Plagued_The Angel Rise Zombie Retribution Experiment

by Better Hero Army

  “Let it go,” Frankie snarled.

  Penelope growled, her eyes narrowing. Hank grabbed her by the shoulder and tugged her back, stepping in front of her.

  Paul let his weapon go. “You’re dead,” Paul gasped, nearly falling over his own legs.

  Frankie snapped at the driver. “Take Paul back to the hospital and make sure he’s okay.” He stuffed Paul into the back seat and ordered one of the other guards to go with them.

  The SUV started off as Frankie spun around to head for the front door. “Come on, Henry,” he said over his shoulder. “Doctor Tate is waiting.”

  Thirty-Nine

  It was a lot nicer inside the building than it looked on the outside. The lavish reception area had an enormous television mounted to the wall over a sitting area. One of the 24-hour news shows ran in silence, the closed-caption scrolling smoothly in an overlaid window. All the seats around it were nice and comfortable looking, arranged to face a coffee table covered in magazines and slick glossies of all the industries Breckenrock served. An attractive woman sat at the front desk, holding a couple of badges out for Frankie.

  “Don’t forget to give them back this time,” she said, withdrawing the badges as Frankie reached out to take them.

  “I will,” he said. She didn’t give the badges to him. “Come on, Julie.”

  She smirked and held them out.

  Penelope stopped, her eyes drawn to the newscast. The strobe of a thousand camera flashes peppered the scene of Senator Jefferson coming into some meeting room with Doctor Wendy O’Farrell by his side. The overlay had the words “Breaking News” and “Live” surrounding the headline “Jefferson’s Daughter Finally Revealed.”

  “What the—?”

  Even Frankie stood unmoving for a second. “About time they unveiled her,” Frankie said as he held the badges between them. “Here.”

  Hank looked down and took the badges. He handed one to Penelope and motioned for her to take it, then showed her what to do by clipping one to his jacket. She tried the same a few times, growling softly after her third attempt. Hank wanted to help, but he played it off by leaning forward as though the television had his attention, so Frankie couldn’t see Penelope fumbling with the clip over and over again.

  The news actually interested him, too. Like everyone else in the world, he wanted to see the girl. He knew what Larissa looked like—at least how bad she was a week ago when they brought her back from biter territory. A complete wreck—and he didn’t think a week was enough time to make her appear any less hideous. The reason he wanted to see her was because he expected a body-double. He had no rational evidence for thinking it, but he had the feeling the Senator and his team had floated the idea around more than once.

  Penelope figured out the clip and grunted her satisfaction, tossing her hair back in triumph, then stared at the television again.

  Frankie started for the elevators. “You coming?”

  “Hang on,” Hank said. “Don’t you want to see this?”

  On the screen, the Senator was standing at a podium with Wendy a few feet behind him and to the side, trying to appear interested and inconspicuous at the same time. She didn’t look comfortable, but at least she wasn’t being ignored, or worse, ferreted away and kept out of sight like those other two who had come out of the Quarantine Zone with her.

  Frankie looked back at the television and shook his head. “No, I’m good. I just saw her last night.”

  Hank didn’t acknowledge hearing it, but that was another little nugget he wasn’t about to ignore. “So, where’s all this happening?”

  “The hotel?” Frankie asked, pointing at the television. He squinted for a second and confirmed with a nod. “Yeah, back in town. Come on. Tate has to be on air in twenty minutes.”

  “On air?” Hank begrudgingly followed Frankie, giving Penelope a tug to draw her away from the television. She stepped in line behind him, with the two suits that had been with Frankie bringing up the rear.

  “Live coverage about the cure,” Frankie replied like he was already bored with the conversation. Haughty prick. He pressed the call button on the elevator. “So, you can see him right now, or wait around a couple hours. Your call.”

  “Now’s fine,” Hank said. His phone chimed and he plucked it out of his pocket.

  Frankie lifted a brow. “You know how to use one of those things?”

