Patient Zero

by Jonathan Maberry

  “Last time I saw them was when we stopped to refuel. I left the plane for five minutes. When I came back, they’d been replaced with our friend here.”

  My heart stopped.

  “Are they alive?”

  Ledger nodded. “For now. But if we don’t do what this asshole says, that could change at any time.”

  I had a million questions, but enough common sense to not ask any of them other than, “What about Jack?”

  The man with the gun sneered at me. “There’s been a change of pilots, too, hon. Now get up.” He jerked the barrel of his gun at me.

  I looked longingly at my katana and M4, both propped against the seat next to me, and the man shook his head. “Don’t even think about it, sweetheart. Besides, you don’t wanna be lugging all that shit when you jump.”

  “C’mon, Ash.” Ledger helped me to my feet. For the first time I noticed he had a parachute strapped to his back.

  “You’ve got to be kidding me.” I looked at Ledger, hoping against hope this was some really over-the-top macho fraternity-type hazing.

  He shook his head again. “He’s not joking.”

  “But I’ve never skydived before,” I said, as though that would make a difference.

  Asshat laughed and said, “Time for a crash course, hon. And you’d better hurry ’cause you crazy kids are running out of time. You jump in the next minute and you’ve still got a thousand feet of airspace to deploy. Every minute you waste, you lose a hundred feet. Wait five minutes and I figure you two’ll be lawn darts when you hit the ground.”

  This had to be a nightmare.

  “Where’s my chute?”

  Ledger said, “We’ve only got one chute.”

  My heart raced, the sound pounding in my ears like bongos played by a meth-head. “No, really.”

  “Hey, if you’ve never done this before, you’re better off this way.” Asshat smirked at me. “You guys get a chance to get all close and personal right off the bat.”

  Both Ledger and I shot the man the bird simultaneously. First thing we’d agreed on since we’d met.

  Asshat gestured us to the side with the gun. “You’ve just lost a hundred feet.”

  Fuck fuck fuck.

  I looked up at Ledger. “You’ve done this before, right?”

  “Yeah. Not a big fan, but I’ll do my best.”

  “Hey, I’ll try not to barf on you on the way down if you get us there safely.” I tried to keep my voice from shaking, but failed miserably.

  Ledger put a hand on my shoulder. “Okay. This is a BA-18 parachute. It sacrifices comfort for quick opening. In other words, there’s gonna be a jolt. You need to be ready for that.”

  “I really don’t wanna die,” I whispered.

  “You won’t. Wrap your arms around me and hook them through the harness. Hold on as tight as you can.”

  I did as he said, looping my hands and wrists around the chute harness as tightly as possible. My stomach lurched.

  “Eight hundred feet.”

  Oh, for the chance to wipe the grin off the bastard’s face … with an extra-strong Brillo pad.

  “You’re gonna have to jump with me.” Ledger’s tone was quiet yet urgent. “When it’s time to jump, don’t make me drag you. We’re gonna need to get the chute open ASAP, which means we need to work together. Hold on tight, try not to panic, and we’ll make it okay.”

  “Promise?”

  “As much as I can.”

  The asshat with the gun gestured at Ledger. “Open the door.”

  “What? You’re not gonna give us valet service?”

  “Funny guy. Oh, yeah. Here. You’ll need this.” He tossed what looked like a small black cell phone at Ledger, who caught it easily and pocketed it after a brief glance.

  The pounding of my heart almost drowned the sound of the wind when Ledger opened the door. The plane bounced as wind flooded the cabin, increasing the turbulence. I tried not to look at the carpet of greenery some eight hundred feet below.

  “Seven hundred.”

  Fine. Seven hundred feet below. But I couldn’t help looking. Trees, lots of them, interspersed with splashes of aqua and brown.

  “God, I don’t want to do this.”

  I didn’t realize I’d spoken out loud until Ledger gave me a reassuring squeeze with one arm.

  “Look at the bright side,” he said into my ear so only I could hear him.

  “There’s a bright side?”

  “He’s not making us use a raft.”

  I gave a choked laugh. I hated Temple of Doom. “If you call me Willie, I will kill you.”

