“Yeah, but it’s been over three days by now. That’s how long it takes you to turn, that’s what you said.”
She placed her hands out in front of her.
“The incubation period is not set in stone; there could be all types of variations.”
“Reckon I’d best pay Tony another visit.”
“I’d like to tag along too, if that’s okay with you?”
Eastman nodded, then took her arm as they walked down the track. “Anne, I know I seemed kinda hard on Gerard... How is he?”
She narrowed her eyes at him before replying.
“Yes you were. He’s lucky Taylor knew what he was doing. If that blow had been harder, Gerard could well be dead.”
“I guess I was too heavy handed.”
“You two go back a long way, don’t you?”
“I know he’s a brute and damn infuriating one at that, but after Helen was killed he stuck to me like glue.”
“Helen was a big part of you but you never talk about her. I have to ask other people to find out about her.”
“Sometimes when the light is right or certain times of day, I swear I can see her across the other side of the corral. I try my darndest not to blink, ‘cause when I do she’s gone.”
He looked at Anne with an almost apologetic look. “It must sound kinda crazy to you.”
She looked deep into Eastman’s eyes. “After Paul was murdered, I had to take some R and R and I went home. For weeks I could smell his cologne in every room. Brad, as long as we remember them they’re not really dead. It’s when we forget them, they’re gone.”
Eastman smiled at her. “Come on Doc. We got us an appointment with the Mayor.”
****
Taylor felt dejected. His search of the camp had proven fruitless. He’d spent hours dodging grunts only to reach the conclusion the camp was just that: a camp? The prefabs had turned out to be accommodation and supply rooms. There’d been a medical unit but this had no more devious purpose than to serve the medical needs of the containment force. Even the dead bodies he’d found had been stored in refrigerated storage. There’d been no sign of any holding pens for the infected or gruesome experiment labs. Damn, what a waste of time!
As he walked around the old airbase he was thankful for the Army jacket he’d ‘liberated’ from the camp, as the chill night air rustled through the trees. He zipped up the front and studied the map with the torch, two more ‘liberated’ items. Eastman had been right; this old relic was nowhere near the size of the structure he’d imagined.
Taylor knew a lot of these places had shelters below ground and some were vast, but this was way too rural to warrant that kinda expenditure. Then a small patch of concrete took his eye. Nothing special but why would anybody want to patch up this dump and with new concrete? The beam from his flash-light danced about the desolate shell as he went inside.
The smell of damp hit him as he cast his eyes over the walls and the rubble-strewn interior. This had once been a magnet for low lifes judging by the beer cans and other rubbish lying around. However, that had been some time ago, the cans had rusted and his gut feeling told him the place was a dead house. Just as he was about to leave, his probing gaze picked up a bright glint of polished metal amongst the filth and grime.
On the countless military operations he’d endured, the ability to detect and process information could be the difference between setting an IED off, or walking home on both your legs. The position of rocks and objects on a sidewalk, even plain old trash that just looked out of place spoke reams of information. If something didn’t look right then it probably wasn’t.
Taylor walked over to the object and bent down to retrieve silver eight inch long bolt. Turning the object between his fore finger and thumb as he scrutinised it in the bright beam, it was the type of bolt used to secure something to masonry or concrete. Directly in front of him was a section of dirty wall that looked plain wrong.
There was something not right about this section, but what? It looked every inch as grubby as the rest of the dump and had as much graffiti, but... The drawings and scribbles were way too new. They were meant to blend in but looked too sharp, too clear. He looked around for a heavy object and quickly found half a cinder block. He struck the wall hard and wasn’t surprised to find it hollow.
He hammered away at the wall revealing a section of metal. He continued his work until he uncovered a complete segment. This was a door. The metal displayed no evidence of corrosion; in fact the metal door and its frame were very recent additions to the structure. Someone had gone to a lot of trouble to hide this away.
As Taylor stood back to admire his handy work he heard an M16 bolt being drawn back. Following the muffled instructions from behind him, Taylor placed his hands in the air and slowly turned to face the threat. High energy Mag-lights blinded him while dozens of small red target lights darted around his body.
“Check his eyes. Check his eyes!” barked out a disembodied voice from the darkness somewhere in front of him.
“Affirmative. All clear,” came the reply from the other side of the room.
“Okay take him down,” ordered a third voice from the doorway.
Suddenly Taylor shot backwards as the intense pain of a Taser racked through his body, throwing him against the wall. Taylor pitched forward and fell to his knees as he felt plastic restraints securing his wrists. Before passing out he could now clearly make out the skull like shapes of Army respirators above him.
