Zero Hour: Book 1 in the Thrilling Post-Apocalyptic Survival Series: (Zero Hour - Book 1)

by Justin Bell

  Slipping the backpack off his shoulders, he let it fall to the floor, then shoved it against the wall, the sheathed sword clattering against the sheet rock and the shotgun. His eyes fixated on the bag for a moment, the ridiculousness of it. It was the same backpack he’d brought to every business trip, a container for folded clothes and toiletries. Yet here it was, holding a sword and a shotgun, and real life was suddenly swirling around him in a fog of confusion and abstract. He needed sleep. He needed food. And finally he was at a place where he could have both.

  ***

  The helicopter had touched down just south of a plush golf course north of Quincy, a strange mixture of wilderness and urban sprawl. Broderick and Davis led the team down Harvard Street, a heavily populated residential area, moving in the shadows and drifting from house to house and tree to tree, trying to remain concealed so as not to alarm any residents. Davis insisted on taking the lead alongside Broderick in the event that another attack spun up out of nowhere.

  They needn’t have worried. As strangely silent as the city of Boston had been, Quincy was a ghost town, nearly every street empty, almost every window dark, looking more like a facade of a town built as a Hollywood set and not currently being used for filming. The only thing that identified this place as real, was the persistent presence of death, either a scattering of corpses or a certain smell in the air.

  “I don’t like this,” Sergeant Davis hissed, making his way up next to Broderick. The entire team was walking silently, a sense of confusion and shock permeating the entire group. None of them knew how to process Major Chaboth’s death, and in fact none of them had processed it, not yet, not now, less than an hour later. It had come from nowhere and had been wholly unexpected, a sudden explosion of violence from both sides resulting in four dead bodies and no sense of comfort whatsoever. They’d come to the city to try to stop an outbreak. Major Joan Chaboth had been gunned down for her trouble. Davis continued to clutch his M4 in two hands, walking steadily along the edge of the road, eyes in a constant state of alert behind the rounded goggles of the filtration mask.

  “I don’t think any of us do,” replied Broderick. “Everything about this feels wrong. Not just the Major’s death, but everything.”

  “This whole city should have been quarantined six hours ago. We screwed the pooch.”

  “Someone did,” Broderick replied. “But maybe, just maybe we can make something good come of this.”

  Engines roared up ahead and Broderick gestured wildly, rushing Team Ten off the road and into the shadows of trees lining the side of the road between the street and the houses. Two trucks passed by, old pick ups, engines rattling, but headlights off, disappearing into the darkness. Team Ten made their way out of the shadows and back onto the road, heading toward the market.

  “Less than a mile,” Broderick whispered. “Let’s pick it up, Team, and figure out just what the heck is going on here.”

  Dalton Smith looked over at Katherine Felding as they brought up the rear. Smith held a metal case attached to a curved handle which felt heavier and heavier every step he took. Felding had a large duffle bag slung over one shoulder, her M4 Carbine resting on top between the canvas handles, her hand cradling it.

  “What is going on here?” Smith asked, glancing at Felding as they walked.

  “You tell me, maybe we’ll both know.”

  Smith looked over at her through narrowed eyes as if trying to gauge her response.

  “What do you think about what went down back there?”

  Felding looked down at the road, her breath sounding rough and synthesized through the filters in her mask.

  “I respected Major Chaboth. Without her trailblazing, I don’t know if I’d be where I am. I think Broderick should have let Davis put about eight holes in that last guy.”

  “Right? We’re here trying to save lives.”

  “Why do you think they did it?”

  Smith shrugged. “Who knows. People go crazy in the middle of a crisis. Could be any number of things.”

  “Is that what this is?” asked Felding. “A crisis? That feels like an understatement.”

  Smith looked out ahead, watching their small team in yellow containment suits walking down one of the streets of Quincy, Massachusetts. There were no other people visible, limited lighting, and zero traffic on the road. There was nothing about this that said “crisis.” This was straight on end-of-the-world stuff.

