by John Ringo
He hung up the phone and looked at the wall thoughtfully.
“Problems?”
“Roll the full tac team to level B-9, section forty-two,” Durante said, standing up carefully. “Loaded for bear. And I mean right GOD DAMNED NOW!”
Then he hit the door running . . .
* * *
When Tom got there it was all over but the flex-cuffing. Faith was still up on the air-handler, wrapping a bandage around her thumb, and there were nine, count ’em, nine zombies, male and female, on the floor. At least two, considering the cranial damage, involved the blood-splattered crowbar resting next to her.
The security team wasn’t bothering to flex-cuff those.
“Hey, Uncle Tom,” Faith said in a mixture of nervous and cheerful voice. “Did you know your basement was absolutely overrun with zombies? I didn’t.”
“Wasn’t really aware,” Tom said carefully. “Need to talk with Brad from building security about that. Faith . . . aren’t you supposed to be up in the filing room?”
“Yeah,” Faith said. “About that. Filing’s not really my thing. And with the bad thumb and all . . .” she said, holding up the appendage.
* * *
“Hi,” Faith said, hanging her head. “I’m Faith. I’m supposed to help with the mail . . .”
* * *
“Uh-oh,” Steve said, watching the approaching boat.
The anchorage they were in was designated open. They weren’t in a channel or anything. It was an out-of-the-way spot on the Hudson on the Manhattan side. But Harbor Patrol seemed to want to stop by.
“Stacey, police visit,” Tom yelled through the hatch. He’d had watch.
“Roger,” Stacey said. She quickly picked up the ready weapons, two Saiga shotguns, two pistols and an M4 semi-automatic carbine, and began emptying them. That was simply a matter of dropping the magazines and storing them. Then she proceeded to lock all the weapons in their containers.
By the time the boat pulled alongside, everything was locked down. And she and Steve were both in respirators with nitrile gloves on.
“Harbor Patrol,” the loudspeaker boomed from the small trawler. “Permission to come aboard for health and safety inspection . . .”
“Granted,” Tom said shouted. It was muffled so he waved for them to board. Not the best way to talk to police, wearing respirators, but they’d managed to avoid the flu so far, and the vaccine wouldn’t yet have taken hold. “Stacey, paperwork?”
“On it,” Stacey said, shoving the last pistol case into a locker and locking that.
“Good afternoon, sir,” the lead officer of the two-man team said. His name tag read: Torres. They were clearly bothered by the respirators, but they were wearing nitrile gloves. “First question, are there any weapons on board?”
“Yes, officer,” Steve said. The two officers’ body language went immediately to “defensive.” “We’re an associate security contractor for one of the onshore banks. We have quite a few weapons on board for that reason.”
“Contractors,” Officer Torres growled. “Great. Just flipping great.”
“May we use a certain amount of discretion in the conversation?” Steve asked.
“Anything you say we’re required to restate if so asked,” the officer said.
“Discretion in that is all I’m asking,” Steve said, grinning. “We’re a back-up jump plan for some executives. In the event that things get bad enough that protection from law enforcement breaks down, the weapons are for protection of the executives.”
“How many?” Torres asked.
“With the weapons and ammunition, I’m sure you’d use the term ‘arsenal,’” Steve said, smiling again. Stacey handed him the paperwork for the weapons as well as the stamped form that they had registered as security contractors in and for the State and City of New York. The form included a list of all registered weapons ammunition and “paramilitary equipment.”
“Jesus Christ,” Torres said. “Arsenal is right. You can’t have all this stuff sitting in the harbor!”
“Included in the paperwork is my BATF FFL license,” Steve said calmly. “As well as my certification as a Class III firearms instructor, tactical firearms instructor and law of weapons instructor. My wife is a tactical firearms instructor as well and is a reserve Virginia police officer. This is not meant to be offensive, Officer Torres, but I teach police officers. Part-time anyway.”
“In Virginia,” his partner said.
“I once taught a class for some of your NYPD SWAT people,” Steve said. “A Lieutenant . . . Hansen comes to mind?”
