by John Ringo
“Yes,” the woman said, shaking her head. “Yes, I suppose they have to . . . Why did you have to shoot him?” she said angrily. “He was just sick! He—”
The woman suddenly lunged at Patterno, howling. Joe instinctively threw up his hand to fend her off. Unfortunately, he’d taken off his tactical gloves after dealing with her husband.
The woman’s teeth sank into the web of muscle and skin between his thumb and forefinger, ripping out a chunk. She lunged at him again, chewing.
At the first howl, Young had ripped out his taser, and as Patterno rolled backwards off the sofa the taser round hit the woman in the side. She fell onto the floral-print, blood splattered sofa, spasming.
“Shit, shit, shit, shit . . .” Patterno said as Young slapped a tranquilizer into the woman’s thigh muscles. The zombie started to stand up and he tapped her, hard, on the back of the head with his baton. She might be dead or not. He wasn’t really caring at the moment.
“How bad?” Young asked.
“Bad.” Patterno had his hand clamped on the wound but it was still streaming blood.
“Let it bleed,” Young said. “Maybe it will get some of it out.”
“Shit, she turned fast,” Patterno said.
“Really fast,” Young replied. He opened the med kit back up and, as Patterno held out his hand, started pouring Betadine over the wound and then roughly bandaging it. He pulled out an antibody kit from the medical bag and did a quick blood test on the tranquilized subject.
“What’s it read?” Patterno asked, cradling his arm. They both knew she’d zombied, but it was still possible she’d just had a really bad freak-out.
“Positive,” Young said unhappily.
“Call for pickup,” Patterno said. “Then back to the station. Sentara Hospital is overloaded. And there’s not much they can do for me that one of the paramedics can’t. Hell, there’s not much they can do, period.”
“Unit four-six-four,” Young said into his microphone. “One sixty-four Hotel Kilo India Alpha. One sixty-four Hotel Tango. One officer possibly infected, bite. Ten-nineteen for medical . . .”
“Good news,” Joe said, holding up his hand. “You get to do the paperwork.”
* * *
“I don’t want to go to the Warehouse,” Joe said as they were driving back to the station. He had his hand elevated and was staring at it.
“The warehouse makes Dachau look like Disneyland,” Young said.
“Billy’s . . . not going to be able to handle that,” Joe said. “You know that, right?”
“Yeah,” Young said. There was a zombie running down the street. Ten-year-old or so boy. A clothed woman was running after him. She was already bitten. Just another zombie in the making.
“We should have started at shoot-to-kill,” Joe said, watching the scene unfold. The woman was waving at the cop car as it passed, trying to get help. She’d be pissed off. Maybe she’d complain. Maybe somebody would hear it. Then she’d turn and the complaint would be sort of moot.
“You’ve got a spare, right?” Young asked. The department required that you turn in your issue firearm as you were going off-duty. Since it was legal to carry for officers off-duty, most had at least one spare.
“Yeah,” Joe said. “I’d say stop so I could shoot both of them. But then they’d lock me up. And then I’d go to the Warehouse. And either starve to death or get eaten when it all goes down. Or, worse, get free and be one of them. I don’t want to be one of them.”
“I’ll come by after I get off-shift,” Young said. “Can Billy . . . secure you?”
“Heh,” Patterno said, starting to laugh. It turned into a full-bore belly-laugh. He finally stopped, wiping his eyes. “Yeah, he can.”
“What’s so funny?” Young asked.
“You’ve never had a problem with my lifestyle,” Patterno said, looking at him. “Any reason for that?”
“I don’t give a shit what a cop does with his or her genitals as long as they’re a good cop.” Young answered. “And you’re a good cop.”
“Oh, I’ve had my times being a bad cop,” Joe said, musingly. “But I’ve always appreciated that you weren’t a flake about it. So I’ve never really tried to screw with you. Don’t screw with me, I won’t screw back. So just . . . When you come by, just don’t get freaked out that Billy is able to secure me really, really well.”
“Oh,” Young said, grimacing. “Okay. Yeah. I’d say TMI but it’s useful, if, yeah, disturbing information.”
