Plagued States of America (Book 5): Plagued [The Angel Rise Zombie Retribution Experiment]

by Army, Better Hero

  “Hank Opland?” a man asked in a surprised tone.

  Hank recognized the voice, and it wasn’t someone he ever expected to see again. He opened his eyes and slowly put down the cup.

  “I thought I saw you come in here,” the man went on as Hank turned in his chair to look up.

  Damn. Frank Connors, another security specialist from the old days. This wasn’t a happy coincidence, although in Hank’s opinion, coincidence was only ever a bad thing. First Reese on the television, now Frank Connors?

  “Frankie,” Hank said flatly, nodding.

  A glint of irritation appeared in Frankie’s left eye. He hated when Hank called him Frankie. He didn’t lose his composure, though. Not in such a nice black suit. Not looking like money, his short, slicked dark hair and Hollywood tan completely out of place this far north. Who the hell was he trying to impress?

  “Jesus, man,” Frankie said, pretending to be cordial. “How long has it been? Seven years?” He clapped Hank on the shoulder as he sat down beside him, the bulge of a pistol holstered to his belt showing against the fabric of the suit.

  “Eight,” Hank said sourly. Nope, this was definitely not a coincidence.

  Fourteen

  Being this close to Frank Connors made Hank’s skin crawl. The last time they talked, Hank was handing the reins to the Tate Pharmaceuticals account over to him…right after Hank botched everything by letting their CEO get shot during a routine transfer of the asset from door to car. One of his own men drew down. Totally unexpected. Hank saw his man reach for his gun so he drew his own and turned his back on the asset, looking for the danger, but by then it was too late. Blam! One in the back of the asset. Thankfully it didn’t kill him. Blam! One in the head of their other man. Blam! Hank took out the shooter.

  It happened in less than a heartbeat. A very long, drawn out heartbeat that hammered in his ear to this day.

  “So, how have you been?” Frankie wore a broad, fake grin.

  “Fine. Just fine, Frankie. How about you?”

  Frankie pretended to be touched. “Oh, you know. I’ve been doing pretty good. Made me head of security,” he said offhandedly. Hank wanted to roll his eyes. Hank had made him head of security when he handed the account over to him. “We’re doing some good things, too, helping a lot of people make a difference in the world. It’s been real good.”

  “That’s good, Frankie. Real good.”

  Frankie grinned. “Are you mocking me already? We’ve hardly said our hellos.”

  “How long until we say our goodbyes?”

  Frankie’s smile widened. “That’s entirely up to you.”

  Hank wanted to ask him what the hell that was supposed to mean, but the waitress showed up.

  “I see you got ahold of your friend,” she said. “That was quick.”

  Frankie raised an eyebrow, looking first at Hank, then at the waitress, his false smile still plastered to his lips. “Got ahold of me?” he asked, acting confused. “You already got a phone there, Hank?” He looked Hank up and down.

  Hank didn’t say anything. He concentrated on acting relaxed, forcing himself not to ball his fists.

  “Well, I’ve been waiting for him,” Frankie said to the waitress, but he obviously meant it for Hank. He turned in his chair to face Hank. “Let me give you a ride,” he offered, nodding toward the door.

  In a pig’s eye. Hank wasn’t about to go anywhere with Frankie. “Maybe in a minute,” Hank said, brightening. “I just ordered. You should try it here, though. Can you get something for my friend Frank Connors here?” Hank clapped Frankie on the shoulder. “Frank and I go way back. He’s always willing to help out.”

  Frank’s smile waned.

  “In fact,” Hank went on, wagging a finger toward the waitress. “If I was ever in dire straits, Frank Connors here, that’s who I’d call first. My pal, Frank Connors.”

  Frankie’s eye twitched.

  “Frank, you ever been in here before?” Hank looked between Frank and the waitress. “You ever seen Frank in here before?”

  “Sorry,” the waitress replied, looking at Frankie as though she were sorry she ever opened her mouth. “Can’t say I have.”

  “Would you stop it,” Frankie said irritably.

  Hank’s smile widened. He pat Frankie on the shoulder one more time. “Yup, you can count on a guy like Frank Connors. He’ll get you out of a pickle.”

