Boston Under Siege (Book 1): Virus:

by Willson, Fisher

  “Lucky us.” Trips leaned over examining the layout of their run.

  “First things first.” He nodded at the houses. “Final run we clear the back alley behind the restaurants.”

  Trips nodded. Wish I’d been reassigned instead of Raphe. Just me and these grunts. He glanced at the two of them. Alvarez is okay, but I’m not that sure I trust my life with Hanson.

  After they’d cleared the row-houses of infected and the seemingly uninfected, they moved onto the restaurants.

  For their last run, Trips shimmied through a narrow passage that opened into the wider enclosed area lined with garbage cans, dumpsters, and an abandoned truck. He noted two outcroppings and a half fence blocking the garbage from the parking. Looks quiet, but if the operation goes south, I’ll bunny-hop the dumpster and should be able to clear the fence out of here.

  He opened the gated entrance into the narrow passage for his armed escort. His stomach tightened as he exhaled. Do not to lose your shit again. You’re not underground. There’s a way out.

  Alvarez nodded as Trips took the lead. White liquid ran between the cobbles from stinking wooden crates of rotting vegetables. Trips hopped the crates and puddles and grazed the cold metal of the delivery truck blocking the alley. He looked back to confirm his team was still with him. Alvarez pointed two gloved fingers forward.

  Trips wasn’t sure if he cried out when a scrawny cat jetted out from behind crates of stacked bottles, but the thrumming of his pulse in his throat told him he probably did.

  He turned back to see Hanson shining a light into the cargo hold of the delivery truck. He’s not looking out for me at all, Trips thought, and rode back to join his team.

  “You missed something Kentigern,” Hanson said, with a sidelong glance. “Stinks like hell.” Slabs of maggoty meat hung from matte steel hooks, and the deliverymen lay half eaten on the floor.

  Trips cleared his throat. Hope I don’t woof my cookies. “We should thank our lucky stars it’s a frosty day. The stench could be much worse.” He fingered his breather dangling from his neck. Yeah, not risking claustrophobia again. He yanked a red bandana up over his mouth and nose instead.

  Gunfire erupted, and Alvarez and Hanson held their positions. Trips squat down between the truck and the brick wall. Hanson nudged Trips with the muzzle of his gun. “It’s coming from the front. Get up.”

  Trips got up. “Careful with that thing.”

  Hanson raised one side of his lip into a snarl. “Get going.”

  Yeah, Hanson, you’re a douche, Trips thought. He choked, riding over the legs of maggot-infested half eaten bodies and stopped at the first dumpster. He pulled down the bandana. “Jesus, I am going to barf me biscuits.”

  He heard a growl and turned. A man supported by garbage bags was leaning against the dumpster, his flesh was almost the same shade of blue as the dumpster. One eye hung from its stalk, the other was missing, his lips torn from his face left his teeth in a menacing grin. At his ribcage three zombies suckled like kits at their mother's tit. One turned its bloody red face toward Trips. The others followed suit, rising.

  “The sous chefs are eating the chef,” Hanson commented, shooting them. “They were coming right for you.”

  “It’s enough to make you vegan," Trips said, retching. He got out a water bottle and rinsed his mouth. Note to self; never eat breakfast on run day.

  Alvarez sighed, catching up. “Hanson, you were here first. You get to do the paperwork.” He took out his phone and snapped a photo just as the rest of the kitchen crew scurried out of the building and grabbed Trips.

  Trips yelped and twisted as he fell backward to the ground. Several zombies were dragging him into the building, with his bike attached by the pedals. He struggled to unclip his shoes and managed to get one foot free but couldn’t get a purchase on the asphalt.

  Alvarez moved in and fell to one knee. He shot the creatures before they got Trips into the darkness of the kitchen. Trips stumbled back dragging his bike. He gulped in air, bent over and vomited. As he spitted, the words spewed like acid. “What took you so effing long?”

  Hanson gave Trips a sour grin. “Feeling better?”

  “Back alley secured,” Alvarez said into the intercom.

  “You sure about that?” Trips asked.

  Gunfire erupted.

  Past the kitchen crew they’d wasted, Alvarez and Hanson disappeared into the darkened area. Trips inhaled and stood up unsure whether to follow them or bounce.

  Another cackle of gunfire. Shit. Trips took a deep breath, wiped his mouth and swung one leg over the top tube. “In you go, Kentigern.”

