by Myke Cole
“We’re going to be in a tight space without a map,” Reeves said. “I don’t like deploying area-effect weapons in close quarters. Too big a chance of zapping your own people.”
“This is different,” Schweitzer said. “The only way to beat us is to utterly destroy the body. Shred it or burn it.”
Reeves looked up at Ghaznavi. “My mission, ma’am, my call.”
“That’s the call you want to make?” she asked. “Schweitzer’s the only one in this room who’s had contact with the enemy.”
“Experience can lead and it can mislead,” Reeves answered. “No explosives except for breaching charges, and no flamethrowers.”
Ghaznavi raised her hands. “You’re the ground boss.”
“Respectfully”—Schweitzer was used to the informality of working in the teams, but he wasn’t sure about the relative rank here; he guessed that, this being their first time dealing with the undead, neither did they—“that’s the wrong call, man.”
“Your objection is noted, but you’re not in charge and this isn’t a vote. You’re the superman you say you are, you won’t miss a flamethrower,” Reeves said. “You want in on this, and I say I’m fine with it. You’ll be a serious asset and I’m glad to have you on board, but my ops run by my orders. That’s just how it’s going to be.”
“I’m a superman down an arm and going up against a whole lot of other supermen. Whatever, man. I’m in. Hope you’ve got a good team.”
“The best,” Reeves said.
“He’s right,” Ghaznavi agreed. “They are.”
“This is a little different from what you’ve seen before.” Schweitzer said.
“No doubt,” Reeves answered. “We pride ourselves on adaptability.”
Schweitzer chuckled internally. “Fair enough. I was the same way.”
“You still are,” Hodges offered. He’d been standing against the ready-room wall, arms folded, staying out of the way as the technicians worked and Reeves planned. “New territory for all of us.”
Schweitzer raised the prosthetic, gave the buzz saw another spin. “At least I’ve got a future working in a lumberyard after all this is over.”
The door opened and another man walked in. He could have been Reeves’ younger brother. Same woodsman’s civilian clothing. Same beard and rumpled hair. Same killer’s eyes. He was already in the process of suiting up, body armor and a tactical vest over his black compression shirt. A stylized ancient Greek helmet was emblazoned on his shoulder patch, with the words MOLON LABE beneath. Schweitzer had worn a similar patch on scores of ops. The words were Greek, a quote from Herodotus, relating the words of Leonidas when the Persian king Xerxes had demanded the surrender of the three hundred Spartans at Thermopylae. Proud Xerxes wants not your lands, but only your arms, the Persian king’s herald had said. Molon labe, Leonidas had replied. Come and take them.
“You rang,” the man drawled, setting his carbine on the table as he cinched down the covers on his magazine pouches. He wiggled his eyebrows at Reeves. “’Sup, bro. What’s the plan?”
Reeves jerked his chin toward Ghaznavi, and the man looked up at her. “Whoa! Sorry, ma’am. I didn’t know you were here.”
“No worries,” Ghaznavi said. “Frank Cort, this is Senator Don Hodges.”
“Sir.” Cort tugged on the brim of his threadbare ball cap. His eyes settled on Schweitzer and he started.
“And this is Jim Schweitzer,” Ghaznavi continued.
“Sch . . . the SEAL?”
“Nice to meet you,” Schweitzer said.
“But you’re dead.”
“Yes, I am.”
Cort looked up at Reeves, eyes narrowing. “If you’re fucking with me, bro, this isn’t funny. I’m on recall status right now, and my wife isn’t exactly—”
“I’m not fucking with you. That is Jim Schweitzer sitting right there, and he is dead.”
Cort looked back at him, stammered.
“I know it’s a lot to take in,” Schweitzer said.
“You’ve got a buzz saw for an arm.”
“We just installed it,” Ghaznavi said. “Pretty cool, huh?”
“I lost the real arm on my last op,” Schweitzer offered.
“You do ops? Doesn’t dying . . . I mean, are you still in the Navy?”
Schweitzer shrugged.