  “Alright, you done?” Frankie asked, his smile completely gone.

  “Can I get you something, Frank?” the waitress asked.

  Hank chuckled.

  “No, thank you,” Frankie said blandly.

  The waitress shrugged and went to check up on the other patrons, leaving Frankie and Hank sitting alone.

  “You think that’s funny?” Frankie whispered hotly. “What was that, what…what?”

  “Just evening the playing field a little,” Hank said as he picked up his coffee to sip it. Damned good cup of Joe being ruined.

  Frankie thought about it before asking, “How do you figure?”

  Hank put down the coffee. “Well, if for some reason they pull my body out of the channel with a bullet in my back in the next couple days, you may have some explaining to do when the police find out Frank Connors was the last man seen with me, that’s all.” Hank nodded toward the waitress. “I think she’ll remember your name, don’t you?”

  Hank levelled his gaze on Frankie, who glowered back at him. “Or was this really supposed to be a social call? I don’t know. My memory is a little fuzzy. I just don’t remember us being friends after everything that happened.”

  “Alright, Hank,” Frankie said calmly. “You want to pretend you’re still in charge of something, I get it. Man of your own destiny. Beholden to no one.”

  Hank didn’t like his condescending attitude.

  “Thing is, Hank. When I saw you scan out last night, I actually felt sorry for you.”

  Hank gritted his teeth.

  “You’ve been over there for what, seven years?”

  “Eight,” Hank said quietly.

  “That’s what I mean,” Frankie said, snapping his fingers. “You’ve been over there so long the world’s passed you by. So here I was thinking I’d help you out, for old time’s sake. See if you needed work. A guy like you who knows the business is always worth something, even if you have been out of commission for eight years.

  “But I got to say, I’m not feeling good about things the way you’re acting. Look at you. All tense, like you’re expecting a fight.”

  Hank forced the tension from his shoulders.

  “And don’t even get me started on what you’re insinuating with that body in the channel crack.”

  Hank turned slowly in the barstool toward Frankie. He had a lot of choice words in mind, but seeing the guy’s smug face took the wind out of his sails. Frankie wanted Hank angry. Easier to make mistakes that way.

  “You and I both know they’d never find your body,” Frankie whispered, his words so soft even Hank had trouble hearing them. Frankie smiled wickedly and leaned back in the barstool, sizing Hank up. “Here’s what I don’t get about you, though, Henry. You don’t mind if I call you Henry, do you?”

  Hank shrugged, relaxing his hands. Cool off.

  “I can understand getting a license, you know. Going out and hunting people. Sounds like a blast. I mean, biggest game hunt there is, right? Get a couple in your crosshairs and bam, bam. But doesn’t that get old? I mean, they’re zombies. They’re just stupid retards who can barely walk in a straight line. It’s like fighting a room full of drunks. Where’s the fun in that?”

  “Where’re you going with this?” Hank asked.

  Frankie leaned closer to Hank. “Why’d you stay?” He let the question hang between them.

  Hank shook his head and shrugged, acting like he didn’t have an answer.

  “You see? That’s what I mean. Even you don’t know which way is up. Unpredictable. You always liked saying that. Be unpredictable, that way you d
on’t get into a routine. The whole getting a license and running away thing, that was totally unpredictable, but I expected you to come back years ago. I used to wake up some days and ask myself, ‘Is this the day he files some kind of legal injunction?’” Frankie laughed, but it wasn’t joy or happiness. It was mockery. “I even worried, once in a while, that I’d come in to work and find you sitting in Tate’s office, laughing about the good old days, like you’d never let him get shot in the back by one of your own men.”

  Hank scowled deeply. He couldn’t help but ball his fists.

  “But you never did,” Frankie said, and he sounded mildly disappointed. “You settled into a routine, didn’t you? Got stuck over there, afraid of your own shadow. Afraid to come back.” He scoffed. “And to think I used to admire you.” Frankie shook his head. “Don’t come asking for your job back, Henry. I’m in charge around here now, you got me?”

  Hank shrugged. He wasn’t planning on it anyway.

  “I’m serious, man. Don’t go trying to weasel your way back in. I will fuck you up. You got me?”

