Undead

by Ryan W. Aslesen

  He projectile vomited a stream of oily black ichor, rested for a few moments, and then rolled to his clawed feet like an acrobat, all awkwardness forgotten. Enraged, he threw himself at the padded cell door and began pounding on the tiny glass observation window, which shattered under his third blow. He pounded the padding on the door for another two minutes, then gave up and began pacing the cell in circles.

  A rifle barrel poked through the broken window. Fire flashed twice from the muzzle; both bullets struck the subject in the torso, one a heart shot that would have killed any man. The impacts blasted the subject backward into a corner where he collapsed, apparently dead.

  “Guess that ends that,” Zuckerberg said.

  Eyes riveted to the TV screen, Max snorted. “Guess again.”

  The subject’s left arm twitched about twenty seconds later. Before the camera’s eye, the bullet wounds stopped bleeding and began to close. Test subject six healed completely within two minutes. He stood, crossed the room, and resumed pounding on the door. The segment ended.

  The screen now read 28/09/17, 0414. Something only vaguely human occupied the cell—a hairless thing mottled in blotches of milk white and what Max assumed to be dark green. His countenance had grown bloated and featured a massive lantern jaw and newly thickened brow ridge. Max found his eyes especially intriguing; they appeared to be solid black, the whites no longer visible.

  “Maybe you’re not so full of shit after all, Max,” West said.

  “I see you’re getting the picture.”

  “That is fucking sick,” Delorn said. “What the fuck is that?” He pointed to the subject’s left leg. The appendage had turned black from the thigh down. Five separate toes had molded into one, and his leg now ended in a single large claw the size and shape of a shovel blade.

  “That’s what we called a spade claw,” Max said. “Only one of the many appendages they can grow.”

  “Cute,” Zuckerberg said.

  Though she tried to sound insouciant, Max heard right through it. She’s just as floored as the rest of them.

  “I’ll admit no normal man could have survived those gunshots,” Zuckerberg continued. “But I just see a guy with some fucked-up mutations who heals in a hurry, not some bullshit alien who can change forms at will.”

  “Did you miss the part about the virus being reverse engineered from the substance?” Max asked. On screen the subject took out his fury on the cell’s padded walls, shouting all the while. He now shuffled about, walking only slightly more erect than a gorilla.

  “Right. Now I remember,” Zuckerberg said. “But this footage might be some bullshit hoax to lure us in. Even the North Koreans have the ability to doctor low-res security footage.”

  Max shrugged, already thoroughly tired of Ms. Zuckerberg’s attitude. “Then deny your eyes, honey. But you might meet number six in person real soon.”

  “Don’t call me that again, Ahlgren.”

  “Then stop being a diva and act professional. You wanna act like Veruca Salt? I’ll treat you accordingly.”

  “Damn...” Delorn muttered.

  The video ended.

  “Whatever,” Zuckerberg continued. “We’ll see in a couple of days who’s got it and who’s living on borrowed time.”

  “Yeah, whatever indeed,” Max said. “Just remember that you answer to me.”

  “Oh really? Last I heard, Juno was in charge.”

  “She is. I’m second in command.”

  “That is unacceptable,” said Heinz.

  “You’d better get used to it.”

  Heinz shook his head. “No way. Your reputation precedes you, Ahlgren, and it’s a damn shitty rep at that. Men in your charge come home in rubber bags. If they come home at all.”

  “Well, that’s the business, Heinz. Especially when you’re dealing with what we just witnessed. You think I liked losing my team? That I wouldn’t blow my head off right now if it could bring just one of them back? You’ve been in the shit before; you’ve lost people. I think you know better. Experience leads, and I’m the only one in this room with any experience fighting these things. So yeah, I’m XO on this one.”

  “I say we vote on it,” Zuckerberg countered.

  Max shot her a glare. “I say you shut your pork trap and deal with it.”

  “I should have worn waders today. The piss in here’s about to overflow my boots,” West said. He laughed at his own joke, but only Delorn joined him.

