Survivor Response

by Patrick J. Harris

  “What the hell? His skin’s tearing apart,” Alex said. “Go a little slower, and I’ll hold his head.”

  Alex slid his hands between the helmet and the commando’s head. Varney pulled slower, exposing matted strands of black hair. The silver and maroon patch at the base of the skull appeared in full, about two inches square with prongs embedded into the skin. The helmet slid further off, hair ripped away and five red wires extended from the patch, over the skull.

  “This is fucked up,” Alex said, wrinkling his nose. His body shuddered.

  The helmet made a muted pop once Varney pulled it over the forehead. White electrodes mottled against the skull, attached to the wires. One on the forehead now dangled loose, one on each temple and the remaining two high and to the back of the skull.

  “Jesus Christ,” Varney said, still holding the helmet. “He—it looks like a he, judging by the jaw and cheekbones, has been dead for several weeks. Maybe longer.”

  “Do you think we can get an ID on him?” said Karen.

  Alex turned and spoke. “It depends. If he was swabbed for DNA when he came into the city, and fingerprinted, yes. Assuming there are still fingerprints.” He picked up a hand covered in black kevlar. “He, it, whatever, its face is blown out, I mean, damn. What’d this guy do to become this? I’ve seen people throw themselves at zombies in suicidal fits, but,” he fingered the piece of metal at the base of the skull, “this is new.”

  “I’ve never seen anything like it either,” Varney said, tracing his fingers along the wires. “These are electrodes, right? They’re supposed to do something to—stimulate the brain, right?”

  Karen knew doctors in the city, and mulled if any would be able to assess the electrode-covered body with discretion. To create this abomination appeared to take knowledge and skill, purposeful, even, to do something she couldn’t begin to figure out. She eyed the rest of the body, wondering if they’d find any more wires snaking across its rotting flesh, and how many more roamed Greenport. By now, Alan surely knew of the disaster and the commandos. Karen pictured him sitting in his office punching his keyboard and running response scenarios to determine how much of the city’s resources would be taken away from his projects to fix the damage to the street. He probably already drafted talking points for Mayor Denning. A camera bolted to a street light turned, scanning the street.

  “Varney, go to the other dead commando, ”Karen said.

  “Still think it’s a commando?” Alex said.

  Karen shot him a look. “Because, you see that ZMT rig behind us, and the dead people on this street? These things acted like military commandos. Killing.”

  “Okay, okay, got it.”

  “Varney, get the other dead commando isolated from onlookers, and make sure it gets in the rig when it arrives. Tell the crew not to do anything to it until we find a doctor to look it over.”

  “Yes ma’am,” Varney said, and jogged down the street.

  “Alex, stay here with this one. I’m going to check with your crew.”

  “Okay. Let me know if they need me.”

  “Will do.” She started to go and stopped. “And thank you, Alex, for your help.”

  “Not a problem. Comes with the job.”

  Karen walked through the crowd, her arms tight across her chest. She felt guilty snapping at Alex before. The ZMT’s job was hard and dangerous, and she worked to give them understanding while needing them to do hard and dangerous things. All the hard and dangerous things that made her fear for Paul every day. She looked back to the crowd in hopes of a glimpse of Paul’s hair or face, but found only curious bystanders.

  She approached the ransacked ZMT truck, and the female tech now laid on a rolling stretcher with her neck and legs braced. The stretcher clicked and popped as the two ZMTs working on her raised it and began to roll her to their truck.

  Karen jogged to meet them. “How is she?”

  The black male ZMT with a graying goatee didn’t look up. “She’s beat up. Broken femur, probably a broken rib or two, judging by her breathing. Took punches to the face, but she’s alive.”

  Karen walked along side the cart and looked down, glancing to the female tech’s left breast. The name tag read ‘Zaboski’. Her cheeks swelled red and her left eye was fully closed, while strands of blonde hair broke lose from her bun. The pant legs had been sheared open and the femur in her left leg rose to her skin, about to puncture the surface.

  “Stay with her, whatever you do, stay with her when you get her to the hospital,” Karen said.