  Joe looked at me. “You ready?”

  “No fucking way.” I took a deep breath, then exhaled. “Let’s go.”

  “Good.”

  “Six hundred feet.” Asshat tapped his wrist in a time’s a-wasting gesture.

  Ledger tossed a salute toward Asshat and shouted, “Nice try, Lao Che!”

  My laugh turned into a scream of terror as we jumped.

  Ever been on one of those rides at an amusement park where you wait in line for an hour and then are basically hurtling to the ground in free fall?

  This was so much worse.

  At least I didn’t pay money for it, though, right?

  I kept my eyes squeezed shut and held on for all I was worth, which, considering my wild-card strength, was worth quite a bit. Even so, when the chute deployed, the jolt nearly dislodged my grip. I managed to keep hold of the harness as we resumed our drop at a somewhat more leisurely pace.

  Maybe we’ll live through this after all, I thought, clinging to Ledger like a baby koala with separation anxiety.

  Then we hit the canopy of trees. Branches whipped against my back, legs, and arms. It stung even through the fabric of my shirt and pants. I kept my face buried against Ledger’s chest to avoid getting an eye poked out.

  Then our descent stopped with a bone-rattling suddenness. Something wrenched my right arm with white-hot pain and the back of my head collided with something hard—

  And the lights went out.

  * * *

  I woke up to a throbbing pain in my right arm, a headache, and the all-too-familiar sound of moaning as something pawed at my feet.

  If it’s Tuesday, it must be zombies.

  I opened my eyes slowly, waiting for the initial wave of dizziness to subside before checking out my surroundings.

  I was sprawled over a branch, my right arm still wrapped around Joe, who dangled from the parachute canopy spread out in the tree limbs above us. My wrist was still entwined in the harness and the weight of Joe’s inert form threatened to dislocate my shoulder.

  I carefully extricated myself and took stock of my situation.

  Head. Aching, but no double vision or residual dizziness.

  Arm. Sore, but nothing that would slow me down if I needed to use it.

  Attitude. In dire need of an adjustment.

  Sense of humor. MIA.

  I looked toward the ground, where a half dozen extra-gooey and rapidly decaying zombies gathered beneath us, flesh oozing off the bones in the tropical heat.

  One of the zoms, a tall, skinny one wearing nothing but the tattered remains of blue board shorts, kept batting at my dangling feet. Thankfully it fell short an inch or so from being able to get a good grip and pull either of us down.

  “No lunch for you,” I growled, and pulled my feet up.

  Sweat trickled down my forehead and in between my breasts under the Kevlar. The humidity was through the roof, and the temperature, even in the shade, had to be in the upper nineties. My ears buzzed and at first I thought it was a side effect from the fall. Then I recognized the sound of insects.

  Lots of them.

  “And people pay to come here on holiday?”

  “Most people stay in nice villas or hotels by the beach.”

  I turned back to Joe, who was now awake and evidently nonplussed at being treed above a bunch of zombies. He rubbed the back of his head.

  “You oka
y?” I asked.

  “I’ll live,” he said. “You?”

  “I am profoundly grateful to not be a red smear on the ground about now,” I replied. I paused and then added, “Thank you.”

  He grinned. “Thanks for not barfing on me.”

  Something chirped in one of his pockets. He pulled out the little black rectangle Asshat had tossed him before we’d jumped.

  “Is it a phone?” I asked hopefully.

  Joe shook his head. “Looks like some kind of a GPS device. A little more high-tech than your typical geocaching gadget.”

  “That’s the adult version of a treasure hunt, right?”

  “Yup. And it looks like someone’s sending us on one.” He pointed to two black dots on the screen. “This is us.” His finger indicated a set of coordinates. “And that’s whatever we’re supposed to find. Looks to be in the general vicinity.

  “Gotta get down from here and past this bunch first.”

  I smiled and patted the tanto, still sheathed across my chest. “Allow me to show you what I learned in my two months in the field.”

  * * *

  It didn’t take me long to clear out the zombies. They were in pretty crappy shape, what with the hot and humid climate, and they stank to hell and back.

