Under a Graveyard Sky

by John Ringo

  The woman screamed again and leapt at Faith, who had exactly no room to maneuver. Faith blocked the woman’s chomping mouth up and away with a forearm under her chin, then secured her wrist in a come-along. From there she was able to twist under and get a chokehold on the woman’s throat. The zombie was still wearing high heels, if not a shirt or bra, and as the door to the elevator opened they both tumbled into the corridor. The group that was waiting for the elevator initially scattered, then several of them stepped around the two wrestling women and into the elevator while others apparently decided there were other places they’d rather be. The IT type darted out of the elevator and sprinted in a more or less random direction.

  Faith suddenly found herself wrestling a zombie completely alone in the corridor.

  “Thanks for all the help and support!” she screamed. The zombie was incredibly strong for her size and Faith could already feel herself wearing out trying to maintain the holds. “COULD SOMEBODY KINDLY CALL SECURITY?”

  “I thought you were security?” The woman was peeking up from over her cubicle and Faith now realized she had gone from alone to attracting a crowd.

  “I’MTHENEWMAILGIRL!” Faith snapped out in one continuous scream as the thrashing zombie started rolling her down the hallway. “CALLSECURITY!”

  * * *

  “Got a report of somebody wrestling a zombie on the thirty-second floor,” Durante said, looking at the alert code. Doing both the BERT thing and his regular job was starting to wear on him. And this was the ninth “zombie” alert today. On the other hand, six of those had been false alarms.

  “Which means two zombies,” Kaplan said, standing up. “I’ll take my team.”

  * * *

  “Faaaith,” Kaplan said, standing in the hallway with his hands on his hips. “I’m sure your uncle told you: no more zombie hunting?”

  “She went zomb on the god damned elevator!” Faith swore. She’d finally gotten the woman into a hold where she couldn’t roll down between the cubicles, with her legs scissored and one arm up behind her back. Not to mention the apparently entirely useless chokehold. She still wouldn’t quit squirming, and Faith was just sooo impressed with all the help she’d been getting, meaning none. “JUST TRANQ ’ER!”

  Kaplan obligingly bent over and jammed a tranquilizer injector into the woman’s thigh.

  “See, that’s how these things work,” Kaplan said. “The red end is the end the needle comes out.” He took a spandex bag from one of the other guards, who were looking equally amused, and slipped it over the woman’s head. “And now she’s not bitey.”

  As the woman went flaccid, Faith pushed her away and rolled up and to her feet.

  “Please don’t let me have any cuts,” she said. “Other than, you know, the hole in my thumb. I bashed her over the head with my mail cart, but it didn’t stop her. And then she was bleeding all over me from the cut on her head.”

  “We’ll get you down to decontamination, then,” Kaplan said seriously. “I hadn’t realized it was that bad.” Faith’s front was covered in blood.

  * * *

  “I just thought about a problem,” Faith said.

  The decontamination shower was, to her surprise, just a shower. Tile lined the whole bit. With funny-tasting and -smelling water. She’d been instructed to wash thoroughly with soap and that was about it. Kaplan had squirted betadine onto her thumb, again, for all the good it would do.

  “And that is . . . ?” the female security guard who’d been left with her asked.

  “I don’t have any clothes with me except what I was wearing,” Faith pointed out.

  “For future reference in your later years, I’ve always found it’s best to know what clothes I’m putting on before I take clothes off. Just a tip.” The guard’s voice was amused.

  “Very funny,” Faith said. “My clothes were covered in zombie blood. I couldn’t get them off fast enough.”

  “I noticed,” the guard said. “I’ll go see if we’ve got a set of tacticals in your size.”

  “Guys’ medium usually works,” Faith said with a sigh. It wasn’t her fault she was cursed with gigantism. “Hey! And clean, please!”

  “I’ll see what I can do . . .”

  “Assuming I don’t have zombieitis and have later years,” Faith said quietly.

  * * *

  Steve picked up his phone at Tom’s ringtone. It was about time for a daily check-in. So far there had been no major incidents reported.

  “Hey, Tom, how’s it going . . . ? Uh-huh . . .” he said, neutrally. “Right . . . Okay . . . How’s she doing?”