  Trips spied Hanson behind an overturned prep counter, firing his rifle through the kitchen door into the dining area where he glimpsed Alvarez in hand-to-hand combat with a zombie. The door swung shut. Trips tried to slow his breathing as he ducked next to the stove. You’re hyperventilating. Get a grip, Kentigern. I smell cabbage. No, stupid. You smell gas! This whole place could explode! He turned to tell Hanson, but he was gone.

  Trips crossed to the swinging door and peeked through the cloudy glass. No Alvarez or Hanson. He cracked the door and used the glitzy blood spattered mirror decorating the dining room to scan the area, then retreated to the kitchen as more gunfire was exchanged. He sat on the floor next to the swinging door and tried to recall what he’d just seen. “Okay, okay...Messengers whipping body parts at 10:00, zombie thugs eating a busboy at 12:00, piles of zombies, ugh, everywhere, zombies gnawing on joints of torn carcasses, at 3:00 check. Oh, my God. Where are they?”

  Trips made the unfortunate mistake of making eye contact with a zombie waiter as he crawled out from under a toppled table. He froze. Does it see me? It shuffled toward the kitchen. Yes, yes it would seem that it does.

  Just then a messenger crashed through the swinging door knocking Trips on his ass. He skirted around Trips and the toppled furniture heading into the alley. There was a high-pitched wail, and then zombies poured into the kitchen from the alley as well as the dining room.

  Trips jumped to his feet. He wiped the sweat from his stinging eyes and drew his sword. Zombie servers, chefs, a valet, and customers came at him. He dunked a vicious toy-poodle in the fryolator, banged heads into the oven, slammed hands into the meat slicer, and cleaved through sinew and bone, muscle and skin.

  He opened the walk-in refrigerator to usher the zombies in when a four-hundred-pound vengeful zombie came out. He struck out at the large expanse of flesh, lacerating the right arm. It growled as Trips threw zombies in its way and dodged into the crowd. The creature tore through the others to get toward him just as Tony DeMarco came up from behind and cracked its skull with a cast iron skillet. Tony danced on the counter. “And he’s down! Tony gets it for the win!”

  Trips picked up his bike, and sloughed off the greasy gore. “Thanks, Tone.”

  “Me and Mouse been kicking zombie butt!”

  Mouse slid in beside him on the blood slick. “We got bikes, too!”

  With another report of gunfire, they saw what amounted to blood bags exploding. Something went spat against the swinging door. Guts slid down into a dripping pile. Mouse laughed. “It's all Italian with meat sauce!”

  They scuttled into the alley and hopped onto their bikes, Mouse’s words echoed in Trips brain. He thought back to the comment Ichiro had made at the bar, “They want your pasta Faggioli and how.” Ich must have seen this before.

  Mouse, Tony, and Trips stopped in a quiet area to catch their breath. Trips pulled out the map and his cell phone. He couldn’t tell if they had reached a secure area or not. The street signs were gone. It was dark. Geo-Coordinates weren’t helping, and he felt shaky. He swallowed, trying not to vomit a third time. “I lost my grunts back there.”

  “Your grunts or your guts?” Mouse smiled. “Just kidding, Trips.”

  “C’mon, this way,” Tony said, heading down a hill into the fog. “The North End I know like the back of my hand.”

  “Wait. We should call in. Where�
�s your army escort?” Trips asked.

  “They're dead.” Mouse shrugged. “Where’s yours?”

  “Don’t know, that’s the problem.”

  * * *

  They rode until they reached Salem Street. Trips cupped his fingers to his mouth warming them as they skid to a halt. The last time he’d been there was when he took Ami to Ernesto’s for pizza. The thought didn’t do anything to warm his numb extremities, nor did it make him hungry. All it did was make his stomach cramp. Don’t bloody puke again, Kentigern. Trips checked his watch, and then felt a prickly rush of heat up his spine. He put a hand in the air and called out, in a soft voice, “Hold up. Wait a sec.”

  Mouse and Tony stayed in place looking around. Mouse shivered. “What? What is it?”

  “Shh.” Trips listened hard through ragged exhalations. Hot clouds of steam threatened to fog up his binoculars. “Something’s back there.”