  “No sense arguing with him, Trisha,” Heinz said. “It isn’t his decision. What’s the call, Juno?”

  “Max is your XO. And that’s the end of it.”

  Heinz smiled in resignation and shook his head. “As you wish.”

  “Come on, it only makes sense,” West said. He pointed to Heinz. “You just like being in charge.” His finger lighted on Zuckerberg. “And you’re just a caustic feminist bitch.”

  Zuckerberg shrugged and pulled out her phone. “Guilty. I won’t trouble to deny it.”

  “What is the risk of one of us contracting this virus?” Heinz asked. “Can it go airborne or must it be injected?”

  “I’ve heard nothing regarding an airborne version of the virus,” Juno said. “But our source said the mutagen can spread by a bite from an infected person or animal, and perhaps even from contact with bodily fluids.”

  Not good. In Alaska he’d only had to worry about creatures killing him. These things may not be as fearsome, but they’re every bit as dangerous.

  “I see,” Heinz said. “So, what’s the plan?”

  “Tonight, we begin training at twenty-one hundred. Rest up until then; you’ll all need it. No more pushups, Trisha.”

  “No problem. Unless the XO wants to take me on.”

  “Love to,” Max said. “But you’ll have to survive the mission before you suffer that humiliation.”

  “Uh-huh.” She popped to her feet, licked her middle finger, and touched it on her ass while making a sizzling noise. “See you at nine, old man.”

  The team broke up and went their separate ways. Zuckerberg and Heinz disappeared; Delorn started shooting pool; Koontz, West, and Juno remained near Max.

  Now you have an idea of who you’re dealing with. He thought of his old team: the titanic egos; the rivalries; the petty squabbles that constantly erupted. When dealing with them he’d sometimes felt like clawing his face off in frustration. Gable and Red alone had been enough to drive any man into a straight jacket. And the way they’d fuck with LT... Now he realized how good he’d had it. Turns out they were just amateur assholes. Welcome back to the big leagues.

  “I’m going to check on our ride,” Juno said. She departed.

  “How about some more info on those creatures, Max?” West asked.

  Koontz, who sat next to West, nodded his interest.

  At least a couple of them checked their vanity at the door. He could hope for nothing better until the doubters squared off against one of those things. You’ll have more than your ego can handle then, Zuckerberg.

  “Sure,” Max said. “Let me grab a soda, and I’ll tell you all about them.”

  8

  Max and Juno took positions on either side of the door. As with the other rooms they’d cleared, he took the lead, put his shoulder to the door, and barged in.

  The red dot from his reflex sight lighted for an instant on a foam rubber mannequin target painted dark red, that sat behind a desk. Max held his fire, swept the barrel of his HK416 to the left clearing his corner of the room, and saw nothing. Behind him, Juno fired twice at a jet-black mannequin in the opposite corner. Another mannequin, difficult to see in the dimly lit room, slid into an open doorway straight ahead. Max and West fired on it simultaneously and took it out. The target flopped over backward and disappeared, carried away via a trolley system.

  “Clear!” Max called, and the other two concurred. />
  “That’s it, guys, nicely done,” Juno said. “I’m thinking we scored perfect.”

  “No mean feat, either,” West said.

  “You got that right,” Max agreed. “Keep in mind though, that these things likely won’t go down with just a couple of shots.” He had trained in kill houses before, but never in one so large, elaborate, and challenging: a maze of hallways with fifteen rooms to clear, targets friendly and unfriendly constantly popping up from around corners and behind objects. The friendly dark red targets—easily confused with black in the shadowy rooms—died if fired upon. If one of the black targets appeared and then disappeared without being shot, it was considered a kill for the enemy. Max, Juno, and West had taken them all down and held their fire on the red targets. He’d noticed a few small cameras positioned throughout the kill house and relished the idea of watching the other half of the team clear the rooms.

  “You shoot alright for a jarhead,” West said.