  They stared at one another, neither blinking.

  “Here you go, hon,” the waitress said as she slid a plate in front of Hank. He looked down at it, then back at Frankie, who was leaning back in his stool, the ire fading. The waitress cast Hank a worried glance. “Anything else?”

  “The orange juice,” Hank said.

  “Oh, that’s right. Sorry, hon.” She moved away as though she were relieved to have a reason to get away.

  Hank sighed. “So, are we done, or are you just going to sit here and watch me eat my breakfast?”

  “Stay off my radar,” Frankie said, tapping the countertop with two fingers as he stood up.

  Hank picked up his utensils, nodding as he reached for his coffee again. Fucking Frankie. Ruined a perfectly good breakfast, the son-of-a-bitch.

  Fifteen

  The waitress put Hank’s orange juice in front of him. “You okay?”

  Hank could tell she didn’t mean the breakfast. “Yeah. Frank there, he’s kind of an asshole.”

  She snorted a laugh.

  “Say, there wouldn’t happen to be an airport around here?”

  “Sure. You’ve got Huntington over in West Virginia a ways, but if you want to go anywhere for real you need to shoot over to Yeager, except I don’t think anyone’s flying out of there today,” she said and pointed at the television. “They’ve still got it locked down.”

  “Huh?” Hank spun in his seat and looked at the television on the wall. The news feed showed the scene from the air, the camera hovering a few hundred feet above an old Piper airplane surrounded by police cars and vans. The headline read DOCTOR FLIES OUT OF QUARANTINE.

  “What the—?” Hank squinted. The volume was off, but words streamed by in the closed captioning.

  …STILL CLOSED AS HAZMAT

  CREWS INSPECT THE AIRCRAFT…

  The footage showed two figures in white plastic suits that covered every inch of their bodies, with oversized hoods sprouting large, clear plastic windows to see through. Science was still paranoid by the threat of zombies after all this time. Bunch of yahoos.

  …AND PREPARE TO MOVE IT

  TO AN ISOLATED HANGAR FOR

  QUARANTINE. THE FOUR

  PASSANGERS ARE BEING HELD…

  Four? Hank immediately counted in his head Wendy and the Senator’s girl. He wondered if the other two included the soldier she saved and the fellow she was with at the time.

  …UNDER HIGH SECURITY PENDING

  TESTS AND COMPLETE BLOOD…

  Hank watched the footage in amazement. “When did this happen?”

  “Last night,” the waitress said. “Flew in late. Everyone thought they were some of those survivors from the EPS trying to get across at first, trying to say they had the Senator’s little girl, but GNN found out it was really that doctor woman who they tried to kill. Can you believe that?”

  “So, it really is Wendy?” Hank blurted. He harbored too many doubts about anything good happening since yesterday that even seeing it on the news seemed impossible.

  The waitress looked at him as though she didn’t understand.

  “Red-head? Doctor Wendy O’Farrell?”

  “Yeah, that’s her name. O’Farrell. She’s crazy. I mean, if they tried to kill me like that, the last thing I’d ever do is come back over here.”

  Hank shook his head and smiled in admiration. That Doctor Wendy O’Farrell was something else. The waitress had it all wrong. No one was going to touch her. Not now that all this press was involved. They might try to bury her in the courts, but she had them by the balls for the moment. They had to make sure no one harmed her at all, otherwise all the conspiracies would be true, and things would get a lot worse before it got better. Hank chuckled. The waitress looked at him like he was a little crazy, too.

  “Well, the airport’s out,” Hank said. “Is there a bus station nearby?”

  Sixteen

  Hank had no intention of getting on a plane, or a bus for that matter. He only asked the waitress about it to throw Frankie off if he came back into the diner to find out what Hank had talked about. Hell, Frankie may have even been using one of those high-powered audio listening devices the whole time, so there was no sense not acting the part of someone looking to get out of town in a hurry. Send Frankie on a wild goose chase. Keep him guessing. Just like Frankie said, be unpredictable.

  “Best I can do,” Hank whispered as he doled out a tip from the bills in his wallet. Same damned words Frankie had used escorting Hank from the Tate Pharmaceuticals building eight years ago.

