Zombies! (Episode 5): Sinners and Saints

by Ivan Turner

  Toby nodded.

  “Get him to help you. And PJ, too. Get in and out of the pen quick, you got it?”

  “You okay, Marcus?”

  Marcus nodded. “Just a lot of stress is all.”

  When Toby left, Marcus went toward the back of the warehouse and up the stairs where he'd made an office for himself. It wasn't neat or clean like his office at work, and it certainly didn't smell as good. It was also cold. He didn't like it.

  He needed Leron so he sent him a text message. The notion of him having “gotten into it” with one of the zombies unnerved him. If Leron had been bitten, he would have hidden it. But would he run? It was pointless to dwell on it. Instead, he stared out at the warehouse at what he'd made. In the center of the open floor was a boxing ring. It hadn't been too difficult to acquire. It was old and the turnbuckles had long since been ripped away. That made the corners dangerous but since there weren't any real rules to the fights, he wasn't worried about it. The ropes were still in fair shape, but that didn't matter either. They served no purpose when a man was fighting a zombie or several of them. No, the most important thing was the chain link cage they'd built around the whole ring. There was a door at one end and the zombie or zombies would be thrown inside just before the match. Then the challenger would waltz in while his name, or whatever name he had given, was announced over the roar of the crowd. The crowd sat around the ring, either in folding chairs on the floor or scrunched into a seat on one of the three tiers of bleachers that had been erected. Tonight's event was going to be crowded. Standing room only. Marcus would use the money to buy more seating. Right after he bought more zombies.

  Which took his thoughts back to Shawn.

  He was playing a dangerous game carrying on with Shawn. It had always been dangerous because of Shawn's age, but his involvement with this cop had made things a lot worse. A couple of years before, he'd had no reason to worry about the cops. But Marcus, in testing the waters of society, had found that he had a taste for operating outside of its boundaries. This venture was by far his boldest and he wasn't even sure there was a law against it. How could there be? People went into the ring voluntarily and zombies didn't have any rights to speak of. At least not yet. If those crackpots at the Zombie Rights Association had their way, the governor would have to have the undead at his table during dinner. Marcus wondered what that would be like.

  Over the weeks, Shawn had spoken very little about Anthony Heron. Marcus had checked the cop out but there was nothing useful. He was a model, if not exemplary officer. He'd made detective at a fairly young age, partly due to his association with his former partner, Johan Stemmy. Marcus had started checking out Stemmy also until he found out that Stemmy was dead. At any rate, it seemed that Shawn was right and that Heron had gotten him freed because of some personal belief. He must have called in every favor he'd racked up over the years because it was not easy to do what he'd done. In many ways, Marcus was grateful to Heron. He really did love Shawn. At this point, he was convinced that their relationship was the one honest thing left in his life and he wasn't prepared to give it up so easily. But their conversation that morning had him worried. He knew Shawn and he was pretty sure that Shawn was going to call Heron and rat out the hunting party. That was bad on too many levels.

  Marcus had been watching Shawn, keeping tabs on how edgy he was. That boy needed to distance himself from zombies, not get involved in some sting operation. The zombie infection wasn't getting any better so Shawn was waiting for the end of the world. It would never happen, if history was any indication. The infection didn't spread quickly enough, even with the zombies helping it along. Within a few months' time, the adjustment of the human race would be complete and the zombie infection would be assimilated into society just as diseases like AIDS and cancer had been. Doctors would score grant money for treatments and the Earth would keep turning. But Shawn was too naive to see it that way.

  Then there was Marcus' own involvement. He was, of course, the one footing the bill for the hunt. It had become clear early on that they wouldn't be able to keep up their stock without help. Leron had led a few hunting parties, but you didn't just find zombies walking down the street. Well, not most of the time. You had to follow the rumors of sick people and break into their apartments. There were plenty of them all over the city but the time and effort made the job too much for his handful of men. So he put the word out to the street kids that he would pay good money for good zombies. As he'd told Leron, morons will do just the dumbest things for the right pay. And if a few street kids got bitten in the process, he'd pay their friends to turn them in. Healthy gangers made good zombies in the ring. But not Shawn. He didn't want Shawn involved because he couldn't bear to see Shawn turn into one of those things. He'd kill him first.

  This line of thinking kept him occupied for some time. Marcus' goal was always to make money. He wanted to make enough to ease Shawn's worries about being dependent on his parents. Let Shawn be dependent on him. He could put him through college, do the things for Shawn that he had never been able to do for Leron...

  There was a knock on the door and Marcus called out for him to enter. "Where've you been?” he asked Leron.

  Leron shrugged. “Took a long lunch.”

  “You were supposed to help Toby finish pulling zombies for tonight.”