“You mean Captain Hansen?” Torres asked, suspiciously. “Out of the One-Thirty-Second?”
“Five-ten, two hundred?” Steve said. “This was five years ago or so. Weight may have changed. Blue eyes, shaved head. I detected balding . . . Wife’s name . . . Cynthia or something like that? Five years and we only chatted briefly outside of class.”
“Stay where you are?” Torres said, pulling out his cellphone. He walked up to the front of the boat for the conversation.
“How’s it going for you guys?” Steve asked.
“All good, sir,” the officer replied.
“My two daughters are onshore,” Steve said. “They paint a rather lurid picture.”
“Lurid?” the officer said.
“Vivid in color,” Steve said. “Presented in shocking or sensational terms. Sorry, I only instruct in firearms during the summer. The rest of the time I’m a high school history teacher.”
“Got it,” the officer said. “My dad’s a teacher. He used to spend summers and holidays working odd jobs.”
“How’s your family doing?” Steve asked.
“So far, so good,” the officer said, shrugging. “People are scared. I mean, what can you do about a plague?”
Steve tilted his head and tapped the respirator.
“They won’t let us use those,” the officer said, balefully. “I guess . . .” He looked up as Torres came back from the front of the boat.
“Aussie, huh?” Torres said, looking at him oddly. “I thought it was Irish.”
“Australian accent mixed with Southern tends to sound that way,” Steve said, trying not to sigh.
“That’s a buttload of ammo,” Torres said, looking at the paperwork again. “You get a fire onboard and you’re a floating bomb.”
“Which is why we anchored well away from other boats, Officer,” Steve said. “As well as to avoid contamination.”
“Can see you’ve got that down,” Torres said, handing him back the papers. “Those weapons do not go on-shore until all your certifications have been processed, understand? We’ve had too many of you god damned contractors get gun-happy in the City.”
“If it makes you feel any better,” Steve said, “I agree with your opinion of most contractors. They tend to be unprofessional nuts with delusions of grandeur because they can walk around with the big guns. Part-time firearms instructor. Dealt with too many contractor wannabes.”
“The captain said you were a straight shooter,” Torres said. “No pun intended.”
“I’m glad he’s hanging in there,” Steve replied. “I didn’t really keep in touch,” he added with a shrug.
“Not a round of ammo, not a single gun, goes on shore,” Torres repeated. “I take it all your safety gear is complete?”
“Inventory, location and log book,” Steve said, handing over that paperwork.
“Yeah, we’ll—” He started at a honk from the boat.
“If it’s clear, come back,” the captain said over the loudspeaker. “Priority call!”
“Just . . .” Torres said, looking both ways.
“We’re not going to go zombie hunting in your city, Officer,” Steve said. “We’re perfectly content just sitting here.”
Torres shook his head and scrambled back over the side.
“You guys take care,” Steve said, casting off their lines. “And hopefully that takes care of that. I suppose hoping that there w
on’t be any more crises today would be too much?”
CHAPTER 11
“Where’s the usual mailman?” The executive assistant for the manager of Cost Accountancy was a lady in her forties with what Faith mentally dubbed “teacher face.”
Faith sort of preferred being the mail girl to filing. It got her some exercise and she got to meet and talk with people. Of course, half of them asked her why her sister was fighting a zombie. She’d given up trying to explain, which was a bit of a pain. And her thumb still hurt like heck, which was another pain.
“Didn’t show for work,” Faith said, handing over the next set of packages. A lot of it was actually “mail.” FedEx was having trouble with deliveries. “No answer on his cell. H7? Left town? Who knows . . .” She was used to answering that question, too.
“Oh, my God . . .” the executive assistant said, looking at her computer.
“What?” Faith asked, craning over.
“Airplane crash,” the EA said, gesturing at her screen. “Go ahead.” She turned the sound up slightly.