  “What about—?”

  “Don’t worry about the damn reports. Do not let her out of your sight, and stay armed,” Karen said as they picked up the cart and collapsed it into the back of their truck.

  The ZMT stopped abruptly and jerked his head. “Say what?”

  “Stay armed. If you get grief, have them call me.”

  “And you are?”

  “Ray, that’s Karen, from dispatch,” the other tech said.

  “Or better,” said Karen, remembering her phone shattering into pieces, “Call dispatch. That’s where I’ll be heading, if I can find a ride. Your message will get to me, promise.”

  “All right. When we get going, we’ll call a rig for you,” Ray said.

  “Thank you.”

  “Where’s Alex, our other guy?”

  Karen gestured beyond the crowd behind her. “He’s watching the dead commando.”

  Ray looked to his partner, a male tech who slid out of the back of the rig with their patient secured inside. “We’re not leaving without him, are we Mitch?”

  Mitch closed the doors to the cab and rested his hands on his stocky waist. “No, he arrived here with us. He leaves here with us.”

  Karen knew the ZMT crews were close. Spending ten to twelve hour shifts inside sixty square feet on wheels, fighting zombies briefly and then coping with the adrenaline come down when things return to normal. They grew close and protective; friendly rivalries often skirmished between crews in the truck bay with pick-up basketball games or sarcastic barbs tossed across the room. Alex would need to head to the hospital with Ray and Mitch.

  “I’ll go back and get him,” she said. “And keep me informed on the status of your crewmate, Zaboski.”

  “Will do. Thanks, and tell him to move it,” said Ray.

  Karen hurried back to the crowd, now thinner than before. With the initial shock and morbid curiosity fading, people now ambled away, she guessed to go home. And without Paul, she herself resolved not to go home; instead, she’d go to dispatch, search for him and figure out what these commandos were.

  Alex still knelt by the dead commando, inspecting its hand, having removed its glove.

  “Alex! What the hell are you doing?” she said, grabbed his shoulder.

  He jumped to his side. “I—I began poking—”

  “Poking?”

  “Assessing the body—”

  “What, why?” Karen held her hands in front of her.

  “Well, I, I mistakenly touched its hand. And it felt weird, like there were metal plates in the glove, but hardly any skin. I tapped around it more, and the palm was soft, and springy, but the top, and the outer part had some kind of metal over the bone. I cut the glove off, and underneath was a dark grey sleeve, but I still didn’t see any metal. So I cut through that, but as I was doing that, this wasn’t typical cloth. My knife kept making scraping noises—”

  “Scraping?”

  “Like….” Alex’s eyes searched for a tangible comparison, “Imagine fishing line, but thin and made of metal. Now mix that with a synthetic fiber like neoprene, the stuff used in wet suits.”

  “Okay...”

  “Well,” he held a piece of the dark grey fabric to Karen. The strands of cloth at the edges frayed wildly, but silver nettles of wire bent jaggedly from where it met Alex’s knife. “I peeled off that glove, and it gets more messed up.”

  He held up the stripped hand. Its palm was wrinkled and emaciated, rotten green. But
on the other side, bits of brushed metal held to the bone, riveted into place. Triplets of smaller pieces covered each finger. Alex bent the fingers,, flexing the hand as if to grip a gun or make a fist.

  Karen knelt next to Alex. “Has anyone else seen this?”

  “Maybe someone in the crowd, but I did my best to block it from their view.”

  She scanned the six or seven people still mulling beyond Varney and Moretti. If someone had taken photos or video with their phone, they had already done so. No one held out a device in her direction. She looked up to the street light and to the brick building across from her, and an uneasy assurance crossed her mind, knowing Alan already knew. She trusted him to a degree. He was competent and brilliant at implementing the city’s resources, but unplanned or out of the ordinary events made him erratic. Upticks in ZMT calls would bring him into her office, wanting to discuss preventative outreach initiatives.