“Focus, man,” Reeves said. “We’re going to jump in a few hours and I need your head in the fight.”
“This is . . .” Cort shuddered.
“Lock it up,” Reeves said. “I’m doing a single element and a single team. I need my best and I need them reliable. Magic is real and the dead walk the earth. Mission doesn’t change.”
Cort sobered, swallowed. “Okay.”
“Okay okay?” Reeves asked. “I need you with me here, Frank.”
“Yeah, man. I’m good.”
“Outstanding,” Reeves said. “Okay, get yourself set up and we’ll go over the plan.”
“Targeting package?” Cort asked.
“There isn’t one,” Schweitzer said, standing.
“We’re going in blind?” Cort asked.
“It’s kind of an emergency,” Ghaznavi offered, smiling weakly.
“Where are we dropping?” Cort asked. “Can you tell me that, at least?”
“No drop. We’re driving in under cover. I was thinking a medical truck. Do we still have one painted up?” Reeves asked.
“Yeah, I think so,” Cort said. “So, this is domestic?”
“Colchester,” Reeves said.
“Virginia? As in right down the fucking road?” Cort asked.
“He said the same thing,” Schweitzer said, jerking his thumb at Reeves.
“Jesus Christ. Can I sit down?” Cort asked.
“He said that, too,” Schweitzer added.
Cort blinked at him, and Schweitzer could see the man struggling with the shock of meeting him. Like Reeves, Cort was relying on his training to stay focused, but he was clearly shaken.
Schweitzer extended his buzz-saw arm, realized what he was doing, brought it back, and offered his hand instead. “Well, sorry about the shock, Ernest. Call me Jim.”
“He’s Frank,” Reeves said. “I’m Ernest.”
Schweitzer stretched the smear of his gray lips in what passed for a smile. “And I’m very funny.”
“Not really,” Reeves said. “If we’re going to work together, you need to be able to tell us apart.”
Schweitzer shrugged. “All you living people look alike to me.”
• • •
There were eight of them, and while Schweitzer couldn’t be sure if the names they gave were real, they matched their genders, at least. Reeves and Cort were the only full names he got. It was first-names-only for the junior members of the team, the single nod SAD made to secrecy among the ranks. Trifling. Such half measures hadn’t protected Schweitzer when he’d still been alive.
The toughest-looking were the two women, Sharon and Kristine, with scarred faces and hard eyes. Sharon’s black hair was shot through with premature gray, swept back into a stub of a ponytail. Kristine had dispensed with hair altogether. From the patchy look of the stubble sprouting beneath the scrape marks, she didn’t put a lot of effort into shaving it cleanly. Sharon spun a small knife point-down on the reinforced palm of her glove. Kristine cleaned the barrel of a disassembled 9mm pistol that already looked spotless enough to eat off.
The next four were men, two Johns and two Mikes. The names were unlikely enough that Schweitzer wondered if they were real before deciding it didn’t matter.
Reeves and Cort were the least impressive of the lot, which said something for the hard-bitten look of them. The urban-woodsmen outfits were set aside, and they all looked like operators now, black compression shirts, thigh rigs and chest harnesses bristling with ordnance.
Schweitzer had once again covered every inch of skin with a black bodysuit, STF armor, and a riot policeman’s helmet with a tinted facemask that Ghaznavi said they normally used to transport prisoners. The buzz saw was draped with black cloth, and a sharp look from Reeves silenced any questions. Still, the team shot nervous glances at the hulking black figure with the cloth draped over his arm. Schweitzer did his best to make his chest gently rise and fall, to shift in his seat, even once raised a hand to scratch at his neck despite the glove and armor. Human motions made by living hands. Nothing to see here, folks. Move along.
“This,” Ghaznavi said, “is James. He will be accompanying you on the run. This target is almost completely dark, and what little light we have comes from him. Please give him your full attention.”