  Max nodded. “Thanks. You don’t do bad for a witch doctor.”

  He had taken a liking to West, a blue-eyed fellow Midwesterner from Iowa who now resided in California. West’s dossier stated that he had participated in over two-dozen combat engagements during his twenty-one years in the Green Berets. At 41, he ranked in age behind only Max, married with two grown sons whom he had talked out of military service. If he survives the mission, I might just offer him the medic spot on my next team. He seemed too good a guy to be working for the CIA.

  They entered the open doorway where they’d popped the last unfriendly and ascended a flight of steel stairs out of the kill house. The hangar housing the kill house and firing range was cavernous enough to shelter the largest Air Force cargo planes with room to spare.

  Juno led them across the kill house roof to a windowless, boxlike structure made of aluminum. Each left their HK416 rifles outside the trailer. Inside the comfort of A/C, a lone man sat before an expansive color monitor and a board of switches and knobs that controlled the targets in the kill house. The controller turned his half-bald head and squinting, cynical eyes upon them, then turned back to his switches.

  “And now we get to watch the others,” Juno said with a wicked grin. “Our just reward for braving the foam enemy first.” She turned to the man at the board. “One extra man on this run. Pop some more targets up in the hallways behind them.”

  “Gotcha,” the man said flatly.

  “This ought to be good.” West grinned. “The blond goddess herself in action.”

  “I think she’ll surprise you, Dan,” Juno said.

  “She’d damn well better.” Max jockeyed for a better view of the screen. “She’s a lot of trouble for the money.”

  The operator swiveled his chair to the side. He flicked a couple of switches, and the other four team members appeared on the big screen. Zuckerberg pointed a finger several times at Koontz, who gradually backed away from her. Heinz then said something to her, and she rounded on him, throwing up one arm and motioning to the kill house entrance with the muzzle of her carbine. Thank God there’s no sound.

  “Jesus H. Christ,” Max said, shaking his head.

  “That’s our blond firebomb,” Juno said. “Get them started already.”

  “Before she accidentally kills somebody,” West added.

  Might not be an accident.

  An alarm signaled them to proceed. Heinz went to take point, but Zuckerberg pushed through the door in front of him. The kid-brother duo of Delorn and Koontz brought up the rear.

  The screen changed to a long hallway where Zuckerberg popped the first target with one shot from twenty meters. Behind her, Heinz turned his head and shouted at the other two, who turned and fired on a target that had appeared behind them.

  “Close one,” the operator muttered.

  “Koontz didn’t even check their rear,” Max said.

  Heinz shouted at Koontz and Delorn and then raced after Zuckerberg. As he watched them navigate the maze and clear the rooms, Max noted the accuracy of Zuckerberg’s shots and her efficiency of movement. Gotta admit she’s good, not a wasted bullet or step. Heinz likewise worked efficiently and methodically. Nothing surprised him; the trolley and popup targets literally appeared into the waiting sight of his M4. Max had expected as much. SEALs trained extensively in close quarter combat. He’d trained with SEALs years before in Afghanistan, his first experience in special ops, and employed several on his teams throughout the years.

  Max would have known Koontz and Delorn had never seen combat even if he hadn’t read their dossiers. Fair best described Delorn’s marksmanship. He missed several shots and shuffled flatfooted through the maze like a lance corporal with a week left on his contract. His entire abbreviated life story stunk to high heaven. The Indians had a saying: no man could hide his caste. Max was certain Delorn came from money. Handsome, with black hair and blue eyes, he’d majored in political science at Stanford. He spoke with proper diction even when spouting profanity. He’s being groomed for leadership or someone high up wants some extra eyes on the operation. Or pure nepotism. At least he didn’t go to Harvard.

  Koontz shot well and took out three targets appearing behind the group; then he got distracted clearing a large room brimming with unfriendlies. A target appeared down the hallway behind him as he stood in the doorway and fired into the room.

  “Dead,” the operator announced as he retracted the target, which had stood for three seconds.

