HVZA (Book 2): Hudson Valley Zombie Apocalypse 2

by Zimmermann, Linda

  After Colaneri wiped away a few tears, he told his own sad story. He was at West Point when the infection spread to his small hometown in Kansas. His father was retired military—a colonel in Special Forces, no less—so Cadet Colaneri had every confidence his family would be safe and secure. His father turned their home into an armed fortress, but neglected one small detail—he had unknowingly become infected while helping local law enforcement eradicate a herd of zombies that had wandered into town.

  With windows nailed shut and doors barred, Colonel Colaneri quietly switched late one night, turned over in bed and proceeded to kill and devour his wife. After having his fill of her, he next attacked his 10-year-old daughter when she got up in the morning to pour herself a bowl of cereal. She at least had time to scream, which alerted his 15-year-old son, who was able to barricade himself in his bedroom. It was at this point that Sergeant Colaneri received a frantic call.

  “I told my brother that our father would expect each of us to do his duty,” the sergeant stated with a cold, steely demeanor that shouldn’t have come so easily to someone so young. “I told him to take the hunting rifle he kept over his bed and put down the enemy that had killed our father and taken over his body. I told him to be a man, and to do his duty. Then I got off the phone and cried like a baby.”

  “Did your brother survive?” I asked, almost in a whisper.

  “He was on his own on the road the last I heard from him, before communications went down. He said he would meet me at West Point, but that was so long ago. But he’s a tough kid, and if anyone can make it, he can,” he said, fighting back more tears. “Our dad would be proud of him.”

  “Your dad would be proud of you, too,” Becks added, taking the liberty to give the man’s arm a reassuring squeeze.

  “No ma’am, I haven’t earned that honor yet,” he said with visible shame. “The closest I’ve come to the enemy is driving by them all safe and secure in this armored Humvee. Not exactly boots on the ground, ma’am.”

  Becks felt like telling the young soldier to be careful what he wished for, but she understood the anguish and guilt he felt about being in a relatively safe environment while the ones you loved were fighting for their lives in this hellish world.

  As they drew close to the Picatinny Arsenal, they went through a series of checkpoints similar to those at West Point—except a few of these soldiers had some weaponry Becks had never seen. Being stationed in a weapons research center obviously had its perks.

  Becks wasn’t quite sure what to expect when they finally entered the grounds of the arsenal, but if she had to make a list of ten possible scenarios, children riding bicycles and skateboards would not have been on that list.

  “We try to create as normal an environment as possible,” the sergeant explained. “At least for the kids.”

  “Are they all from military families?” Becks asked, as she braced herself for a sudden stop as the convoy had to halt for a little girl chasing a soccer ball across the street.

  “At first, the policy was military personnel and their families only—absolutely no refugees—like at West Point. Then one day one of our patrols came upon a couple of kids in a wrecked minivan, surrounded by scummers.

  “They had lived in Hawthorne, and their parents had decided they would ride things out in their home, rather than go to a refugee center. Those centers were awful, as you know, so it seemed to be a good idea at the time, as the government kept insisting this was a ‘temporary situation.’ When they ran out of food, they decided to make a run for it, but by then it was too late. They got as far as their driveway when they were attacked by dead neighbors, and their parents were torn apart right in front of them.

  “Somehow, this 8-year-old boy managed to get his 5-year-old sister into the van. He actually drove several miles and got onto 287, where he lost control and went off the road. Our patrol cleared all the filthy scummers away from the van, and when they opened it, they found this trembling little boy clutching his sister, with both of them still covered in their parents’ blood.

  “The refugee policy was amended that day.”

  The sergeant explained that while they didn’t have the manpower or resources to conduct active search and rescue operations, whenever they encountered people in distress they took them in. He described at least half a dozen other cases of people being trapped in the most awful and terrible circumstances, only to be rescued at the last minute—something with which Becks had personal experience.

