ground, trail up the post, and stop center on his intended aiming point. Michael slowly squeezed the trigger. The .22 caliber rimfire with a suppressor makes a barely audible pffffffff sound when fired.

  “Call your shot,” his dad said, sounding irritated.

  “Left eye,” Michael said. His dad slapped him on the shoulder kind of hard, surprising him. “What?” he asked, looking back at his dad, who wore a great big proud smile.

  “Great shot! Eject that round, leave the bolt up, and put it on safe. Let’s walk down to inspect the targets.” He looked at Curtis, the oldest brother, who nodded his head with a surprised look of approval.

  “My turn, my turn,” Michael’s younger brother, Zavier, begged.

  “Not yet. Let’s go check the targets first; then you can have another go.” His dad glanced at the rifles as they started the walk downrange to ensure they were all on safe. “Michael, why did you call left eye?”

  “I was centered on the head, but as I was squeezing the trigger, I watched the crosshairs shift slightly to the left side of the head. I couldn’t actually make out the eyes from that far away.”

  “That’s good. Most shooters don’t have the discipline or skill to call their shots. It’s very important when you miss that we know why you missed. That way, the second shot can be quickly corrected for a center-mass hit. We’ll practice with that later when Curtis and I shoot the bigger guns. If you notice the reticle keep shifting left all the time, that means you have too much finger on the trigger.”

  As they got closer to the target boards, they could see the holes in the zombie-themed playing cards. Michael’s ten of hearts card had a cartoon zombie fisherman with a small hole where the left side of his head should have been. He smiled to himself as his dad put his arm around him.

  “Zavier! High five, bud! Look here, you hit almost all your cards.”

  “Yeah, but I missed some, and not all are in the center,” Zavier said to his dad.

  “No worries, buddy. We can work on it. Question for you: When you are looking through the scope, are the edges nice, sharp, and clean or a little fuzzy?”

  “A little fuzzy, but usually only a little on one side.”

  “OK, gather around,” Victor said to all three of them. He grabbed a stick and drew an almost perfectly round circle in the dirt, then scribbled on one side of the circle’s edge. “All right, this is called sight alignment. You don’t need to remember that, just what the effects are. When the scope is fuzzy, we call that shadow. If the entire edge has shadow or is fuzzy, then we need to adjust the scope either closer or farther to your eye to clear that up. Your problem, Z, is that you only have shadow on one side like this, right?”

  Zavier nodded.

  “What happens is if you have shadow on the right side, then your bullet is going to impact on the left side of the target. Same with up, down, left, and right. The bullet will always impact on the opposite side of the shadow. You need to be sure you have absolutely no shadow. The hard part is: How do we achieve good sight alignment while being completely relaxed? Michael, how do you do it?”

  “I don’t know, I’m just relaxed. I don’t have to move my head at all; the cheek thingy is in the right position, I guess.”

  “Exactly. We need to adjust Zavier’s cheek thingy, also known as the comb, so he’s not straining and moving his neck around like
a wild turkey. Let’s do that now, and we’ll check Curtis’s rifle too. After that, let’s take a break to set up camp.”

  Victor pulled a small toolbox out of his rifle bag.

  “OK, Zavier, lie down behind your gun and relax. Open the bolt and make sure it’s on safe. OK, close your eyes, take a deep breath, let it out, and then open your eyes without moving your head. Can you see through the scope?”

  Zavier said, “No, I’m too low.”

  Curtis said, “I have to push my face closer to the scope to get a full picture.”

  “All right, Zavier, let’s fix your comb first.” His dad had cut some of their sleeping-mat foam into small squares. He bent one piece over the top of the rifle stock and secured it with some camouflage-skull-pattern tape. Zavier smiled. “Try that, bud. Same drill. Close eyes, relax, and then open eyes.

  “Hey, that foam feels soft on my cheek!”

  “How’s the picture? Still fuzzy? If so, we can add some more foam to raise your cheek up.”

  “No, I think it’s good,” Zavier said.

  “Hold on, stay in position. I’m going to look through the other side of your scope. Just to double-check, when I look through the objective lens side, I can barely see the reticle, but your eyeball is huge! The reticle is perfectly centered on your pupil. I’d say this gun is good for you now. So…if you miss the zombie cards now, it’s all your fault and not the guns. Capisce? You want to see a giant eyeball? Look at Curtis’s.

  “Curtis, you’re up.” His dad started unscrewing all the little screws in the scope rings. “I’m going to slide the entire scope back a bit. Staying relaxed and comfortable, tell me when you get a full clear picture.”

  “Now!” Curtis said.

  “Alrighty, then, I’m going to tighten these back down. Let me put a bubble level on it first to make sure it’s married up with the gun. We don’t want the reticle to be lopsided.”