  Hank glowered back, tapping the message on screen, hoping he wasn’t screwing up in front of the asshole. He looked at the message. It was from Tom. “Check out news. Dad’s showing off sis.”

  Hank didn’t want to fumble with a response, so he tucked the phone into his pocket. He knew he should have said something about where they were, just in case, but the kid had enough to deal with, and honestly, what could he do about getting them out of the lion’s den?

  The elevator chimed and Penelope let out a soft growl meant for Hank. They weren’t even in the elevator yet and she was already getting squirrelly. Hank leaned in and whispered in her ear, “Don’t freak out this time.”

  She grunted and sneered at him.

  “Up and down. That’s all.”

  The door to the elevator yawned opened. A man tapping a pack of cigarettes stepped out. He looked up at the group, his previously sour expression switching instantly to a smile the moment he realized he wasn’t alone. His eyes fell on Hank and lingered.

  “Hank?!”

  Aw, hell, another goddamned coincidence?! “Hey, Marcus. Long time—”

  “—no see,” Marcus Holden echoed, his fake grin widening.

  Was there anyone else on the goddamned planet he hadn’t run into?

  Forty

  Marcus Holden was one of the regulars at the Trading Forum, the main saloon on Biter’s Hill. He spent more time hanging around listening to other people’s stories than actually going out and doing any work. He did odd jobs inside the walls mostly. He didn’t own a rig, so he was always at the mercy of someone else to take him into Biter Territory—an okay worker when he was out there, but he never really fit in. Too smart. One of those intellectuals who was always thinking that it could be done better this way or that, always poking holes in ideas, but never really rolling up his sleeves to do anything about it. Then one day he up and leaves, and the next week he’s on television and has a book on the New York Times Bestsellers list, a big hotshot everyone outside thought of as some kind of expert on the zombie problem. A first-hand observer.

  “Dude,” Marcus said, holding a hand out to shake Hank’s. “I’ve been wanting to talk to you about Senator Jefferson’s rescue.”

  “Yeah,” Hank said, holding up his bandaged hand and waving it as way of declining the handshake. Yeah, I bet you have, is what he wanted to say. “We should get a beer and catch up.”

  Marcus smiled and nodded, sliding his hands into his pockets, hiding away the cigarettes. The guy was a chain-smoker, even back in the day. “A beer sounds good.”

  Hank side-stepped in front of Penelope as though allowing Marcus room to get by, but what he really wanted to do was keep Marcus from getting a good look at her. The last thing Hank wanted was for Marcus to recognize her, even on a longshot. The prick left two years ago, but still, Penelope was one of those women that was…remarkable.

  “So, what happened to the hand?”

  “Just a little burn compliments of the EPS,” Hank said with a shrug. He side-stepped toward the elevators, nudging Penelope behind him.

  Frankie put a hand in the elevator door to keep it from closing. “You two know each other, huh?”

  “Yeah, from the old days,” Marcus said, smiling toward Frankie now. “You’re in good hands with this guy, Hank. He manages the best damned security team in the world.”

  Hank held his tongue. It hadn’t been lost on him that if things had gone a little differently, he’d be in Frankie’s shoes right now.

  “Where’re you two off to?”

  “Upstairs,” Frankie replied, his tone sounding far less irritated around
Marcus than with Hank. “Boss wants to see him,” he added with a nod toward Hank.

  “That so?” Marcus clapped Hank on the shoulder. “You’ll have to tell me all about that, too. Don’t leave without saying hi. I’ll be up in a minute.”

  “Sure,” Hank replied. “Sure thing.” He didn’t really have any intention of talking with Marcus again, but he also didn’t want to hang around in the lobby all day waiting for bad things to happen. Hank backed Penelope into the elevator.

  Marcus stood outside the elevator up until the doors swung shut. Frankie sighed and looked at Hank. “You known him long?”

  “Never seen him before in my life,” Hank replied blandly.

  That got a humorous snort from Frankie. “He’s one of our spokesmen. Tate likes having authentic voices.”

  “Good choice.”

  Another snort.