  Joe let me do my job without argument. When I’d finished the last zombie, he climbed down from the tree. He looked around and gave a nod. “Good job.”

  I shrugged, trying to hide my pleasure at his approval.

  He looked at the GPS and set off on a rough trail of sorts through the overgrowth. I followed, still holding my tanto while keeping my eyes on the ground and my ears open for the moans of the walking dead. For the time being, though, all I heard was a gentle chorus of frogs mixed with the ever-present buzzing of insects, punctuated by the occasional bird and monkey call. A black-and-yellow snake slithered across the path and a line of leaf-cutter ants scurried back and forth on a branch, carrying sections of leaves four or five times their size. Large flowers splashed vibrant colors against the green-and-brown background of the jungle.

  The whole effect was kind of cool and even pretty, but the heat and humidity were soul-crushing, and there was no shortage of mosquitoes and flies attracted to the sweat now streaming down my face, neck, chest, and back.

  “It’s like the Tiki Room at Disneyland,” I commented as we walked. “Except in hell.”

  Joe snorted, then gave a satisfied grunt. “Here we are.”

  A tangle of colorful flowering vines mostly covered a large white sealed bucket. Upon closer inspection, it proved to be a detergent container, probably purchased at Costco.

  Joe studied it for a minute, then reached into the tangle of vines and pulled it out by its metal handle. He popped the top off to reveal two bottled waters, two protein bars. Joe held up the bars with a disgusted look. “Atkins?”

  “Well, yay for our waistlines.”

  He checked the bottles, then tossed me one. The seal was still intact. I twisted the lid off and sniffed the contents, then took a sip.

  Pure, sweet bottled water.

  Joe raised a dubious eyebrow as I munched happily on one of the peanut-butter chocolate bars. “You like this shit?”

  I shrugged. “I went through the whole no-carbs phase when my ex told me I needed to lose twenty pounds. I kind of developed a taste for these.”

  “Your ex is an asshole.”

  “I won’t argue that point.”

  The GPS starting beeping again.

  “Another set of coordinates,” Joe said.

  “Maybe this time it’ll be pizza and Coke.”

  * * *

  We walked for another hour or so without talking, the effort of forging through the thick foliage and uneven terrain using most of our spare oxygen. The ground was covered with roots, ferns, and all sorts of plant life, some of which were equipped with sharp thorns. I tried not to think of snakes and spiders hanging from the ever-present tree limbs.

  Honestly, this is a vacation destination?

  I guess if one could toss out the crocs, mosquitoes, and such and just focus on the admittedly gorgeous butterflies and assorted birds and mammals, it was kind of understandable. But the heat alone was enough to make it a no-go for me. Give me fog and redwoods any day.

  Sweat dripped down my forehead, my back, and in between my breasts. The heat was brutal, and even though I tried to make my bottled water last I found myself down to the last inch in what seemed like no time.

  “You should save some of that,” Joe cautioned.

  I knew he was right, but I was so damn thirsty I didn’t care. Still, I capped the bottle, leaving that last precious inch inside.

  The GPS beeped. Joe studied the coordinates and led us through an impossibly thick grove of large-leafed trees that brought to mind dinosaurs. The smell was thick and vegetal, with an underlying tang of decay wafting from the ground. Our feet crunched on mulched leaves, dying flowers, and—

  My right foot punched through something, the impact releasing an odor I was way too familiar with.

  Ah yes, dead zombie.

  “That’s just nasty,” Joe said.

  I pulled my foot out of a female zombie’s abdomen, the flesh falling off my boot like pulled pork after a day in a slow cooker. It wore the remains of a peasant skirt and tank top. Its eyes were still open, milky corneas sunken into yellowed, blood-streaked whites. One of the signatures of Walker’s. A single gunshot wound punctured its forehead.

  I wondered who’d shot it way out here in the middle of Cannibal Holocaust territory. Before I could say anything, the GPS got mouthy again and Joe pointed toward a tree a few feet behind me, where another white bucket hung suspended from a low-hanging branch.

  “I’ll get this one.”