  Stacey’s head came up from reading her iPad at “how’s she doing?”

  “Okay . . . and this happened how?” There was a long pause. “Hang on, Stacey’s looking bug-eyed.” He looked up and shrugged unhappily. “Faith ran into a zombie. Turns out it wasn’t the first time. Which everybody had carefully not mentioned. She’s . . . possibly infected.”

  “Oh, my God,” Stacey said, standing up. “I need to go onshore!”

  “Tom, you’re my brother. And God knows there have been things I’ve done in my time that . . .” Pause. “Agreed. And my only real response is what you said. How the hell did that fall under ‘I’ll make sure she’s safe . . . ?’” He paused and listened and then nodded. “Okay. Agreed. Yes, it is Faith, after all. Yeah, I know. Yep . . . That’s Faith in a nutshell. Stacey wants to go onshore. Is there a way . . . ? Okay. Got it. Yeah. Bye.”

  “He’s sending a boat over,” Steve said. “With security for you. They’re at the apartment. I guess you can stay there tonight. There’s still no curfew, but you don’t want to move around at night.”

  “What happened?” Stacey asked.

  “I . . . think I’ll let Faith explain,” Steve said. “Apparently Tom’s been trying to keep her from zombie hunting and failing. When she did finally give it up, some secretary went zombie in an elevator. Faith wasn’t bitten, but she got blood all over herself and she already had some wounds from the previous bouts. So they’re afraid she’s infected. Good news is that she’s had the vaccine so they’re hoping between the small amount of infection and the vaccine she’ll pull through. Hoping.”

  “I’m already packed,” Stacey said, then paused. “That means you’ll have to man the boat by yourself . . .”

  “I’ve got it,” Steve said. “I can handle a few sleepless nights. Thank God for coffee as long as it holds out.”

  * * *

  “There’s good news and bad news,” Dr. Curry said.

  A set of tacticals had been found in her size. Ditto tactical boots. Faith was planning on dressing that way from now on. Screw “street clothes.”

  “Don’t keep us in suspense,” Tom said.

  “Her blood test is positive for antibodies, but . . .” he said, holding up his hand to forestall the responses, “that would be the case anyway. She had the primer vaccine. That probably means that those were present from her immunization shot. However, she may have gotten a solid shot of D4T6 . . .”

  “What?” Faith asked.

  “That’s the new designation for the beta expressor virus,” Sophia said. “Zombie virus, in other words.”

  “Oh.”

  “So we’ll take the full Pasteur route,” Dr. Curry said, holding up a syringe. “This is the primer. Again. In two days you would have had the booster. We’ll give you a shot a day of primer or booster for two weeks. That should adequately prime your system even if you did get some viral load from your scuffle. And by pumping your body full of the attenuated virus, it will force your immune system to respond. Hopefully faster than the virus can take you over. We’ll also increase your potassium supplements, pump you full of antivirals even though their effect is limited, and give you a B-12 shot to bump your immune resistance.”

  “And you’re going to have to go into quarantine here,” Tom said. “The room’s fairly comfortable but it’s, face it, a cell. If you haven’t turned by tomorrow . . .”

  “Okay,
” Faith said miserably. She looked around. It was only the four of them in Tom’s office. “Is it cool to talk about ‘you know’?”

  “Yes,” Tom said.

  “Then if I do turn, I want to get turned into vaccine,” Faith said, looking at the floor. “That way maybe somebody else won’t.”

  “That’s not going to happen . . .” Tom said.

  “Uncle Tom—” Faith responded.

  “I don’t mean what you think,” Tom said, holding up his hand. “You are not going to turn. You’re not. We’re not going to let that happen.”

  “But if it does,” Faith said, tearing up.

  Sophia leaned over and pulled her into her arms, hugging her.

  “I’ll make it myself,” Sophia said, choking up. “And we’ll save it for special people.”

  Faith sobbed. “Thank you.”

  “Okay,” Dr. Curry said. “If we’ve gotten that out of our system, we need to start the procedures.”

  Faith stood up and rolled up her sleeve.

  “Go ahead and shoot me up, Doc . . .”