“Hey,” Patterno said. “Guy’s got to have a hobby . . .”
* * *
“Hi, Bill,” Young said. He didn’t want to be at Joe’s house. He didn’t want to go through with this. But duty was like that. “How’s he doing?” he asked as he stepped through the door.
“Not . . . well,” Bill Jacobus said. The electrical engineer was tall and slender in contrast to his partner. Young had never seen him wear anything but a golf shirt and fine slacks, and that, at least, had not changed. The odd part was that his pant legs were covered in dirt. Then Young realized why. Bill started to stick out his hand, then remembered and ended up wringing them together. “His fever is very high. I’ve given him Motrin and water. He’s . . .” He shrugged. “Thank you for coming. You’re a . . . good friend.”
“You know why I’m here?” Young said. “If you do . . . maybe you want to go out for a walk or something?”
“At night with zombies roaming?” Bill said with a breathless chuckle. He gestured up the stairs. “My first husband died of AIDS. I was always careful, even with Thomas, so I never contracted it. The one mercy of this plague is that it’s decently quick. I . . . since we are in this situation, I will tell you that I . . . gave the same grace to Thomas. But here . . . I don’t have the contacts, the materials.”
“It only takes one thing,” Young said, walking to the stairs.
“I could . . . turn up a morphine drip,” Bill admitted. “Add . . . some chemicals. I could not have pulled a trigger. That is why you are a good friend. Would you mind if I . . . ? No, I should stay to say good-bye.”
Joe was in the master bedroom spread-eagled on the bed. There was a band across the top of the bed that restrained both his wrists and his head via a collar and his legs were spread and chained. He was dressed in black tacticals and wearing an SFPD badge.
“You guys are serious about your restraints, aren’t you?” Young said.
“I said a guy needs a hobby,” Patterno said. He was visibly sweating and racked with chills.
“How are you doing, honey?” Bill asked, sitting on the side of the bed and wiping his forehead. He leaned over and kissed him where he’d wiped.
“Guys, I’m real supportive of your relationship,” Young said, neutrally. “But I’m still the kid who was raised Southern Baptist at some level. So I’m just going to go outside. You two . . . chat. When you’re ready, Bill, I’ll be right in the hallway. Sorry.”
“Nah, it’s okay,” Joe growled. “I get it. I mean, I don’t get it but I get it.”
After about fifteen minutes, Bill came out wiping his eyes.
“Just . . . don’t . . .” Bill said, his face working.
“I won’t until I’m sure,” Young said. This was getting to be more and more of a pain.
“I’ll be in the back yard,” Bill said.
Young walked back into the room and pulled up a chair.
“Before I get comfy,” he said. “Piece?”
“Side drawer,” Joe said, gesturing with his chin.
Young quickly found the Glock .40. He pulled the slide back far enough to see there was a round in the chamber, then slipped it into his waistband.
“Could I get a drink?” Joe asked.
“Sure, partner,” Young said. There was a bottle of water with a straw in it by the bed. He reached into his cargo pocket and pulled out a pair of thick leather gloves. “Sorry. That old biddy turned so fast it has me nervous.”
“She did turn fast,” Joe said, taking a sip.
“How the hell do you do that?” Young said. “I can’t drink from the prone for nothing.”
“Years of training,” Joe said. “You really don’t want to know. Thanks.”
“You need some Motrin?” Young asked.
“I’ve had enough to kill an elephant,” Joe said. “It’s not touching this fever. Or chills. Or aches. I mostly just want to lie here. No offense.”
“None taken,” Young said.
“But there is . . .” Joe said, then stopped. “I’ve got a favor to ask.”
“I thought that was why I was here,” Young said.
“Okay, another favor,” Joe said, frowning. “It’s about . . . Bill. He’s not going to deal with this real well . . .”
“Joe . . .” Young said. “I’m willing to accept that there are some people who are just . . . you know, totally gay and there’s no going back. You realize that there are some people who are just totally straight? And you know I’m one of them, right?”