  “How come there aren’t any army guys? Where’s the A-team?” Mouse asked. “They’re supposed to be here. Did they all die? Are we the only ones left?”

  Tony hiked up his pilfered wool coat and glided on his bike to the corner. “There’s a jeep. You want me to get it? Maybe they left the keys.”

  Trips sliced his hand through the air, indicating Tony should pipe down. “I think maybe you found Raphe and them. Aren’t they supposed to be in that position, down there?” A signal light shined from the scaffolding down the block. “Maybe we’re in range.” Trips said. He thumbed up the gain on his headset. “Acknowledge, we see you. We’ve lost our escort. This is Trips, Mouse, and Tony.”

  “Psst, dude,” Tony said, sliding up toward Trips. He tapped his scanner. “Army issue piece of shit. It's not working! I can't see shit!”

  “Shh,” Trips said. “Adjust your helmet so you can hear orders. We’re back in range.” He watched dark figures from a Humvee join the couriers in the mist under the scaffolding. I should go over and report in. Report my grunts MIA. Trips stomach dropped when he heard Tony slapping the side of the radar unit. “Don’t! We can’t keep going without it. We’ll be dark.”

  “It’s glitching out,” Tony complained.

  Trips turned to Tony. “Yours was the last one working. We’re almost there. Just be a lookout.”

  “Yeah, but there's a bounty on how many you tag!”

  “Come in, please,” Trips said, over the comm. He turned to Tony, “Dude, keep it down. You’ll attract the zombies.”

  “Good! You get extra per head. And if you kill 'em, even more.” Tony hit the side of the radar unit again. “Fucking piece of crap!”

  “Nuh-uh, that's not true.” Mouse twirled on one wheel of his bike.

  Trips could see the silhouette of two riders investigating a nail salon. Two army grunts fell in behind them. Another team was heading into a small convenience store. “Look, all we have to do is get over there.”

  “Hah, what do you know,” Tony said, making a face. He pointed at the group heading into the convenience store. “We should be going in there. Could score some major snackage.”

  “Tony, here take mine. Okay?” Trips tossed Tony his scanner.

  The scanner landed in a puddle at Tony’s feet. “Give a guy a heads up.”

  Trips clucked his tongue as Tony reached for the scanner; then Mouse skidded over to stand with Trips and Tony. Trips sighed. “Mouse, what are you doing?”

  “You’re my buddy.” He grinned, then he shrugged. “We’re like the three Musketeers over here. They don't need me there.”

  “I could totally do a Three Musketeers.” Tony slapped Trips' scanner. “This one is a piece of shit too!”

  “Keep it down.”

  Mouse eyed Trips’ sword. “Dude, where'd you get that sword? We weren't issued weapons, 'cept these fryolator things.” He held up his stun gun. “How come you got a sword and all we get is a human-sized bug zapper? I want a sword.”

  Tony smacked the two scanners together, then looked up, sniffing the air. “Aw, man, who cut the cheese?”

  Trips put his hand out to take the scanners when Tony dropped them. “What the hell, dude?”

  Tony and Mouse skittered down an alley. Trips sighed and bent over to pick up the discarded scanners when he heard the rumble of an engine. He stood up looking for the source of the sound in the fog. Suddenly, lights cut through the mist. There was a crash. The scaffolding at the end of the block tumbled into the cobbled lane as steel poles bounced sending ringing echoes, and splintering wood caved all around him. A Mack truck barreled toward him, crushing half the parked cars.

  Before Trips could react, a Humvee pulled forward sideswiping him. He crumpled, tumbling into a pile of garbage. Artillery exploded. The gun turret on the Humvee crackled, spraying bullets. Trips watched thermite grenades of bright blue-white light explode with a sudden intense heat, and then there was no sound, only a high-pitched ringing in his ears.

  Flames arced overhead through the fog. Waves of zombies closed in. There was no escape. He was so tired he didn’t care. He could lie here and die. Then Tony was in his face, yelling and pulling him to his feet. Mouse was dragging his bike into the alley. They put him on the bicycle. Trips felt the familiar worn tape wrapping on the handlebars and his muscle memory took over; he rode hard and fast.

  They passed Monica's Mercado where Trips knew they should turn right, but they jogged left instead. Old North Church loomed ahead. Trips wanted to yell, ‘fall back,’ but he couldn’t get his tongue to work. They were heading back into the zombie zone.