  “And it would break your heart to know just how many of those refugees were zeeohs,” the sergeant added.

  “Were what?” Becks asked.

  “Z, Os: zombie orphans. You know the military. They have to name everything.”

  Becks had been so absorbed in the sergeant’s stories, she hadn’t paid much attention to their surroundings until they stopped in front of what looked to be a Cold War-era blockhouse in the middle of the woods. She also hadn’t noticed that the rest of the convoy was gone.

  “Well, ma’am, this is it,” the sergeant said, gesturing toward the structure that had probably looked just as bad 50 years earlier. Seeing Becks’ expression, he added, “And don’t let appearances deceive you. Here at the arsenal, the good stuff is often hidden in the plainest packages. And the best stuff can kill you without you seeing it coming.”

  “Good to know!” Becks said laughing, as she got out of the Humvee and stretched her legs.

  The sergeant retrieved her bags and brought them to the rusty metal door of the building.

  “Been a pleasure ma’am,” he said, as he was about to get back in the Humvee. “Best of luck with your work, and when you need a ride back to West Point, feel free to request me as your driver.”

  “Will do, Sergeant, and best of luck to you!”

  After he pulled away, Becks went up to the door of the windowless building and raised her fist to knock, but the door started to open before she made contact. A very tall young man—15, maybe 16 years old?—with close-cropped blond hair, wearing a sharp-looking uniform she didn’t recognize, greeted her. She imagined this was what Cam probably looked like in high school, although you could never have paid Cam enough to get into a uniform. It had been tough enough on the rare occasions that called for him to wear a suit and tie.

  “Allow me to escort you to the commanding officer of the project, Captain Lennox,” he said formally, without introducing himself.

  As Becks followed him down a dimly lit hallway flanked by plain, cookie cutter offices, she couldn’t resist getting personal.

  “No offense, but aren’t you a little young to be an officer? In fact, aren’t you a little young to even be in the army?”

  “Army ROTC Cadet, ma’am. We can all do our part regardless of our age,” he said with an unpretentious combination of pride and determination.

  “You are absolutely right,” Becks replied, thinking back to how often people didn’t take her seriously because of her youthful appearance. She really didn’t get that treatment any longer, as more than a year of a zombie apocalypse had a way of maturing, if not outright aging, some people.

  “Sir, this is Dr. Rebecca Truesdale,” the young man said as he ushered Becks into a slightly larger and marginally less plain office at the end of the hall.

  “Thank you, Ronan,” the forty-ish officer said as he stood to warmly shake Becks’ hand. “And would you please see that the doctor’s quarters are prepared immediately?”

  “Already done, sir. And all of the status reports have been updated and are awaiting your review,” the ROTC Cadet said a moment before turning as if executing a drill maneuver and heading back down the hall.

  “Don’t know what I would do without that boy,” the captain said just loud enough for Ronan to overhear. He then lowered his voice to a normal level and invited Becks to sit. “That young man led his family and a group of neighbors through hell to get them to safety after the Hudson Valley Quarantine ended last year. But I guess I don’t need to tell you what condi
tions were like then.”

  As he spoke that last sentence, he tapped his index finger on a file folder in the center of his desk. Becks leaned forward just enough to see that the folder had her name on it. She had not been extended the same courtesy of a file on Captain Jeffrey Lennox, but if he were not graying at the temples of his chestnut-colored hair, Becks would have sworn he just stepped off of a Harvard rowing team. He had that blue blood, privileged look about him, but he also possessed an easy charm that eliminated any taint of snobbery. For a brief moment, she regretted that he wore a wedding band, but then she quickly refocused on the task at hand.

  Becks was pleased that Lennox had an excellent working knowledge of the projects, and was even more pleased that he seemed to be the type of leader to let the experts do their job with minimal interference. On his part, Lennox was relieved to find someone with a combination of expertise, independence, and guts—not the “helpless egghead” he had feared West Point would send him. After going over the basics of what needed to be accomplished in the next week or so, Lennox offered to have her taken to her quarters so she could freshen up and rest for a while, but Becks insisted on going straight to the lab and getting started right away.