  “Hold up,” Felding said quietly, gesturing toward the lawn of a house. Smith halted. “Broderick!” Felding yelled. “We’ve got a body!”

  Broderick turned and saw where she was pointing, then walked over that way, the rest of the group following behind. Indeed, there was the slumped form of a body on the grass next to one of the quiet single-floor residences. It was lying face down, one arm tucked in tight to its side, the other out at an angle.

  “Provlov, Randolph,” Broderick whispered, waving to two of the men. They obeyed him and converged on the rest of the team, then pushed past Broderick and approached the body. Randolph crouched low, tucking his fingers to the body’s neck, then looked up at Broderick, shaking his head to confirm the lack of a pulse.

  Working with Provlov, they gently tipped the body up and then over. It was a male, his face frightened and strained, eyes peeled wide, mouth partly open as if trying to form the words. His chin was covered in dried rust, and he was missing several teeth from the front of his mouth.

  “We don’t have time to linger too long,” Broderick whispered. “Take a sample and let’s keep moving. We gotta get to ground zero.”

  Provlov looked up. “Is it ground zero?” he asked. “Do we know that?”

  Broderick didn’t reply.

  “The dude back there mentioned people stumbling out of a drug store in the city. Miles north of here. Reports we heard were that everyone in the store was dead, with the exception of one young girl. Do you really think she carried it all the way into downtown?”

  Broderick considered Provlov’s words. “What are you saying?”

  “I’m saying either this was a multi-pronged attack, or it didn’t start in the market at all. It started somewhere else.”

  “What you’re saying makes sense,” replied Broderick. “But I think we still need to check out that store. That seems like an important piece of this puzzle. We can only control what we can control, and those are our orders.”

  Provlov nodded, withdrawing the syringe and sliding it into a containment bag. He sealed it in a secondary container and placed it in an oversized pouch on his vest.

  “We’re here,” shouted Sergeant Davis, a block and a half ahead of everyone else. “The store is right up here.”

  Broderick looked at Provlov again, some invisible acknowledgement passing between them.

  “All right, Team Ten,” he said quietly. “Let’s do this.”

  ***

  He felt like a new man as he walked from the bathroom, running a towel through the thick tufts of dark hair. Blue jeans were pulled up to his waist and he wore a dark t-shirt as he worked through drying off his hair and face. The towel caught on the rough stubble of his five o’clock shadow, but he didn’t want to take the time to shave; that felt like a luxury the building’s generator shouldn’t be expected to supply. Tossing the towel over onto the ratty old couch, Jackson walked over toward a side table where a cordless phone sat on its charger, thankfully the narrow red light still lit courtesy of the generator.

  He wondered if the building owners even knew the generator was powering the place and wondered still if the gas being used to power it might be better served somewhere else.

  As he thought these things, he punched the keys on the phone, scooping the handset to his ear. Muscle memory controlled his fingers as he pressed each key, his heart picking up speed with each number.

  The headset chimed with the phone ringing on the other side, and he tensed every muscle in his arm, not daring to breathe.

  “Hello?”

  He opened his m
outh, voice choking in his throat.

  “Hello? Jackson? Is that you?”

  “Lisa?” he said softly.

  “My God, Jackson! Where have you been? What’s going on up there? I’ve been worried sick, I couldn’t get through on your cell phone!”

  “It’s good to hear your voice,” he said, turning and leaning back against the wall. Every trauma he’d seen that day, every second of fearing for his life, the near death in the plane crash, every moment leading up to right now suddenly hit him like a ten-ton weight settling onto his shoulders. Pressing the phone tight to his ear, he slid slowly down the wall into a seated position, lowering his chin and closing his eyes.

  “Things are wrong, Jack. Everything is… wrong. The news is saying that people have been falling ill. Dropping dead. The whole country. I don’t even know—”

  “Shhh, I know, Lisa. I know. I mean, I haven’t exactly had a chance to kick back and watch the news, but if Boston is any indication, things are awful out there.”