  Leron shrugged again.

  “Did something happen? Toby said you had a problem in the pen.”

  “Old fucker twisted my arm is all.”

  “And?”

  “And nothing. Lay off, man.”

  “Were you bitten?”

  “Don't be stupid,” but his voice shook as he said it. “I got spooked, okay? Old guy twisted my arm and tried to bite through my clothing. I didn't want to go back in, okay?”

  Marcus backed off. “Okay. I sent Damon and PJ to help Toby finish up.”

  Leron nodded, but didn't seem relieved. His attitude had Marcus worried. He was definitely hiding something, and poorly. He didn't look sick, just nervous. He kept his hands in his pockets and his eyes down. Still, it wouldn't do any good to push him. Having grown up with Leron, Marcus knew just how far he could get without hitting the brick wall. So he changed the subject.

  “I want you to call off the hunt tonight.”

  Leron looked up. “What?”

  “It's not safe.”

  That got some genuine laughter. “What about this job is safe?”

  “I don't mean that,” Marcus said. “I think the police might be onto it.”

  Leron's eyes narrowed. “Where did you hear that?”

  “It's not important. Just call it off.”

  “No way, man. We need the stock so you tell me.”

  Marcus stewed for a few moments, wondering how he had become the defender and Leron the attacker. “I told you to leave the high school kids out of this.”

  “I knew it!” Leron shouted. “This ain't about cops. It's that little boy toy of yours.”

  “Watch it, Leron.” Leron had discovered Marcus' affair with Shawn by accident and had been lording it over his head ever since. He liked the idea of Marcus being a homosexual because it helped him combat the inferiority complex he had in Marcus' presence.

  “What you gonna do, Marcus? You gonna hit me with your fairy wand?”

  Marcus stepped close and put his nose up against Leron's nose. “High school kids have gone missing and the police are looking for the reason. Call it off.”

  “Don't get in my face, man.”

  They stayed that way for a moment until Marcus stepped away.

  Satisfied, Leron said, “I'll see what I can do.”

  ***

  Since the disaster in Bucksburg West Virginia, where eleven hundred people had lost their lives to the zombie plague in less than a week, law enforcement had become a very difficult and demanding job. It was all the mayor could do to keep the military off of the streets of New York. The President was determined to squash the infection into nothing more than the chicken po
x but he couldn't do that if it was spreading like wildfire and wiping whole towns off of the map. A city like New York was the perfect breeding ground for any disease and the last thing the U.S. needed was ten million zombies spreading out from the East Coast. That put the commissioner of police on twenty four hour alert. He received a relatively huge sum of money from the state so that he could hire more cops and divert more resources to the zombie task force. By the time the name Bucksburg had reached the West Coast, Lieutenant Anthony Heron had a small army under his command.

  For him, it was a mixed blessing. The job was ceaseless, new calls coming in all of the time. Even when he was at home and asleep, Heron was on duty. Unlike the early weeks, most calls now were legitimate. The gear that men wore to fight zombies was at hand every moment of every day. A squad of men was always kept battle ready for the few calls that involved more than one or two zombies. Though his responsibility was to coordinate offensives, the lieutenant found more and more often that he was required to go out in the field. On the plus side, all of the work had helped him to forget about the loss of his partner at the very beginning of the zombie plague. It was a loss that had affected him deeply. Previously, his best solace had been in helping his partner's family, but they had shut him out, unable to move past their grief with Heron serving as a constant reminder of what they'd lost. The busy schedule also prevented him from dwelling on the cancer that had invaded his body. He was still undergoing chemotherapy treatments and still suffering from the side effects, but he had adjusted to the physical detriments and was now able to put the emotional out of his mind.

  When he arrived at the office that Saturday morning, all was in chaos. The department had given him two floors in a building. Well, technically, one of the floors was a basement that had been previously used for storage. But he'd had men clean it out and set it up as a preparation area. It came in handy to have a big open space where men could gear up and get quickly to the vans. The other floor was the twelfth. Heron took the elevator up, one hand in his pocket fidgeting with an invisible cigarette. He missed them badly, even knowing that they had been killing him slowly for years. As he got off of the elevator, he took in the scene not with the sense of satisfaction another might have had at seeing his team running efficiently, but with a sense of fatigue. It was going to be another busy day.

  He didn't make it half way to his office before he was intercepted by Frank Culph. Culph had become his second in command almost immediately and entirely by chance. As a patrol officer, he'd been on duty near Sisters of Charity Hospital when all hell had broken loose in the ER. It was after that incident that Heron had been given the task force. He'd only taken the job half seriously at the time and when asked to pick a number two, he'd picked the first man in line of sight. That had been Frank Culph.