  Driving a short distance on a narrow road through the woods, they came to a small clearing with another nondescript box of a building. The sergeant told her she shouldn’t judge a place by its exterior; but realistically, how good could the interior be?

  After descending five floors of concrete staircases with cold, unpainted, metal pipe railings, the captain ran his ID through a card reader. After a soothing, green light was illuminated, a panel marked “A2” slid open in the wall. Only after a successful retinal scan, voice recognition, and fingerprint imaging did Becks hear a series of clicking and whirring that released a host of locks on the massive steel door. It looked like they would need four men to help open the door, but a gentle tug with two fingers was all the captain needed for the hydraulic assist mechanism to swing open the portal to the cosmic candy store of military weapons research labs.

  “I don’t even know what I’m looking at in here!” Becks exclaimed with wide eyes as she tried to take in row after row of lab benches full of monitors, test equipment, and exotic weapons components that looked like something out of a science fiction novel. As they passed through the long lab, she saw teams of researchers measuring, recording, and tweaking strange pistols, bizarre and deadly-looking helmet attachments, and long cylinders that resembled rifles, but had neither open barrels nor any type of magazines for ammunition.

  “Oh, this is just some old technology we are trying to adapt specifically for the zombie threat,” the captain said with a dismissive wave of his hand. “The really good stuff is in another building.”

  “Damn, I’ll take your leftovers and hand-me-downs any day!” she exclaimed, pausing in front of an unattended work station, and struggling to resist touching the object that looked like an unholy cross between a Gatling gun and a bassoon.

  “No, no, no! Please step back, Dr. Truesdale,” the captain said with urgency, jumping forward and thrusting his arm in front of Becks to push her back a foot or two. “That’s one of the nastier devices, and it can be touch activated.”

  “Okay, just looking,” she replied, instinctively raising her hands in the air and backing away another few feet. “I know enough to not mess with anything.”

  That was sort of a lie, because she wanted to run around the lab and mess with everything. And she couldn’t swear that she wouldn’t have touched the Bassoon-o-Matic Deathray, or whatever the hell it was.

  Deciding it would be prudent to put her hands in her jacket pockets, they proceeded to the back of the lab, where the captain had to go through the same security routine to open a somewhat smaller, but more sophisticated steel door. As soon as it started to open, Becks recognized the telltale seals and air filtration systems of a biohazard lab. After one more air lock, she expected to enter another high-tech fantasy land of everything a scientist’s heart could desire. Instead, the third door opened to a brightly lit, huge, but completely empty white room.

  The captain noted Becks’ look of disappointment and quickly offered, “Tabula rasa, I’m afraid. But look on the bright side, you can fill in this blank slate from the ground up with whatever you need and want.”

  It was a bit of a shock to find that nothing was set up yet, but Becks never backed away from a challenge. And within the hour, she was already in conference with the staff of two dozen military and civilian scientists and techs who would be running the research and manufacturing. Within 24 hours, the skeleton of the lab was established, and day-by-day it was fleshed out, until by the fifth day, everything was fully functional and bottles of Eradazole and Triton were already being filled on the assembly line.

  Becks’ next project was to start culturing the various types of ZIPs that proved so effective in her meat grenades. The idea behind it was to introduce slightly different zombie infection parasites into the zombies’ system (by way of them eating the infected meat delivered by simply tossing glass jars that would break in front of a crowd of hungry zombies). These different ZIPs created a deadly competition—deadly for the zombie that died once and for all because of the parasites fighting amongst themselves. And once another zombie ate the infected dead zombie, it began a domino effect that could eliminate a sizable herd in a couple of weeks without firing a shot.