“. . . these images were taken by a cell phone shortly after the crash . . .” the voiceover was saying. The plane had landed in a suburb, and the caption read “Bellefonte, PA.” All that could really be seen was billowing smoke and flame. It didn’t even look like a plane. “FAA reports that based upon the truncated call from the cockpit, one of the pilots may have succumbed to the secondary H7 virus . . . There are no reported survivors on the flight . . .”
“No wonder FedEx isn’t delivering,” Faith said.
“They need to get vaccine distributed,” the assistant said, shaking her head. “This shouldn’t be happening. Where’s the vaccine?”
“Depends on the type,” Faith said, shrugging. “The Pasteur method requires infected material. And it can only come from higher order primates. Since there are only so many Rhesus monkeys in the U.S., there’s not much of a source from that. To do the other type requires growing the proteins. Two months, minimum, to do that. And then . . .”
“That’s not true,” the EA snapped.
“Which part?” Faith said, confused. “I mean, I’ve talked to—”
“It doesn’t take that long to produce vaccine! They’re just stalling because the vaccine companies want to run up the price!”
“They are?” Faith said, still confused. “According to Dr. Curry, you have to build the protein crystal—”
“Young lady,” the EA said, calming down. “I know you think you know what you’re talking about. But this is the fault of the Bush Administration allowing the drug companies to get runaway profits off of pharmaceuticals. They know that if they wait they can ask anything for their vaccine. And it will probably be dangerous to use even then. Vaccines are the cause of autism and allergies in children, another thing that the Bush administration allowed to run rampant. I think this virus was created by the drug companies just to make money. They’re making money hand over fist just with the tranquilizers for those poor infected people.”
“According to the FBI and the CDC, it appears to have been one person,” Faith said, mulishly. “They’ve tracked the spread.”
“Young people,” the lady said, shaking her head. “You believe anything you’re told, don’t you? Just because it’s on the TV doesn’t make it true.”
“Okay?” Faith said. “I guess you could be right.”
“Trust me, I’m right,” the lady said. “I don’t know who’s been filling your head with all that other nonsense, but this is definitely the fault of the drug companies.”
“Okay,” Faith said, frowning. “Well, I better get back to work. Mail to deliver.”
“Yes, you should,” the EA said, turning her attention away.
Faith continued on her rounds, dutifully dropping packages at offices. She got the usual round of questions. Where’s the regular guy? Didn’t report for work. No answer on his cell or home. Where did your sister run into the zombie? She didn’t. It was a misunderstanding.
There were more rumors. Everybody had a rumor. The H7 was God’s judgment on the world. It wasn’t really the H7 virus causing people to go zombie. It was all a plot by, choose one or more: the DOD, the Republicans, the pharmaceutical companies, the Democrats, Greenpeace, the news media to boost ratings. Until she started delivering the mail, she’d never heard of the Trilateral Commission or Skull and Bones. She’d had to have them explained. And woe betide if she questioned the explainer’s arguments. She was wrong. Anything that she’d heard from Sophia or Tom wasn’t true. It was all a plot by somebody.
“Hey, Gizelle,” she said, dropping off packages for Tom’s office. “Is my uncle around?”
“He is,” Gizelle said. “He just got back from a meeting out-of-office.”
“Does he have a minute for his second-favorite niece?”
She typed a message into her computer and then nodded.
“Go ahead.”
“Hey, Uncle Tom,” Faith said.
“Not to be unfriendly, but can you make it quick?” Tom asked. He was reading his computer in jeans and a T-shirt. Not normal executive wear. “I’m sort of swamped.”
“So, who really started the zombie virus?” Faith asked.
“Still unknown actor,” Tom replied.
“So . . . not the Trilateral Commission?” she asked.
Tom looked up and grinned at her.
“Never, ever, trust a furfy,” Tom said, still grinning. “Is it possible it was an organized terrorist plot? Yes. What’s the rest? Big bankers?”
“That one never came up,” Faith said, blinking. “Drug companies. The Bush Administration. Something called ‘Skull and Bones.’”