“Hey,” Schweitzer said. Eyes widened at the dull rasp of his voice. Schweitzer could smell the adrenaline rising in their blood, could see the tension in their hands. They knew something was wrong with him. They were paramilitary fighters in the government’s most secret army, used to operating in the dark without asking questions, but that didn’t erase human curiosity or unease.
“I was a prisoner in the facility for . . . well, I’m not sure for how long, exactly. A few months, I’d guess. I don’t have a photographic memory and I never made a map, but I can tell you a few things.”
Kristine drew out the machete at her waist, tested its edge. “Can we start with these? How come we’re carrying ’em?”
“I thought we were going to Colchester,” Sharon said.
“We are,” Reeves said.
Sharon snapped her knife shut and drew out her machete in a single, fluid motion. “Did a jungle grow up there overnight?”
“It’s not for plants,” Schweitzer said.
“What’s it for, then?” One of the Mikes asked.
“It’s for monsters.”
“Monsters,” Sharon said flatly.
Kristine pointed her machete at Reeves. “Now I know I am most definitely being fucked with.”
“You’re not being fucked with,” Ghaznavi said. “I give you my word.”
That shut them up. Whatever rankless familiarity existed among the team clearly didn’t extend to Ghaznavi.
“Monsters,” Sharon said.
“Yes.” Schweitzer nodded. “They will look like people, but they aren’t. They are ten times stronger, ten times faster, and ten times more vicious than anyone you’ve ever faced.”
“What’re they packing?” Sharon asked.
“They’ll come at you barehanded. Some will have claws . . . and they’ll bite.”
All eyes turned to Reeves, who shrugged. “Whaddya want me to say? This is new to me, too.”
“There’ll be humans with them, pipe hitters like you. They’ll be loaded for bear and most of them will have come out of JSOC or at least SOF units.”
“Do we have any numbers, or positions, or patrol routes?” Kristine asked.
Schweitzer shook his head.
“Shit,” said the same Mike. At least, Schweitzer thought it was the same Mike.
“So, we’re going up against an unspecified number of enemy of an unknown disposition and with unknown armaments, backed up by an unspecified number of superpowered vampire . . . monster thingies, and no map of the ground?” Sharon sounded angry.
“If we do it right, we don’t have to fight the monster thingies at all,” Schweitzer said. “They’re kept in refrigerated cells. Those cells are operated from a central control hub that’s close to the surface. We get in there, we make sure the monsters stay in their cages. Then the only thing we have to worry about is the people.”
“And you know the layout here? Where this control hub is located?” Sharon asked.
“Yes,” Schweitzer answered. “We go in fast and quiet. We take the control hub, we lock the facility down, then we can clear it at our leisure.”
“This is bullshit,” Kristine said, slapping her machete against the armor plating in her palm. “I’m assuming you don’t have any schematics on the control mechanism? Is there an override? We’re going in completely blind. We’re going to get our asses handed to us.”
“This is the mission, Kristine,” Cort said. “You didn’t sign up to drink piña coladas on a beach. You agreed to do what you have to do when you have to do it.”
“This isn’t a mission,” Kristine shot back. “This is running into a brick wall with a blindfold on.”
“Tell me something, all of you,” Ghaznavi said. “Do you think that I would be willing to risk a boots-on-the-ground operation not only inside the country but practically inside the Beltway if the need was not dire? Do you think I would send someone else if there were someone else to send? You are this nation’s beating black heart. You are the ones who wash the dirty laundry. If I had more to give you, I would give it to you, but I don’t.”
“Why are the monster thingies kept in refrigerated cells?” Sharon asked.
“They’re dead,” Schweitzer answered. “Keeps them from rotting.”
“So . . . zombie monsters.” Sharon smiled. “I feel like I’m dreaming.”
“You’re not dreaming,” Ghaznavi said. “This isn’t the first time you’ve faced something new and unpleasant. You’ll have total surprise. James will lead you to the control hub and you’ll get the facility secured. From there on in, it’ll be a shoot house.”
“Shithouse, more like it,” Kristine muttered.