“That’s not what I meant,” Joe said wearily. “He’s got no skills for surviving this . . . shit . . .”
“Are you saying you want me to help your wife survive the zombie apocalypse?” Young said. “Because it would help a lot of it was, you know, an actual wife. Like, female.”
“I know what I’m asking,” Joe said.
Young thought about it for a second and shrugged.
“I’ll do what I can,” Young said. “But that’s all I’m promising.”
“Okay,” Joe said. “Way things are going, not sure what you could do anyway. You going in tomorrow?”
“Not hardly,” Young said. “I’m done. There’s no way to survive this as a cop. We’re not getting vaccine, we’re not getting support and we’re not doing a damned thing to stop it.”
“We should have quit a week ago,” Joe said, shrugging as well as he could. “I was sort of waiting for you to ring the bell.”
“Ring the bell?” Young asked.
“SEAL thing,” Patterno said. “When you quit BUD/S you ring a bell.”
“Ah,” Young said. “I didn’t know you were a SEAL.”
“Wasn’t,” Patterno said. “Guy on the team in Frisco was. Just picked up the term.”
“I was waiting for you to ring the bell,” Young said. “Bad call on both our parts.”
“Yeah.”
“Yeah.”
Young sat in silence after that, occasionally giving Joe water, for about an hour. Then Joe started to struggle against the straps.
“Spiders!” Joe snarled. “Get the spiders off! No, no, no, nooooo, aaaaaRRRRR . . .”
Young waited until he was sure, then put on a pair of nitrile gloves, pulled the Glock from his waistband and put it under the chin of his struggling partner. He pulled back carefully; you could blow a shot even at this distance, and felt the hammer give. The top of Patterno’s skull was taken off, blasting over the seafoam-green sheets.
Young unstrapped Joe’s right hand, then wrapped it around the butt of the Glock. Last, he laid both on the upper chest. It wouldn’t survive a detailed forensic examination, but there wasn’t going to be one. The last forensics tech in the department had gone zombie three days ago.
He walked out and shut the door, walked downstairs and exited the house.
From here on out, it was every man for himself.
CHAPTER 13
“This place is good, trust me,” Tom said. The traffic wasn’t that heavy, but the car was still having trouble making its way. More and more double parked cars were turning up abandoned on the streets. And the street department couldn’t get them cleared fast enough. Apparently, people tended to not only strip but bail out of the cars when they went zombie. At least most did. Some just flipped too fast and ended up crashing. “And it’s still open.”
“Trust me like ‘Trust me, you won’t get bitten by a zombie’?” Faith asked.
“Not fair, Faith,” Sophia said.
“Sorry, Uncle Tom,” Faith said. “That wasn’t fair. Especially after all the crap I got into on my own.” She stroked the Saiga she was toting and grinned. “But this time I’m fully prepared.”
“I’m a big guy,” Tom said, grinning back. “And if you use that you’d better make damned sure you only hit your primary target and that you have a valid target.”
“In other words,” Steve said, “don’t use it. Your ID won’t hold up under scrutiny.”
“Spoilsports,” Faith said. “Truth is, I don’t want to take a shot. I’m still too woozy. But it’s a nice security blanket.”
“I hope you told them that they’re hosting ‘contractors,’” Stacey said.
“I did,” Tom said. “There were some issues to work out but it’s all good.”
“They didn’t want people with guns?” Sophia asked. She was in body armor and full covering but had settled for just a pistol and taser. Pistol on the right thigh, taser on the left.
“The restaurant is popular with a certain crowd,” Tom said. “The owner was twitchy because he didn’t want them getting . . . riled.”
“We’re here, sir,” Durante said as the limo pulled up to an unpretentious brownstone building on the upper east side.
“Doesn’t look like much,” Faith said, opening the door and stepping out.
“You’re supposed to let Durante do that,” Sophia said. “You’re never going to figure out how to make an entrance, are you?”
“Let me clear the way, first, Faith,” Durante said, holding out his hand. He strode towards the door, checking side to side for threats as the driver stepped out and covered the street side.