  I stepped toward the bucket, feeling something brush against my ankle.

  Three things happened at once.

  Joe yelled my name.

  A rotted hand clutched my shin and I slammed down hard on my hands and knees. My tanto skittered off a few feet away.

  Something swept over me with a whooshing sound and slammed into the tree in front of me, where it stuck.

  The owner of the rotted hand gave a plaintive moan. I looked down and saw another gooey zombie, a female, in the remnants of what was once probably a very expensive white linen dress. Maggots wriggled happily inside three large puncture wounds in its chest. It reached for me, gaping mouth releasing several buzzing flies.

  Just when I thought things couldn’t get any grosser or more stinky.

  I used my free leg and shoved the thing away with one kick of my booted foot, retrieved my tanto, and put it out of my misery.

  * * *

  The cache itself looked harmless enough. It sat in the middle of a clearing on top of a log. Just a wooden crate latched shut.

  Further investigation showed no trip wires and no Rube Goldberg–type booby traps. I still didn’t trust it.

  “What do you think?” I asked Joe.

  He gave the crate a sharp rap on the top with his knuckles and was answered by a muffled moan.

  We looked at each other, and then Joe kicked the crate off the log with enough force to splinter the lid and disengage the latch. The crate landed on its side, the lid bouncing open to disgorge the contents.

  A head rolled out onto the ground along with a few oblong objects wrapped in plastic. Several large, disgruntled tarantulas scurried out as well. I swear one of them hissed at us before skittering into the undergrowth.

  The head came to a stop, facing us. Impossible to tell if it had been a man or a woman when alive, it had a half-eaten tarantula in its mouth, several hairy legs drooping over the zombie head’s chin.

  No wonder the others had been so pissed off.

  I put a blade through the head’s brainpan and picked up one of the plastic-wrapped items.

  “Twinkies?”

  Joe and I looked at each other.

  “Oh, come on.” He shook his head. “Think someone’s seen Zomb
ieland a few times?”

  “I hate Twinkies,” I said glumly.

  “Cool. I’ll be Tennessee and you can be Cleveland. ’Cause, y’know, I like Twinkies and I’m sensing you can be a bit of a bitch.”

  I was about to retort but noticed something sticking out of the crate. “Hey, there’s something else in there.”

  Joe took a look and gave a little whoop. “Now we’re talking!” He reached down and plucked the object from the crate.

  “What is it?”

  “A KA-BAR.” He held up a leather-sheathed knife that had to be more than a foot long, including the handle. “This’ll come in handy.”

  Thunder cracked and suddenly the skies opened up to release a torrential downpour. The kind of rain that fell in sheets rather than drops and made it impossible to see more than a few feet in front of you. I held my water bottle out for a free refill and enjoyed the feel of the rain sluicing the sweat and dirt from my hair and body. Joe did the same, but only after retrieving the Twinkies and squirreling them away in his pockets.

  * * *

  The rain stopped as suddenly as it had started. Joe and I trekked through more jungle in what was now an oddly companionable silence, listening to the ever-present sounds of birds, monkeys, and frogs, along with the occasional zombie moan and the now familiar beeping of the GPS.

  It was only about fifteen minutes before the beeping sped up.

  “I think we’re close,” Joe observed.

  “You think?”

  “That’s sarcasm, right?”

  I grinned. “Ya think?”

  The beeping sped up, like R2-D2 on speed.

  “Definitely hot.”

  I followed Joe as he followed the GPS into a grove of what I thought were banyan trees, with big arched roots that vanished into brackish, brown water. A river.

  Joe knelt on a patch of damp earth and examined a dark burrow at the base of a large banyan. The roots looked like some Cthulhian nightmare, wood tentacles intertwined and frozen in midwrithe.

  “You really gonna stick your hand in there?” I peered dubiously into the dark hole, visions of Peter Jackson’s version of the insect life on Skull Island dancing in my head.

  Joe must have had similar visions because he pulled out his KA-BAR.

  After unsheathing it, he poked the business end of the blade into the hole, immediately rewarded with a sharp metallic sound. Nothing squealed, hissed, or moaned. This was a good thing.