****
Eastman looked over his desk at Robert Pool. It had been a long time since he’d seen the guy anywhere near sober, but here he was as nifty as a judge. His clothes were clean and he didn’t smell of booze, or worse. The guy had been hit hard after his boy had been killed. Eastman knew all too well that feeling, but Pool had come apart at the seams. There was only so much sympathy people would give; as his behaviour had gotten worse, so people had stopped caring.
“Look Robert, I appreciate what you’ve just told me but why now?”
“If I’d come in with a story like that before would you have believed me Sheriff? I mean really.”
“Emmet gave me a similar story and I went up to look at the base. There was nothing there. I’m not saying that I don’t...”
“Tony didn’t believe me either until I showed him the spot and the shell cases.”
“Tony. Tony Firth?” Eastman lent over his desk and looked at Pool.
“Yeah? I thought he’d have told you by now?”
“So Tony was aware about this days ago, is that right?”
“Sure. He said not to say anything about it. But I figured with all this going on I’d better tell you. He’s not himself anymore.”
“How come?”
Pool shifted awkwardly in his seat clearly anxious: flushed and sweaty. “I called there the other day and he damn near threw me out.”
“Well that’s nothing to go by. He treats me the same.”
“Tony was the only one to give a crap about me after Robert Junior was killed. Oh yeah, people were sorry, but it was Tony who sat with me night after night. After you took my gun and then my truck, it was him who cut me down from my apple tree.”
Eastman sat back in his chair. “I didn’t know about that. Why in hell didn’t you come to me or Anne Lenski about all this?”
“After a while I stopped caring. But Tony kept me alive and that’s why I feel like I’ve done him down. But you had to know what’s been going on.”
“Robert, I believe you. So you say these guys in the chemical suits were up at the Old base, but like I said there is nothing up there.”
“And I’m telling you somebody’s been doing work up there. I saw a whole bunch of lights up a while back. There are concrete slabs up there that ought not to be. Like someone trying to block up the ground.”
Eastman brushed his fingers over his eyes. Both Emmet and Pool had implicated the base in their stories, yet his own investigations had proved fruitless. He’d taken no notice of the c
oncrete slabs, that was something he could look at later; right now he needed a long overdue word with Firth.
****
Eastman rapped at Tony Firth’s large wooden door and looked impatiently over at Anne. She was peering through the front window. He was in no mood to be kept waiting; there were things that needed sorting. The fact that Firth had known about some kind of military involvement was unacceptable. He banged the door and called out. It was plain that someone was in; apart from the interior house light burning away, Firth’s BMW was in the drive and his four-by-four was outside the garage.
“Hey, come and look at this.”
Anne was pointing through the window. Eastman walked over to join her and he too looked through the small space between the partly drawn curtains. The room was a mess. The small table was on its side and various objects were scattered across the floor. If Bridget Firth was nothing else, she was house proud to a fault; she’d never allow this chaos.
“Front door’s shut, I’ll try round back.”
They walked around the unlit side entrance to the back door and Eastman banged on the door and then tried the handle. It swung open and he looked at Anne.
“Shall we?”
He called out once more and then entered the house. The overpowering reek of disinfectant reminded him of hospitals. Littered across the work surface were packs of medical supplies, used and unused. The trash-can was over-flowing with blood-stained dressings.
“Looks like Judy was right after all.”
“Unless someone’s cut themselves on a can of caviar, I think we’d better be careful.”
Eastman nodded his head: things weren’t looking too good. Then he saw the blood on the floor. A small patch of dried blood lay just behind the inner door, with further stains on the bottom of the door. He turned to Anne.
“I want you to stay in the car until I find out what’s happened here.”
“Why don’t you just call for backup?”
“There isn’t any backup. Everybody’s out.”
“Just call up and wait then.”
“This ain’t a debate here. I don’t want to be worrying about you if I gotta search this place. I want you out and in that car. Now!”
“Just be careful. I’ll call it in for you shall I? I’ve watched plenty of cop shows.”
She was not happy at the prospect of leaving him alone, not at all. Nevertheless, she gave a nervous smile and left for the squad car. Eastman knew she was right; however, the bottom line was that someone was hurt or worse. He did not have the time to wait. He called out loudly before opening the living room door. The place looked as though there’d been a twister through it. Medical packs were dotted all around; up-turned furniture and left over food littered the floor. He tried to put a picture together, but there was no evidence of any violence and no blood. He carefully pushed open the hall door and walked in.
The hall was in darkness and he fumbled for a light switch. As far as he could recall from a visit some years back, the hall led to the upstairs and the rest of the house. There was also a basement that Firth had converted into a games room. At last Eastman’s fingers found the switch and he flicked the light on. Gradually his eyes adjusted to the sudden glare and he noticed that the plush cream carpet was saturated with blood.