“The good ones rarely do,” Tom said. He was wearing just a business suit. Of course, he was also carrying under the suit. “Truth is this place is sort of used to this sort of arrival. Just not as openly armed.”
“Oh,” Steve said. “That sort of crowd.”
“What sort of crowd?” Faith asked, looking around.
“Mr. Smith!” The speaker was a short, rotund fellow with a thick Sicilian accent. “It is good to see you again!”
“Mr. Fattore,” Tom said, nodding. “I hope this isn’t a bother.”
“Not at all,” Mr. Fattore said. “We shall feel very secure, yes? Come in, come in.”
He ushered Tom, Sophia, Steve and Stacey into the restaurant like royalty. The restaurant was long but fairly narrow, with booths down the right side and tables filling the middle. It was also surprisingly crowded. The conversation muted for a moment when Faith and Durante entered, then it picked back up.
“For you and you friends,” Mr. Fattore said, gesturing to a booth at the rear.
Faith found herself blocked in getting to the booth.
“Hem, hem,” Faith said.
“You is sitting at the table,” Fattore said in a whisper. There was an empty table by the booth which would only take four anyway. He clearly wondered why he had to explain.
“I’ll take the table,” Tom said, grinning. “This night out was Faith’s idea.”
“We can squeeze up,” Stacey said. “You and Faith on that side.”
“Works,” Tom said, then looked at Faith. “I don’t do inside.”
“I’m the one with all the guns,” Faith pointed out. “I’m not sure I can slide in.”
“Gimme the Saiga, Faith,” Durante said.
“But what if somebody zombies?” Faith said, clutching it to her chest. “I’m really serious. I am not going through that again unarmed.”
“And I’m really serious that it’s my job to take care of it,” Durante said, holding out his hand. “Saiga. Then you can fit in the booth.”
“Okay,” Faith said, unclipping the semi-automatic, magazine-fed shotgun and handing it over. “But I’m totally hanging onto the pistols.” She had three. One in a fast rig and two on chest rigs. She was also, at Tom’s insistence, carrying a dual-fire taser X26 and spare cartridges. Since all those, in her opinion, might need refueling, she was also carrying more ammo than Durante.
&
nbsp; “You can hang onto the pistols,” Tom said. “Now slide in.”
“Smells good,” Stacey said, looking at the menu. It had been printed on paper and clearly was “this is what we could get today.” “What do you recommend?”
“Anything,” Tom said. “It’s all good. I usually get the Frutti di Mare.”
“I’m not sure I’d trust seafood in these conditions,” Steve said. “Supply chain is getting totally screwed up.”
“I think you can trust it,” Tom said. “He’s got pretty good suppliers.”
“I want appetizers,” Faith said. “And . . . stuff. I don’t even know what to order. All I ever get is spaghetti and meatballs.”
“Don’t get greedy,” Steve said.
“Let her,” Tom said. “It’s on expense account. And the money’s just going to turn to electronic trash. The meatballs are to die for.”
“How long?” Stacey asked.
“Depends on the model you look at,” Tom said. “If we’re going to enjoy a night on the town, better make it tonight is all I can really say. Don’t ask me about tomorrow night. Pretty much it’s things will continue limping along and then they’ll stop. When the tipping point hits, it will cascade fast.”
“Can we talk about something other than the end of civilization tonight?” Sophia said.
“How ’bout something interesting and peripheral?” Tom said. “They’re quietly evacuating all the major art museums to an ‘undisclosed’ remote site. Basically, even if things fall apart completely, they’ll have saved all the big artworks. Ditto classic manuscripts.”
“That’s nice to hear,” Stacey said. “I’d hate to see Titians burn.”
“What about stuff in private collections?” Steve asked.
“Not sure,” Tom said. “I guess if they find out and turn them in for protection, I don’t see the Museum of Art turning down a Van Gogh. Most of those ‘private collections’ tend to be associated with big corporations. And most of them have remote jump sites. We’ve already been doing that for the Board and the Corporation. I’m not sure if they’ll hold. Heck, I don’t know if the museum remote site will hold.” He shrugged.