  Culph's approach to the job was aggressive, almost reckless. He craved the action and had found the early days frustrating. Even though they weren't partners and rarely if ever took calls together, Heron had tried to view Culph as a replacement for his late partner, Johan Stemmy. It was a dangerous game, and a fool's one at that. The differences between Stemmy and Culph were too numerous to count. Stemmy had been older and more experienced than Heron. While he had never needed a mentor, he had still deferred to Stemmy as the senior officer. Culph was many more years his junior than Stemmy had been his senior. Culph was impetuous and, to tell it honestly, a bit mean. These qualities had increased over the past few weeks as they had become more and more busy.

  On the other hand, Culph was a decent cop. He knew right from wrong and never challenged Heron in front of anyone from the squad. He was dependable and always willing to take point during any assignment. For all of his lesser qualities, Culph had been a good choice as a second in command.

  “What?” he said to Culph, perturbed that he hadn't even at least been allowed to hang up his coat.

  “It's bad. You might even want to come along.”

  Heron took a deep breath, not as hard these days now that he was pretty well healed up from the cancer surgery. “What is it?”

  “Some guy called raving about the zombies. He said he went to the church this morning to make the lunches for the Saturday groups and he saw the devil.”

  “That's it?”

  Culph shook his head. “First response was an hour ago. We thought it was one or two zombies from the way the guy was talking. We sent four guys.”

  Heron looked hard at him. “Tell me there are no casualties.”

  “We got a call five minutes ago and have been scrambling ever since. Only one guy made it out and he's wounded.”

  So much for getting home early. Alicia would be angry. Since Stemmy, not one police officer had been wounded by a zombie in the line of duty. Honestly, the undead were no match for trained and armed police officers. They were slow and careless. They were noisy. They were essentially target practice.

  “The men were overwhelmed,” Culph continued, leading Heron back into the elevator. “He reported close quarters and more zombies than they could count.”

  “What's the situation now?”

  “The wounded officer's on his way to Arthur Conroy and regular PD has the building surrounded. They have orders to shoot anything that comes out.”

  They left the elevator and headed toward the parking garage. Already the street out front was alive with police vans rushing off, sirens blaring. Culph would ride with Heron. Heron would drive.

  “And what about this cook?” Heron asked. “The guy who made the first call.”

  “His name's Raoul Dominguez,” Culph answered. “I ordered that he remain on the scene so we could have a word with him.”

  Heron nodded. Culph had done a good job. Of course, three cops were dead and one was wounded. And in that line of work, wounded means dead. Being a police officer is not an easy or a safe job by any stretch of the imagination. But Heron was beginning to wonder if they hadn't grown complacent on the zombie task force. Holding off a few zombies at a time had kept them busy. But were they really ready to hold off the end of the world?

  If there are no cars on the road, the trip from the Manhattan office to the church in Queens takes about twenty minutes. Even with lights flashing and sirens screaming, the traffic was a terrific obstacle that doubled their travel time. Heron drove with his hands gripping the wheel tightly, the color draining from his knuckles. Next to him, Culph sat in silence, his eyes focused on the cars out the front windshield, his left leg bobbing up and down in anticipation.

  When they finally arrived, there were police barriers cordoning off the area and regular duty cops on the scene. Sharpshooters had been positioned around the perimeter of the church in case any of the zombies decided to go for a Saturday morning stumble outdoors. News crews and other onlookers were crowding the barriers, pushing the limits of the defined boundaries and the peacekeepers' patience. The scene reminded both Culph and Heron of the circus that had formed around Sisters of Charity when its ER had been invaded by one zombie. That one zombie had spawned two more in minutes. What the hell had happened here?

  Pulling the car over by the curb, Heron got out and found the sergeant in charge. She was a beefy woman with a round face and sunken eyes. Her long hair was tied up in all sorts of places and bounced as one piece against the back of her head. She grabbed Heron's hand with all of the energy she could muster and pumped it hard up and down.

  “Pleasure, Lieutenant,” she said. “I'm Dorothy Sisco.”

  “What's the situation, Sergeant Sisco?”

  “No one's come out of the church since Officer Xu. We've got the city plans for the building ready for your inspection and have covered every exit with sharpshooters.”

  Heron nodded. “Where's the cook? Dominguez.”

  “Right this way, sir.” She led him away from his car and over to a little man with greased black hair and a lined face. Raoul Dominguez was about fifty years old, give or take half a decade, and he looked as if he'd worked every last minute of it. His arms and nec
k were thick and corded with veins. Though the wrinkles on his face showed clearly, his eyes were bright and, right now, a bit wild. He looked up at Heron as the lieutenant approached and began speaking rapidly in Spanish.