  “Alex, for now, keep this between you and me until we can find someone who can look at the bodies and figure out what we’re looking at,” Karen said, waving her arm over the commando’s hand Alex inspected. “Head back with your crew, and I’ll call you.”

  “Okay, but what about the body?”

  “I’ll stay here with it until another crew comes to pick it up.”

  Alex stood, brushing grit off his pants. “And you?”

  “I’ll ride back to central with that crew,” she said, averting her eyes from his as he pulled a containment bag from his cargo pants pocket and peeled his blue rubber gloves off. “Alex, before you go—”

  “Yes?”

  “Did you see,” the words paused on her lips—“Paul?”

  Alex stopped fidgeting with his containment bag. “No, but I wasn’t really watching the crowd. He’s probably here somewhere, just helping out is all. Will you be okay?”

  A siren wailed, and she looked up and down the street, wanting to see Paul carrying someone. Or treating injuries. Or walking toward her. “Yes, go to your crew.” She looked up. “I’ll let you know about the commando’s body.”

  Alex paused while Karen rubbed her hands over her knees. “Okay, and Karen, we’ll find him.”

  “I’m sure we will.”

  The wailing grew louder as it approached, now. Red and blue lights strobed brighter, washing over the street and buildings. Two ZMT rigs arrived, stopping only a few yards from Karen, their yellowed headlights spotlighted on the turned over semi. She waved her arms high above her head.

  The crew parked closest to her burst from their truck. The driver ran toward her, carrying a medical bag. The passenger disappeared behind the cab, leaving the door open and reappeared with the third crew member, pulling a rolling stretcher. Dropping the medical bag, the driver, balding but with a full, red beard, rushed to pull on his gloves.

  Karen shook her head. “You can slow down. It’s dead.”

  “Are you sure?” the bearded tech asked, sliding his hands to find the carotid artery for a pulse. His thumb brushed the metal implant at the base of the skull. “What the fuck?” He looked up at Karen.

  “No clue, but yes, it’s dead. I need your crew to take this one, and the other to the hospital.”

  “The call for emergency transport makes sense now,” he said, his fingers pinched along a wire, tracing it from the back of the head to the electrode at the temple.

  The other two techs stood behind them and dropped the stretcher to the ground.

  “Donovan,” a brunette woman called out to the bearded tech. “What’s the call?”

  Donovan looked up at Karen, about to stroke his beard, but stopped inches from his face. “We’re transporting two bodies to the hospital for—” He paused, raised his left eyebrow.

  “Observation.”

  “Observation?”

  “These—bodies are not normal, as you can see,” Karen said, pointing to the strings of wire. “There are more of them in the city, and we need to figure out what they are.”

  “How many more?”

  “I don’t know. Two, maybe? I saw two run away from here. The other body is down at the other end of the street, by the coffee shop.”

  “Okay...” Donovan twisted and spoke to his team. “Shelly and Vee, pick up the other body first, and come back here. We’ll load up then and go.”

  The brunette, Shelly, tugged the stretcher upward, clicking the joints in place. “All right.”

  The cart’s wheels creaked as the two techs zigzagged away through debris and bystanders down the street. Karen recounted the entire evening to Donovan, whose eyebrows rolled with each piece of information she shared.

  “This is all kind of insane.”

  “I know, which, if I could ask one last thing of you?”

  “Sure.”

  “Can I hitch a ride back to central with you, after the hospital?”

  “That’s doable. I don’t think Vee would mind you back there, especially since she won’t have to be working on the body.”

  “Okay, good. Thank you.”

  Vee and Shelly returned, the cart squawking now with the added weight it carried. Other than the blown out helmet and face, the body appeared untouched. The women lowered the cart, and Donovan slid to his right and grabbed the commando’s ankles. Shelly came around and grappled the commando’s shirt at its shoulders, and exhaled loudly.

  “One, two, three,” she said, then hoisting the limp body on top of the other already on the stretcher. The arms dangled loosely, and Vee reached around to hold them, while the others held the body.

  “What’s up with that hand?” Vee said.

  “No idea,” said Karen. “Another tech discovered it out of curiosity.”