  “Yo, yo check it. This is my hood, yo,” said Tony, peddling out of his seat. “We can go to my Grandma's.”

  “First base,” Trips breathed. He wasn't sure if he was speaking. All he could hear was a high-pitched ringing. He pulled over and took out his phone. He tapped various sequences by rote, not entirely sure what he was doing. He boxed his ears, trying to clear his head.

  “Yo, Tone, we lost him,” Mouse said, looking back at Trips at the bottom of the hill. Tony and Mouse rode back to where Trips was punching stuff into his phone. “He ain’t lookin’ too good, Tony.”

  “Not good,” Trips said, holding the phone out shakily. “Base. First base.”

  Mouse asked, “Why is he talking baseball?”

  Tony leaned in, then took the phone. “What are you showing me? What is this?”

  Trips cracked his jaw. Air rushed in, and he could hear on one side. He collapsed on his handlebars. “Get back to base.”

  “How come he got all this cool shit?” Tony asked, turning to Mouse.

  Mouse made a face looking at the blood caked in Trips’ hair. “More like, how come he’s bleeding out his ears?”

  Trips took the phone. “Little Z's means bad.”

  Tony pointed at something behind Trips and backed up.

  Trips turned to see red-mouthed zombie faces mashed against windows. A squeak of a metal gate and Trips heard growling from behind. Zombies were coming out of everywhere. Scraping, bone on stone, ragged, drooling, clawing from everywhere.

  “The zombies are coming. The zombies are coming,” Mouse squeaked.

  The three of them bolted like frightened colts charging toward the safety of Prince Street. Trips passed Tony and Mouse and wanted to keep going, but he glanced over his shoulder and saw that they had Mouse. He pulled up on his handlebars and swung around releasing his sword from the scabbard. The flat of his blade braced like a lance, he charged up the hill, hacking through the putrid flesh surrounding Mouse. Glop stuck to his blade as he pulled back striking again and again. Foul odor, chopping through bone, black blood spray, nasty taste, hot breath, screaming, riding, peddling, pushing harder.

  * * *

  Trips sat on the granite curb with his arms flopped over the black anchor chain in front of Paul Revere's house. He read and reread his orders, but none of it made any sense, and he couldn’t quite remember what had happened. He looked up as Tony came into view. “Mouse is still in with the doctor.”

  Trips nodded and held u
p a thumb, and he glanced down indicating Tony should join him.

  “Nah, thanks. I’m going to wait inside. In case,” he shrugged, “you know.” Tony hitched a thumb toward Dewey. “But he’s been looking for you.”

  Trips smiled as Dewey squatted down in front of him. “Hey, Trips. How you doing? Got a headache?”

  Trips nodded and laid his bloody ear on his arm, looking sleepy.

  “Know who I am? Can you hear me?”

  “Sure. You’re all bum and parsley,” Trips squeaked hoarsely with a half-smile. “Worst guitar player ever.”

  Dewey put a finger in front of Trips nose, then waved a small flashlight in his eyes. “Ah-yep, think you have a concussion, there, bro.” Dewey stood up and held out a hand to Trips. “C'mon, let's get you all checked out.”

  Chapter 25: Watch This

  Ami stroked the cat after their ordeal wrestling zombie Mrs. Needlebaum into the large capacity dryer in the laundry room. She sipped hot tea as the cat lapped up reconstituted powdered milk. “We’ll never do laundry again, will we Miss Kitty? Nuh-uh. Never, ever again.”

  She left the cat in the kitchen and went to spritz her hair in the bathroom. Staring at her reflection in the mirror, she combed out her brown hair in long strokes. It’s starting to look shabby, but washing it is out of the question despite the steampunk recycling system. Better to keep the water for drinking. She set the comb down, and rubbed her eyes. You’re exhausted. You need to sleep, Ami. Your hair is fine.

  She slept restlessly. Hours later, her phone chirped. She grabbed the phone. Message? Trips?

  The GPS showed he was en route to Sand and Gravel. Oh, man, that ain’t good. Middle of the night run? Ami pinched the display on the phone. “Dang it, can’t see jack all.”

  On her laptop, the new version of Ichiro’s GPS program loaded, but the software wouldn’t run. She dialed Ichiro with the computer sitting beside her.

  Ichiro answered on the third ring. “What? I'm a little busy right now!”