  The elevator cruised to the fourth floor. Thankfully, Penelope didn’t go crazy in the thing, but then again, this elevator was smooth as a baby’s butt. Hank didn’t even feel it moving.

  The fourth floor was wide open with cubicles surrounded by large offices that blocked off the windows. Typical management-centered, ego-driven style and thinking he expected from an enormous company like Breckenrock. Frankie led them along the wall of doors to a corner conference room adorned with a massive glass white board on one side and a fantastic view of the forest on the other. Miles off, the curve of the channel carved its way through the treetops. From this distance, the Quarantine Zone didn’t look any different than the rest of the world.

  Penelope walked over and stood beside the window, looking out. Hank wondered if she was gauging their chances at making a jump for it. The crazy girl had done it before, jumped off a roof back at Midamerica. Almost killed her.

  “Turn out your pockets,” Frankie said. “Everything on the table. Jacket, too.”

  Hank sighed.

  “S.O.P., man,” Frankie said. “You know the drill.”

  “I know, I know,” Hank replied, digging through his pockets. He pulled out the piece of paper with Rebecca’s numbers on it and handed it to Penelope. “Stuff this in your pocket,” he said quietly. “Just in case.”

  Penelope nodded and did as he said.

  He spilled the rest of his junk onto the table, including the zombie survival pack and his jacket. The burner phone he handed to Penelope. “This too. In case your boy calls.”

  Penelope’s eyes narrowed as though she were asking him how the hell she was supposed to talk to him.

  Hank stepped in front of Frankie and put his hands on his head. Frankie sighed and pat him down one more time, a little more thoroughly than his suits had. He may have been a prick, but he was good at his job. Hank couldn’t begrudge him for that.

  “I’ll be right back,” Frankie said and stepped outside, leaving a suit standing in the doorway as Frankie walked to the adjacent office.

  Hank retreated to the window, keeping his distance from all his things on the table. He stood a few feet from Penelope. “What do you think?”

  She growled.

  “My sentiment exactly. Just be cool, okay?”

  Penelope grunted, sneering as she pointed out the window. Hank followed the line of her finger. Marcus Holden was down there smoking his cigarette. She recognized him. She knew he was from the Hill. She had probably seen him on television lately, too.

  “Avoid him,” Hank whispered. “Try not to let him get a good look at you, okay?”

  She nodded.

  “Come on, Hank,” Frankie said from the doorway.

  Hank nodded and headed for the door. Penelope tried to follow him.

  “Just Hank,” Frankie said to Penelope.

  Hank gave Penelope a nod. “Don’t worry. It’ll only be a couple minutes.”

  She swallowed hard. It made Hank wonder when was the last time anyone had left her alone? He didn’t think she’d ever been alone since leaving Peske, and before that, her alone time was spent in a cage. Maybe being locked in the room would feel the same. Her eyes darted this way and that, but she decided to back to the windows again. It made him worry that she really thought she could survive the fall.

  Forty-One

  The adjacent office was as big as the conference room, with plush chairs, a thick mahogany desk, and a small man behind it. Doctor Samuel Tate was one of those short guys with a stocky build that didn’t age well. His barrel chest, and stubby arms and legs gave him the appearance of a melon. He stood, but it didn’t do much for his stature.

  “Ah, Henry,” Tate said.

  “Doctor,” Hank replied with a curt nod, entering the room and approaching the desk. Tate held out a hand as he came around the side. Hank showed his bandage. “Rain check on the handshake.”

  “Oh, no. What happened?”

  “Bah, nothing,” Hank said, trying to downplay it. “Little burn from that EPS fiasco.”

  “Isn’t that terrible,” Tate said, hiking up his leg and side-saddling the desktop. He was talking about the EPS, not Hank’s hand. Tate shook his head in disgust. “I can’t fathom why anyone would do such a thing.”

  “You and me, both.” Hank looked at the chairs facing the desk.

  “Please,” Tate said with a wave.

  Hank eased into the nearest chair, sighing. It wasn’t that he was tired, it was that the situation frustrated him a little.