  There was a moment of silence from the other end, the low hiss of static on copper phone lines, his fiancée’s uneven breathing. “Are you okay, Jackson?”

  “I… I’m okay,” he replied.

  “You don’t sound okay.”

  “It’s been a day and a half.”

  “But you’re safe?”

  He looked up into the ceiling from where he sat. “Safe as can be expected I suppose. I’m in my apartment right now. Generator’s running. At least it’s not winter.”

  “The things they’re saying on the news. Plane crashes? People sick? Is that all true? Are you sure you’re safe?”

  “I’m safe, yes. At least for the moment, but I’ve gotta get out of the city. There was a plane crash. I saw it from the Cessna. I was flying back in from the trip to North Carolina.”

  “That must have been horrible.”

  “It wasn’t fun.”

  “What can I do?” Lisa’s voice was fluttering dangerously close to panic on the other side of the line.

  “Nothing, honey, okay? Just stay where you are and stay safe. I’m going to find my way out of here and get to Connecticut. I’m going to come find you, and I’ll be damned if I ever come back here again.”

  “If what they’re saying is true… about the sick people and the fires, are they going to let you out? Sick people are everywhere. I’m sure Connecticut is crawling with them, too.”

  “I’ll get out. I’ll have to.”

  “Okay. I’ll be here. I’m at my mom’s house. I figure you knew I’d be here, which is why you called.”

  “Can’t get through anywhere on cell. Had to try the land line.”

  “Promise you’ll be safe?”

  “Yeah. I’m going to grab a couple hours of sleep. I’m beyond exhausted and I think the damage has been done. I’ll come to you shortly, okay? Hopefully see you in the morning.”

  “Okay, Jack. I love you.”

  “Love you, too.”

  He hung up the phone and held it to his chest as he sat there leaning against the wall, as if his fiancée was trapped within it and he was embracing her, not cheap plastic and metal. For three solid minutes he sat there, the energy to move simply gone from his body, a husk, just a shell, sitting there, unmoving.

  Looking over toward the bedroom, he pushed his palm against the wall and forced himself upright, then turned and walked toward the hall leading to his bed and hopefully his first moment of peace in a very trying day.

  ***

  The small shop was even worse than Broderick feared it would be. From the description of the mystery caller who called it in, he knew it was a small mom and pop store, and figured there were likely only a few customers, but as they had stepped through the door twenty minutes previously, the bodies had been everywhere. At least a dozen of them all told, he figured, and two of them were actually slumped on the floor right near the entrance. He’d stepped carefully over them to make his way deeper into the shop, and the rest of the team had followed suit, all of them bizarrely fascinated by the scene.

  That had been twenty minutes ago, and they’d spent those twenty minutes setting up shop.

  Smith unfolded the thick metal case he’d been carrying, which assembled into a portable analyzer and computer workstation. Felding pulled some analysis gear out of her own duffel bag, setting everything up on the checkout counter. Syringes had been used to gather blood samples from a scattering of the corpses and Provlov stood at the computer console, his fingers tapping in keystrokes, breaking down the samples into their core genetic components. One of the benefits of Team Ten and their black operations budget was that they were allowed to play with some of the latest next generation tools, and their multi-faceted portable genetics laboratory was a system that Broderick and Provlov had helped the CDC develop. In exchange, they were allowed unfettered access to the prototypes.

  “Anything good yet?” Broderick asked, walking up to Provlov as he leaned forward, peering out through the oval goggles in his mask. The world was a sauna, even in late November, the smoke and fire of Boston turning the New England city into a sweltering hot box, not helped by the thick layers of protective clothing everyone was wearing.

  “Still processing,” Provlov replied. “We had only a few minutes to replicate local copies of the genome database, so we had to pick and choose. Access to full maps is impossible without a live internet connection.”