  “Huh.”

  Karen trailed the crew to their truck. She waited as Donovan and Vee loaded the stretcher into the cab, and surveyed the street. The other crew that arrived treated injuries, and worked with the fire fighters to clear the road.

  “Hey, Karen, hop in,” Vee called.

  Karen’s eyes swept the scene, one last time. She let out a long sigh before climbing into the truck.

  Where did Paul go?

  Chapter 12

  Paul jostled between the back and front seat of the SUV’s dark interior, attempting to steady himself. A challenge due to the dead weight of an unconscious Greenport truck driver at his feet. Orange-tinted street lights flickered rapidly across the windows. He braced his left hand on the leather bench behind him and reached for the plastic console between the front two seats, grabbing hold of the driver’s armrest instead. Bobby drove, swerving and veering wildly.

  As Paul settled his feet, Julian sprawled across the floor, squeezed his eyes and stretched his jaw.

  The engine briefly ceased screaming and the increasing acceleration stopped. Through the windshield, Paul watched a stoplight blink from green to yellow, and brake lights pulse ahead. The SUV swerved into oncoming traffic, Paul’s fingers clawed at the leather bench’s stitching for traction as momentum shoved him to the right side door. His left shoulder blade collided with the round knob of the window handle, and his right knee buckled and twisted under him while his left leg kicked the man on the floor in the back of the head.

  Julian kicked his legs out and flung his arms up to protect the back of his head as the SUV careened a hard right turn. Tires screeched along pavement, horns blared, and Paul bounced to the left side of the vehicle. He turned his head as it slammed against the back of Julian’s hand.

  A throaty roar erupted below Paul and hands met his throat and pushed him up. “What the fuck, man? Quit beating me.”

  Again, Paul sought to steady himself, careful not to step on Julian. “I’m not. I keep getting thrown around by our asshole driver.”

  The SUV evened out enough that Paul could hoist himself up to the passenger’s side of the bench. He leaned and extended his hands to help Julian up off the floor.

  “Sorry about that,” Bobby said, glancing to the rearview mirror. “I’m in a hurry to get across the bridge and get the hell a
way from that shitstorm of a wreck back there. Paul, who were those guys dressed all in black?”

  “What?”

  “The guys,” Bobby repeated. “All black clothing. One was running right at us when we were leaving.”

  “You mean as I was carrying him,” Paul said. “While you pointed a gun at me? And then kidnapped me?”

  Julian rubbed his eyes and rolled his head. “What the fuck is going on?”

  “First of all,” Bobby said, “I didn’t have the gun pointed at you during that—”

  “I clearly remember—”

  “Okay, at one point,” Bobby said, gripping the steering wheel. “I did, but then I had to shoot the guy in black. Second of all, I did not kidnap you, I merely took you out of a situation.”

  “Throwing me in the back of an SUV, yeah, sure.”

  A fist beat the back of Bobby’s seat and Julian yelled, “What. Is. Going. On?”

  “Damned if I know,” Paul said, sitting back, gripping the armrest attached to the door, and glowered at Bobby through the rearview. “Ask Bobby. Bobby?”

  Bobby veered the car right, passing a slow hatchback. “I was only supposed to pick up Julian and some other guy—Miles.”

  “For what, man?” Julian said, tugging the seatbelt across his chest. It clicked, and with both hands on Bobby’s seat he leaned forward. “That doesn’t tell me shit! This morning, I was in prison, not getting jacked around. I got yanked out, dropped off at some warehouse and forced to drive an eighteen wheeler to Foxer. So where the hell were you supposed to pick me up? Before or after Miles got sick and turned?”

  “He was with you? The crawling guy? Damn. That must have been Miles,” Bobby said, unsure. “I think I shot him.”

  Julian settled back and sighed. “I guess he got thrown when I crashed the semi after he attacked me. Damn kid.”

  “Wait a minute,” Paul said. “You were in prison this morning?”

  “That’s what I said.”

  “Was there an escape?”

  “No, a whole group of us were herded out, and like I said, taken to a warehouse.”