  While this co-infecting parasite scheme had initially been Becks’ idea, other scientists had greatly improved upon it. And once the Picatinny Arsenal started making their own infected meat grenades, they could start doing some serious damage to the swarms of zombies that packed New Jersey roads tighter than summer weekend traffic on the way to the shore—at least BZA, that is. However, growing parasites was trickier business than simply manufacturing drugs, so she would need to work extra hard with the staff to make sure they got it right.

  “You need a break,” Captain Lennox said, early on the sixth day as Becks prepared for another meeting with the research staff regarding the new parasite project.

  “Can’t. Busy,” she replied mechanically, not even looking up from her notes.

  “Not an option,” he replied with authority, slapping closed her notebook. “You’ve barely eaten or slept all week, and I’m not about to get my ass chewed out by the powers-that-be at West Point for abusing you.”

  “But we have a staff meeting in 15 minutes,” Becks weakly protested, recognizing that this was a battle she would not win.

  “No, ma’am, you do not. I have dismissed the entire staff for a day of R&R, as it seems that someone has been running them ragged for several days and nights.”

  Though his voice was stern, there was a thinly-veiled smile across his lips and a twinkle in his eyes.

  “It appears I am outranked , and outmaneuvered,” Becks said in surrender. “I will go to my quarters and relax for a while.”

  “No, you will not,” he stated with a wide grin, as he offered his hand to help her stand. It was not so much of a gentlemanly gesture, as it was getting a hold of her in case he had to drag her screaming and kicking from the lab.

  With his arm lightly positioned around her waist in case there was any resistance, he guided Becks up the five flights of stairs and outside into the first sunlight she had seen since her arrival almost a week earlier. The air was cool, but the sunlight felt warm on her face. With her eyes closed and her head back to soak in the rays, she didn’t notice what was standing just ten feet away, until a loud snort made her almost jump out of her skin.

  “What the…horses! One of those isn’t for me, is it?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Lennox replied, taking up a position next to a sleek, black stallion, and interlocking his fingers to give her a leg up on the saddle.

  “Not on him!? Don’t you have anything smaller—preferably something coin-operated, or on a carousel?” she asked, only half-kidding as she eyed the enormous, snorting beast.

  “Don’t tell m
e the highly capable and ultra-confident Dr. Rebecca Truesdale has never ridden?” he asked as if throwing down a gauntlet.

  “Of course, I’ve ridden. I used to ride every summer,” she replied, putting on an air of self-assurance while striding toward the intimidating creature. What Becks didn’t say was that her only riding experiences were with the ponies a neighbor would have at his annual 4th of July parties when she was a kid.

  Placing her foot in the offered hands, she hoisted herself up into the saddle. It was hard and uncomfortable, and she was not thrilled by how high off the ground she was. She watched Lennox effortlessly mount his steed and take hold of the reins—she would have bet anything he had been a polo player at whatever fancy pants country club his family had belonged to BZA—and then she tried to copy his grip and posture as if she knew what she was doing.

  What ensued was a curious mixture of exhilaration and torture. Becks could not get the hang of preventing her butt from repeatedly being pounded against the saddle, causing extreme discomfort all the way up her spine to her neck and shoulders. Yet, the beauty, strength, and magnificence of the proud animal were something to behold. She envied Captain Lennox’s fluid motions, as if he was one with the horse, and was transported to a higher state of consciousness as a result. Unfortunately, Becks was in a state of chaos and pain, wishing for unconsciousness.

  “Isn’t this just what the doctor ordered?” Lennox shouted, beaming with joy, as he mercifully stopped after about 20 minutes.

  “Yes, a doctor does come to mind,” Becks replied, gingerly rubbing her back and neck. “It’s been fun, but I should really get back to work.”

  “We’re just getting warmed up!” he said with a devilish grin, moments before a subtle movement of his hands and feet made his horse spin and take off at a gallop. Becks’ horse was clearly the alpha male, and with no urging on her part he took off like it was the start of the Kentucky Derby.