  * * *

  “How you doing?”

  Despite all their “additional duties,” Durante and Kaplan had volunteered to maintain watch on Faith.

  “Sort of like a rat in a trap,” Faith said.

  The cell wasn’t particularly small or uncomfortable as such things go. But it was still a cell.

  “And when I have to go, you’d better not be watching the pick-up,” she added. “Do I really have to be on camera all the time?”

  “It’s for science,” Durante said. “Seriously. If you turn, they can watch the progress of the disease.”

  “Who can?” Faith said. “In case you forgot, it would be kiddy porn. ’Cause zombies, like, strip.”

  “You haven’t been keeping up with YouTube,” Durante said. “The FBI has about given up trying to police ‘naked zombie girl’ videos. They’re everywhere. And this would really be for science.”

  “Which is pointless,” Faith said. “I can tell you about the progress of the disease. They get real angry and snappish, freak out and start pulling off their clothes. That’s when you know they’re a zombie.”

  “Or one of my ex-girlfriends,” Durante said. “Sorry. Tasteless.”

  “No big surprise,” Faith said. “I need something to read. A book. An iPad. Something.”

  “I’ve got some technical manuals,” Durante said. “You might want to read the one on injector operation, just as an example.”

  “Very freaking funny, Durante . . .”

  * * *

  “Oooh,” Faith said, tossing off her covers. She had put on a pair of shorts and a T-shirt while Tom made sure nobody was watching. Now they were soaked in sweat. “Durante? Who’s out there?”

  “Kaplan.”

  “I’m sick,” Faith said. “Burning up. Can I get some aspirin or something? And some more bottled water?”

  “I’m calling the medics,” Kaplan said. “Any formication?”

  “I’m a little young, Kaplan.”

  “For-mi-cation,” Kaplan said. “Itchy skin? Feeling like bugs are crawling on you?”

  “Yeah,” Faith said. “I knew what you were talking about. Little bit. Mostly I just feel sick as hell.”

  “Nurse is on the way . . .”

  * * *

  “Please don’t bite me,” the nurse said. He was in a full moon suit just in case.

  He checked her BP and pulse as well as her temperature and shook his head.

  “I’ll do my best,” Faith said. “But the difference between normal zombie irrational and how I get when I’m sick isn’t much. Don’t do anything I don’t like and I’ll try not to rip off chunks of flesh and chew them.”

  “I’m calling Dr. Curry and Dr. Simmons,” the nurse said. “Your temperature is a hundred and five. Which isn’t good. Any feeling of itchiness or feeling like bugs crawling on your skin?”

  “Formication,” Faith said. “Itchiness, but I’ve got dry skin. I get itchy pretty often. Maybe worse than normal. I dunno. I feel sucky.”

  “If I was still working the EDC ward we’d have you in a lukewarm shower,” the nurse said. “I’ll see what the doctors say . . .”

  * * *

  “I thought you said this shower would be lukewarm!” Faith yelled. She’d gone from fever to chills and the cold shower wasn’t helping. “I’m f-f-free-zing . . .”

  * * *

  Faith barely remembered getting back to the cell. The bastards wouldn’t even give her extra blankets because “they didn’t want her temperature skyrocketing.”

  “I don’t want to be a zombie . . .” she muttered. “But I would like to die . . . Now, please . . . Now would be good . . .”

  * * *

  “Faith, honey . . . ?”

  “Mom?” Faith said. She’d been dreaming a really vivid dream. More like being there. She was a knight on a horse fighting in a big battle. She wasn’t sure what was reality and what was hallucination anymore.

  “Oh, wait,” she said, shifting up. Her mom was in a moon suit. “You’re real.”

  “Why wouldn’t I be?” Stacey said, sitting down on the bed.

  “I think I was hallucinating,” Faith said. “You shouldn’t be here. What if I zomb?”

  “It’s pretty hard to bite through a moon suit,” Stacey said. “And you’re going to be okay. Focus on that.”

  “Yeah, well you don’t want to get this,” Faith said. “Zombie or not. I’ve never felt this bad.”

  “It’ll be okay, sweetie,” Stacey said, cradling her in her arms. “It’ll be okay.”