“If you were working anywhere else, it probably would have,” Tom said, leaning back in his chair. “Banks and bankers generally get blamed first and often. The blogs are full of conspiracy theories about the H7. And every group that has previously been cast as the villains in some other context is being blamed by some other group. That’s the way that people handle this sort of thing. During the Middle Ages, the Black Death was due to the Devil, and they killed cats to get rid of it. Since it was carried by rats, that was the worst thing they could do. But, no, it wasn’t any of the above.”
“I tried to tell people that . . .” Faith said, desperately.
“Don’t bother,” Tom said, shaking his head. “They won’t believe you. They only believe trusted sources like some guy who says he’s a researcher for the CDC on some forum they read every day who doesn’t know an enzyme from a lyse and is a janitor at a minor research lab in Peoria, Kansas. But they’ll trust them over all the experts because they speak truth to power! So just listen and mostly ignore it.”
“Does it really take two months to just produce a vaccine?” Faith said. “Nobody believes that.”
“I suppose I should get Curry to do a simple explanation and distribute it,” Tom said, making a note. “But, yes, from what I understand. The protein crystals take that long to grow on the matrix. Then you have to start making the vaccine from those. And then there’s a minimum four-month approval window. And even with that, the vaccine isn’t going to be the best. They rarely get it exactly right the first time. It’s going to have more harmful side effects than one that’s been through the full approval process. But if they can get that done before, well, everything comes apart, they’ll distribute it anyway. Because, you know, the world’s coming to an end.” He gestured at his computer.
“Don’t bother arguing, if there’s something that really seems relevant, bring it to me,” Tom said. “Anything else?”
“Pretty much everybody knows the Bank has some vaccine,” Faith said nervously. “Some people say it’s from monkeys. Others that it’s from people.”
“The nice thing about all the outrageous rumors going around is that that’s just one more,” Tom said, smiling tightly. “Which is good. Anything else?”
“No,” Faith said unhappily.
“If I can get in before oh-dark-thirty toni
ght, we’ll talk,” Tom said. “But no zombie hunting!”
“Been there, done that,” Faith said, holding up her thumb. “I’m sworn off until I can use a shotgun. Tasers suck.”
“Thanks for this little meeting,” Tom said, pointing at the door with both hands. “Now I have a boatload of work to do. And you should have a cartload.”
“Actually, I’m nearly done,” Faith said. “With this load, anyway.”
Faith dropped off her last few packages, then headed for the elevator. Just getting to the mailroom was a pain. BotA didn’t occupy the entire building, but they had the top fifteen floors. The mailroom, on the other hand, was in the basement. Faith really didn’t like heights, and every time she got on the elevator she was reminded of that.
There were three other people waiting for the elevator when she got there. They waited for the group onboard to get out, then Faith apologetically pushed her cart into the corner.
“Where’s the regular guy?” one of the men asked. He was wearing a BotA golf shirt and slacks, which Faith had learned was uniform for middle manager. She’d guess he was in IT from the look.
“Didn’t show for work,” Faith said. “No answer on his phone.”
“There’s a rash of that going around,” the guy said, shrugging.
“You act like it’s some sort of joke!” the lady snapped. She was probably an EA or typist, judging by her clothes and age. Mid-twenties and dressed to show off her talents. She grabbed the manager by his shirt collar. “Bad things are happening!”
“Hey!” the guy said. “Calm down.”
“YOU calm down!” the woman screamed. Then she screamed again and started scratching at her arms. “WHAT’S ON ME? WHAT’S ON ME?” She started stripping with practiced speed.
“Oh, no, no, no, no, NO,” Faith said. “Calm down! Just don’t do this NOW!”
The woman shrieked and continued tearing at her clothes as the two men backed away from her.
“ZOMBIE!” Faith yelled. She didn’t even have her baton, so she snap-kicked the woman in the stomach, causing her to double over. Faith picked up the cart and slammed it onto the woman’s head, smashing her to the ground. Unfortunately, the cart was rather light, didn’t knock the secretary out and came flying back up in a welter of undeliverable packages and internal memos.