  Max shook his head. That kid needs work.

  They finished the kill house and headed up the stairs to the roof. Max, Juno, and West met them outside the trailer.

  “Take that, bitches!” Zuckerberg said.

  I will not listen to this. “You speak pretty highly of yourself for a dead woman.”

  “What the fuck are you trying to say, Ahlgren? Are you feeling especially senile—”

  “Shut up.”

  “What’s your problem?” Heinz growled. He stepped forward and stood face to face with Max.

  “I don’t have a problem—we scored perfect—but you’re all dead as far as I’m concerned, between this guy getting shot in the back and him missing half his shots.” He pointed respectively at Koontz and Delorn.

  Heinz turned and confronted Koontz. “You missed a target?”

  “No! I-I shot every one!”

  “All the ones you saw,” Juno said. “It popped up at your rear while you were helping sweep the largest room.”

  “Nice fucking going!” Heinz bellowed at Koontz, who swayed backward like a flower in a stiff gale. “We’ll do it again and again until you get it right.”

  “He’s not the only weak link,” Max said. “Delorn, you fight in slow motion, boy. What the fuck is your excuse?”

  “I... don’t have one?” He shrugged and had the audacity to smile at him.

  Max cocked his head and smiled back. “Right answer. Wrong attitude.” He leaned forward until their noses nearly touched. “Smile at me like I’m your bitch again, and I’ll rip your face off and give it to someone more deserving.”

  The smile vanished; Delorn averted his gaze.

  “I see we understand one another.” He confronted Zuckerberg and Heinz, who stood together and glowered at the proceedings. “You two had best get these two unfucked.”

  “Fuck off!” Zuckerberg took a step toward him.

  “Enough!” Heinz shouted, blocking her with his arm. He nodded at Max. “It’ll get done, Ahlgren. But you better stay Mr. Perfect, or I’ll have to correct you.”

  “Get back down there and get it done.” He had no more to say. Max knew Heinz would give him a terrific fight, and though he did not fear him, he also didn’t want to piss him off unduly. Sadly, he’s the best man you’ve got.

  “We’re all going to do it again,” Juno said. “After that we’ll switch up teams, and finally we’ll go through as one. Time’s wastin
g, people, and we have a lot to cover tonight.”

  No shit! This operation should have been rehearsed for months. He also knew from his past experiences with the CIA and his own security company that real world scenarios often didn’t permit that luxury. Still, he wished they had more time to prep and work together.

  Max checked his watch: 2210. He’d been expecting a long night, and it was only beginning. At least they didn’t fail to disappoint you.

  * * *

  “I hope everyone enjoyed their lunch,” Juno said once they’d reassembled in the hangar.

  “Yeah, I get cranky if I don’t eat by three am,” Delorn grumbled.

  “Zip it, Delorn,” Max said. “What’s next on the agenda?”

  Juno beamed at the group, a smile Max still didn’t wholly trust. “For last, I’ve saved a bit of recreation. Follow me.”

  She led them around the outer walls of the kill house to the shooting range that ran the length of the hangar, well over a hundred meters long. Six foam rubber mannequins stood at the far end; several steel cans of 5.56mm and .45acp rounds were stacked on the concrete floor by the team, next to a large steel chest painted dark green.

  Juno stood before the chest. “As Max informed you, CIA and FBI agents debriefed him several times after his Alaska mission.” She looked specifically at him. “I think you’ll be shocked to learn they actually listened to you.”

  “It would be a switch,” Max said.

  “Feast your eyes on these.” She picked up one of the 5.56 cans and opened it atop the chest.

  “What’s up with the purple?” Zuckerberg asked before Max could.

  Military rounds in 5.56mm came in several varieties, the rounds and sometimes the cartridges painted to designate their specific purpose. The tips of the rounds in the can were painted purple, a color Max had never seen on ammunition. Closer examination revealed that the purple wasn’t paint, but rather a material that comprised the nose of the bullet. Like a fuse on an artillery shell.