“Anyone wants out, say the word,” Ghaznavi said. “I’ll find replacements. No strikes against you; you have my word on that. But I am promising you that if you stick, you will be participating in one of the most important ops this agency has undertaken in the nation’s history.”
Schweitzer smelled adrenaline again, but judging from the flush of their cheeks and the light in their eyes, it wasn’t from fear this time.
“Anybody out?” Reeves asked.
Silence.
“All right,” Reeves said. “Let’s get underway. We can talk more in the truck.”
• • •
The truck was white, painted with the logo of the Centers for Disease Control. An orange light bar was mounted across the top. The operators were crammed inside, four to a bench, Reeves and Schweitzer closest to the exit. Empty weapon racks were bolted to the walls over their heads. The actual weapons were packed into hard black plastic cases on the floor. All of the operators wore fluorescent yellow hazmat suits, bulky enough to conceal their tac vests and go-bags, ammunition and trauma kits, grenades, zip ties, and lock cutters. CDC—BIOHAZARD RESPONSE TEAM was stenciled across the back of each one.
The operators’ heartbeats were steady, only a slight elevation in the adrenaline content of their blood indicating their excitement over the coming op. They looked locked-on. Schweitzer hoped it was enough.
“Lay it out for us one more time,” Reeves said.
Schweitzer gestured at the crude map sketched out on the tablet computer. “Straight through the lobby, T intersection. Left wing leads through to the control room. The walls will be studded with freeze and burn nozzles. The cold jets pump liquid nitrogen. The others pump . . . fire, I guess. Not sure about the ignition mechanism. You can tell the difference between them by sight. Burners have pilot lights. Freezers will have frost on them.”
“What are they for?” Sharon asked, her eyes narrowing.
“The monsters,” Schweitzer said. “They’re precious, so they want to freeze them if they get loose. If that fails, they go to the burn. Those nozzles can turn a hallway into an icebox or a volcano at the touch of a button.”
“How the fuck are we supposed to get through that?
” Sharon asked.
“Because they’re not expecting us,” Schweitzer said. “And by the time they figure out we’re there, we’ll have our fingers on those buttons.”
“These monsters are as bad as you say?” Sharon asked.
“Worse,” Schweitzer admitted, “but they’ll be locked in their cells, and once we have the control room, that’s where they’ll stay.”
“What if you’re wrong?” Reeves asked.
Schweitzer didn’t answer.
“Jesus fucking Christ.” Sharon shook her head.
“Lock it up,” Reeves said. “We’ve been through worse.”
“We’ve been through better,” Kristine added.
“Two minutes,” Ghaznavi’s voice came over the commlink in each of their ears. Schweitzer felt the truck shudder as it downshifted. His augmented ears could hear other vehicles in the distance, the soft clicking of their flashing lights. Emergency vehicles cordoning off the area, making sure that no civilians wandered onto the raid site. Schweitzer could only imagine the superhuman effort that Senator Hodges was even now expending to manage the rest of the op, massaging the news and media, making sure the story of a possible biohazard was making its way into the local rumor mill, with agents telling tales at nearby watering holes.
The team stood, moving to stack on the doors, then abruptly realizing they were supposed to be infectious-disease responders, not killers. They milled around uncertainly, looking askance at Reeves. “Act natural,” he offered. Cort looked up, incredulous, and Schweitzer could hear him clearing his throat to speak when the truck shuddered to a halt and the doors swung open, letting the lights from the parking lot flood in.
The team picked up the weapons cases and jumped down to the asphalt. They were in a broad parking lot bathed in harsh white sodium light wavering as insects battered themselves against the glowing tubes. A few cars were parked, silent and dark, between stubs of white lines.
A squat, featureless black building stood at the parking lot’s far end, the smooth, reflective surface broken only by a pair of double glass doors. ENTERTECH/PHASE III, INC., frosted letters painted across the glass, SERVING THOSE WHO SERVE. A stainless steel mail slot was punched into the doorframe at foot level and a small half dome of a camera was mounted at the top. Otherwise, there was nothing.