  “Mom,” Faith said, “when you cry like that it ruins the whole ‘it’ll be okay’ thing.” She paused and looked around wildly. “I think I’m going to throw up . . .”

  CHAPTER 12

  “Looks like you’re going to make it,” Dr. Curry said, examining Faith’s chart.

  “Don’t sound so enthusiastic,” Faith said. She was sipping ice water and balefully considering what Dr. Simmons had prescribed for her first meal in two days: jello and chicken broth. “As far as I’ve been able to figure out, the only good thing about New York is, supposedly, the food. This is not what I’ve been promised.”

  “You need to let your body get used to food again,” Simmons told her.

  “The emesis was a suprising response,” Dr. Curry said. “And as the resident mad scientist, while I personally didn’t want you to go fully into abnormal neural condition, the opportunity to study it would have been useful.”

  “I love you too, Doc.”

  “What is it about ‘mad scientist’ you don’t understand?”

  Faith picked up the bowl of broth, took a sip and set it down.

  “God, I’m weak,” she said, her hands shaking. “That’s just weakness, right?”

  “Should just be low blood sugar,” Dr. Simmons said. “You’ve still got a high antibody count but your fever seems to have broken and your white blood cell count is dropping. As Dr. Curry said, it looks like you’re going to make it.”

  “And we’ve now got really good data on the progress of the disease,” Curry burbled happily.

  “Bully for you,” Faith said. “I know I’m tired. I’m channeling Da.”

  “Anything we can do for you?” Dr. Simmons asked.

  “As soon as I’m better enough somebody owes me one good meal in this stupid stinking town,” Faith said, sipping the broth again. “That’s all I hear is how great the food in New York is. And so far all I’ve had is take-out Chinese and . . . soup.”

  “One good meal,” Dr. Curry said. “I’ll make sure that goes on the agenda.”

  * * *

  “Well, this has been too much fun,” Tom said. “Stacey . . .”

  “She made it, Tom.” Stacey looked nearly as washed out as Faith. “And I guess the good news is that the vaccine works.”

  “And she’s about as resistant as anyone could be,” Tom said. “I’ve always known she was tough. . . . She’s sayin
g she wants one decent meal in New York. How do you feel about that?”

  “Going out to dinner in zombie-infested New York?” Stacey said, grimacing. “Have a hard time saying no. But it’s not something I’m real thrilled about. She’ll need a day or so to rest up.”

  “Agreed,” Tom said. “Steve should join us. I’ll scrounge up some security I can trust to put on your boat. I’ll send Kaplan and a backup. He’s scheduled for the primary extract, anyway. And I’ll find a restaurant that’s still open. Most of the really good ones are closed. I’ll find one. Oh, I traded some favors. Your certification as licensed contractors has been cleared. So you can carry, heavy, in New York City.”

  “Does that include Sophia and Faith?” Stacey asked.

  “I’ve got an ID printer,” Tom said drily. “And some very flexible software. At this point I doubt anyone will check.”

  * * *

  “Do you have anyone who can take you to the hospital, ma’am?” Patterno asked as Young draped a sheet over the woman’s husband’s body.

  The man had been in his seventies and yet had thrown off two taser hits. Some of them did that. Some of them dropped and some of them just kept coming. The new ROE was clear: If a 10-64 Hotel didn’t stop with the tasers, deadly force was authorized.

  The department, with concurrence of the state and local authorities, had had to do it. Not only was it already the de facto rule of engagement, based upon how many shooting, had been officer-involved over the last few weeks, they’d lost too many officers to the Plague. And more than half of those had gone zombie themselves. The “squad” room meeting was starting to look like the “team” room meeting. If many more of them went down, it would be no meeting at all.

  The wife had a bite on her arm and another on her shoulder. They’d hit both with antiseptic, for all the good it would do. They were probably looking at another zombie in a few hours.

  “A friend is on the way over . . .” the woman said shakily.

  “We’ll stay here until they get here,” Patterno said. “The coroner’s office team will need to have access to your home. Can I get a verbal confirmation on that? Is it okay if the coroner’s team handles the management of your husband’s remains?”