  “You don’t have to explain the limitations to me,” Broderick replied. “I get it. But you know what’s at stake.”

  “Humanity is at stake, right?” barked Felding, her voice a sharp edge.

  “There a problem, Corporal?” Broderick asked, taking a step toward her.

  “Only that a possible infected carrier was allowed to run loose back into the city.”

  “I made a judgment call,” Broderick replied.

  “A judgment call that might doom everyone in Boston,” Smith said.

  “Relax, Smith,” said Provlov. “I mean, if the rumors are true, whatever this is may just be rampaging the entire United States. One potential carrier is like swatting a single mosquito to stop malaria.”

  Broderick looked at the two of them, then noticed Davis standing a short distance behind them, his weapon still held tightly in two hands.

  “He’s right,” Broderick replied. “You heard the reports. People dying in New Jersey and Pennsylvania. A super flu in New Hampshire. This thing is already out of control. We went from zero to sixty in microseconds, all right? What was I supposed to do, gun the guy down in the street?”

  “He’s as good as dead, anyway,” Quiver interjected from the next aisle over. “He’d probably be a lot happier with a bullet in the head than slowly coughing his lungs into jelly.”

  Broderick’s eyes scanned everyone else in the room, all of them scattered about the small store, moving through aisles, checking corpses, taking samples. Suddenly he felt like one man against ten. Chaboth had taken a bullet and suddenly everything had fallen apart. Was the structure of Team Ten truly that fragile? He hadn’t thought so.

  “Hey, Broderick,” Dalton Smith said, stepping toward him.

  “Speak to me.”

  Smith gestured toward the upper corner of the store and Broderick followed his finger. There was a small, dark colored globe perched in the corner, reflecting lightly in the low glow.

  “What is it?”

  “Security camera,” Smith replied. “Low budget by the looks, but I’m betting it ties back to a workstation or a server in the back room.”

  “Find it,” said Broderick. “Grab whatever hard drives you can find. Don’t waste time looking at it, just grab ‘em.”

  Smith nodded and pulled away, turning to walk toward the back room.

  “We’ve got something here,” Provlov said this time, looking at Broderick from the register.

  Broderick shot one last narrow, gunshot look at the others, then turned and joined the other scientist. “What is it?”

  “Okay, check thi
s out,” Provlov said, his gloved finger stabbing at a red web interspersed with a screen full of blue. “That’s foreign genetic material right there,” he said. “Foreign material mapped to a specific genetic structure.”

  “I’m not following you.”

  “Designer virus, Broderick. This is synthetic DNA right here, an airborne contagion designed to search out these exact genetic markers and interweave itself within them.”

  “A genetic weapon?”

  “That’s what it looks like. A contagion programmed to attack a specific set of genomic patterns.”

  “Son of a—”

  “My thoughts exactly.”

  “Any indication about who’s behind it?” Broderick asked, leaning in closer. “Or how else it might spread?”

  “They left no calling cards that I can see, but this is pretty advanced stuff. This isn’t a bunch of ammonia and sulfur whipped up in someone’s backyard shed. We’re talking next generation science fiction here.”

  Broderick used his own finger to trace through some of the multicolored webs rendered in three-dimensional imaging on the laptop screen.

  “Airborne you said?”

  “Gotta be,” Provlov replied. “The synthetic is designed to mesh into the lung wall. It would have to be breathed in.”

  “How specific is the targeting on this thing? How far could this possibly spread?”

  Provlov looked over at him. “Hard to say. If it’s targeting small differences in gene expressions it could take us weeks or more to figure it out.”

  “Give me a gut check here, Provlov.”

  “We’ve taken samples from everyone here and run a preliminary analysis. So far we’re not seeing huge differences, which makes sense. Small places like this tend to do a bit of self-selection in terms of the visitors, and everyone here is more or less the same.”

  “Everyone?”

  Provlov nodded.