  “Best I can do for you, Hank,” Frankie had said, clapping Hank on the shoulder as they stood inside the front door to the glass high-rise. He had been telling Hank about his severance package, but Hank had hardly been paying any attention. He didn’t really care about the money or the pension. He cared about Doctor Samuel Tate getting shot. “Garrick says she doesn’t trust you to run things, but you know she’s full of shit. Looking to make an example of someone so she can look good in front of the board.”

  Hank nodded and held out a hand. If there was one thing Hank was good at, it was reading people by their body language. Only truly pathological people could lie and mean it, but their kind was easy to spot, too. They were the big heads, as Hank liked to put it. They had a certain swagger and air about them, a fixation on self-importance, and a lack of true compassion. In business, they were the kind to stab you in the back, like that bitch CFO Jane Garrick. It wasn’t the kind of person Hank thought Frankie to be—at least, not until Frankie didn’t hesitate to shake Hank’s offered hand. How many times had the sly bastard rehearsed this moment in his head?

  Frankie had never shaken Hank’s hand before, even when Hank hired the son-of-a-bitch. For the first time in days, Hank straightened enough to shrug the weight of the world off his shoulders. He forgot about Doctor Tate for a second, ignoring his own misery and self-recrimination over letting the man get shot, and looked Frankie square in the eye. He didn’t let Frankie’s hand go.

  “Cory and Phil got the boot this morning, too,” Hank said.

  Frankie eyed him, his stare betraying nothing of what he was thinking, but his hand did. He pulled away, ever so slightly.

  “Was that because of Garrick, or you just wanting to clear out anyone loyal to me?”

  “Come on,” Frankie said, donning a disarming smile. “It’s not like that. I’m not making the decisions around here. You know that.”

  “Yeah,” Hank said, nodding. He gave Frankie’s hand one quick shake and let it go. He turned for the door and never looked back. Fuck Frankie, the little bastard. Two men were dead, a third in the hospital, and the prick was climbing over the bodies to reach for a ladder to the top.

  That was what some people did in a situation like that, though. Frankie turned out to be an every-man-for-himself kind of guy, which made him more than a little dangerous now.

  Hank stomped the idea out of h
is head as he thumped his boots on the rug inside a corner convenience store. It was still so damned cold outside he wished he didn’t have to walk everywhere. Just go get the Jeep and be done with it. He sighed. No. Frankie’s appearance was screwing that plan up. He’d be watching.

  Hank went up and down the aisles of the store, browsing not only to look for what he wanted, but to see how much things had changed. There were so damned many candy bars and types of snack chips these days. There wasn’t even a magazine rack. The price of a half-gallon of milk—holy shit! The price!

  He sighed and scooped up a plain chocolate bar. Even that seemed to be twice what he used to pay for the things. He dropped a pair of sunglasses on the counter, along with the chocolate bar.

  “Which way’s the library?” Hank asked as he dug in his pocket for some cash.

  “Four blocks that way,” the kid behind the counter said, pointing out the door.

  Hank glanced out the front window to orient himself, nodding. Four blocks in the freezing cold.

  “These look good on me?” Hank asked, putting the sunglasses on.

  The clerk shrugged.

  “Good enough,” Hank said. “Thanks.”

  Outside, Hank zipped up his jacket to his chin and tore open the chocolate bar. When was the last time he had a chocolate bar? Last Christmas? No, it was during the summer when he ran into Bill Hunter—there was a guy who had an appropriate name. He had a sweet tooth, too, and carried boxes of chocolate with him every time he went into biter territory. Hank’s team and Bill’s camped together for a few days, sharing beer, chocolate, and tall tales.

  Hank bit into the chocolate and closed his eyes, letting it melt on his tongue. Smooth. Creamy. Sweet. He took another bite. He didn’t miss the road, but then again, he didn’t even miss the taste of chocolate all that much. What he missed was the convenience. He could turn right around and buy another candy bar, and another, and if they ran out, he could go down the street and get more. He didn’t have to worry about anyone bubbling up out of the weeds or shambling from the shadows. No zombies over here, no wild dogs over there, no goddamned bears!