  “I hope Frank and his men weren’t heavy-handed with you. When Frank told me you were in town yesterday, I asked him to have his men bring you in if they saw you. I wanted to talk.”

  “Sure,” Hank said. “Frankie’s been fine. His crew was fine.”

  Tate sighed.

  This was it. Hank figured Tate was about to go on about what happened, and he really didn’t want to rehash the experience. “Look,” Hank said, heading the conversation off. “If this is about what happened eight years ago—”

  “I wanted to thank you for saving my life,” Tate said.

  Hank’s head rolled back a little as though the words tried to punch him. “Come again?”

  “I never got a chance to thank you. Your swift action—stopping that man and getting me to the hospital—you saved my life.”

  “It’s my fault in the first place, Doc. I didn’t know him and I put him on the team.”

  Tate closed his eyes and took a breath. “You didn’t know he meant to shoot me.”

  “I should have seen the signs.”

  “No one’s infallible. Case in point, and one of the reasons I wanted to talk with you. You remember Doctor Danielle Kennedy, don’t you?”

  Another coincidence, and easily another damned failure. “Yeah, from the Midamerica rescue.”

  “I thought I could trust her. Hell, I knew her for four years. Had her to the house for dinner with Melanie and Brandon a dozen times. You remember my son, Brandon, don’t you?”

  “Yeah, sure,” Hank said, nodding. Tate didn’t have any pictures around his desk, and Hank couldn’t remember what the kid looked like after all these years. He remembered his wife, Melanie, though. A knock-out of a woman, but always getting nips and tucks.

  “He’s a senior this year. Getting ready to go to Boston College.”

  “Good school.”

  “It is, but that’s beside the point. You know, Danielle had a key to my condo in Miami. She was part of the family. I thought she was a team player. I made her my chief scientist on the cure project, and what did she do? She stole the curative formula right out from under our noses.”

  Hank stared wide-eyed.

  “Thank God Doctor O’Farrell managed to save one of the vials that Danielle fabricated.”

  Hank nodded, holding his tongue. Hearing that Wendy was still part of all of this meant he needed to tip-toe around how well he knew her, and the fact that there were more vials in Tom’s possession.

  “We’re analyzing it now. It seems to be a variant of one of Doctor O’Farrell’s compounds. Thankfully she forwarded her findings to someone on the team over here when she th
ought she had a breakthrough last year, asking for independent confirmation. Everything else was lost in the Rock Island disaster.”

  There was a knock at the door. Tate looked at his watch as he stood. A damned Rolex, of course.

  A woman opened the door and leaned in. “Ten minutes,” she said, and just as quietly retreated, shutting the door behind her.

  Tate sighed. “I trusted Danielle, and she stabbed me in the back. I’m about to go on the air and announce to the world a delivery date on a cure I don’t even know how to make. If I couldn’t foresee something like this, then how can I blame you for the mistakes of eight years ago, Henry? How can you blame yourself?”

  “Doc,” Hank said, shaking his head. He didn’t want to be let off that easy, not after all these years.

  “Just…don’t think there’s any ill-will between us is all I’m trying to say, Henry.”

  “I understand, but—”

  “And I have a favor to ask of you.”

  “Sure. Shoot, Doc.”

  “I’ve read the statements about how Danielle…died,” Tate said, returning to his chair on the other side of the desk. Hank felt the air in the room get a little heavier. Tate eased into the plush, leather chair and leaned forward. “I’m not sure I trust the accuracy of anyone’s accounts of the events, but I doubt the truth affected reality much. What I don’t know, and this is where I’m hoping you can help fill in some details for me, is how Carl reacted when he found out.”

  “Carl?”

  “Senator Jefferson’s bodyguard. The man who shot and killed Lieutenant Jones and—”

  “I know who he is. What does Carl have to do with anything?”

  “Well,” Tate said, straight-faced. “That’s what I’m asking your opinion on. Carl was with you when you left Midamerica, right?”

  “We were on the same snowmobile, yeah, but it’s not like we talked or anything.”

  “What about before that? And when you were all digging out the train?”