Bloody handprints drew his attention to the basement door. The scuffed carpet and marks on the textured wallpaper told him that this was the violent struggle he’d hoped not to find. It looked as though someone had been forced through the doorway into the basement. Cautiously he moved toward the door, unclipping his holster as he did so. He felt his heart rate speed up a fraction and the palms of his hand began to sweat. He reached out to the door-knob, preparing himself for the worst. There was no telling what he’d find the other side of the door.
“Don’t go in there!”
Eastman turned to see Tony Firth; in his trembling hands he held his pistol aimed at Eastman’s chest. His face was badly clawed, with blood running down onto his shirt collar. His eyes were red with tears and he looked like a wild man. Eastman squared up, keeping his hands well away from his own pistol. There was still room for negotiation… he hoped.
“Okay, let’s talk about this.”
“Talk? I’m through taking. I done too much talking already.”
“I saw all the medical stuff. Where’s Conrad?”
Firth silently nodded to the basement. “That who you come for Brad? You want to put him with the rest?”
“I’m here to help you and...”
“You’re here for my boy. Well you ain’t getting him.”
“Tony, all I want is to talk this over without you waving that thing at me. If he’s ill then let Anne take a look at him.”
“I never knew you did a line in comedy. She can’t cure them. When they get as bad as this, then that’s it. You just put them down or hand them over to your friends.”
“That’s a crock, Tony and you know damn well. There’s a whole bunch of folk trying to figure this out, and you’re one of them. I’m not your enemy. But somebody’s playing us for sure. Think about it.”
Firth lowered his gun and lent up against the wall. “I should have listened to Bridget, should have taken him to the hospital. I thought it would be all right.”
Eastman took a step towards him and held out his hand. “Give me the gun and let me help you. Please.”
Firth stood bolt upright and aimed the pistol at Eastman. “No, that’s far enough. You’d best leave now.”
“Where’s Bridget?”
“What?” Firth’s eyes had a glazed look to them as he looked at Eastman.
“Where is Bridget?”
“In there.”
“She’s in there with Conrad? Tony, that’s kinda dangerous man.”
Firth looked at Eastman and laughed loudly and moved across to the basement door. “What could be dangerous about a mother with her son?”
He swung his head around as a loud crash came from the basement followed by shuffling footsteps coming up the steps. Horrified, Firth put his hand over his mouth, his eyes now wild with terror.
“They got free.”
“Tony, let me help you.”
Almost on cue, there came a loud pounding from the other side of the door followed by inhuman wails.
“Too late for that. I was never a good father and a poor excuse for a husband. I need to take care of this my way.”
Firth flung open the door and pushed his way in. Eastman saw briefly the snarling faces of Conrad and Bridget Firth, before Tony Firth slammed the door.
“What the hell’s he doing?”
Eastman spun around at Anne’s voice directly behind him.
“More like what the hell are you doing? I told you to stay...”
The sound of a gunshot ended his sentence, followed by a second and third. Eastman’s shoulders fell heavily and he briefly shut his eyes. Would this thing never end?
Chapter - Nineteen
Mitch Chattman turned his squad car towards Spencer Street. The mid morning sun glinted off his windshield as he drove along Sherman Avenue. Just another average day in Armstrong, except he’d difficulty in working out what ‘average’ meant these days. Time was, when all he had to worry about was pulling Robert Pool out of the traffic or chasing after the Clayton boys. Now things had changed.
More people had died of ‘unnatural causes’ in the last week than the past hundred years. And there seemed no end to it. These were people that Chattman had known and grown up with. He was thankful his parents had moved to Burnsville three years back; at least they were safe. However, Emmet and his crazy talk had started people thinking and Chattman was one of them. What if these events were not isolated to Armstrong?
Another three people had added to the growing list of losses after the previous night’s events. Eastman had called in from Tony Firth’s place and, even now in the safety of the warm day; it was difficult to process. Tony Firth, his wife and the kid, all dead. Chattman had overheard Eastma
n talking to Benteen about how Firth had shot them just because they’d been infected by this terrible virus. To kill your own family like that was beyond him. But then again, wasn’t that what had happened with Frank and his family?
Manny Hardbuckle was struggling across the road with an impossible armload of groceries, it amazed Chattman just how Mrs Hardbuckle could have produced such a monster. She was the sort of woman who looked as if she’d go airborne on a summer breeze.Chattman grimaced as he watched the guy waddle up the sidewalk. Manny always wore pants that were too tight for him, producing unsightly bulges in all the wrong places. With these images ironed into his mind, Chattman swung left onto Reno Boulevard. He’d travelled a short distance when he noticed a commotion outside Amoco’s Delicatessen.
Several people had rushed out of the shop and were standing outside. Although there seemed to be a sense of urgency he was unable to tell what had happened. As Chattman headed towards the scene, another surge of people charged from the shop, pushing through onto the sidewalk. They had a look of blind panic and at least two appeared to have injuries. He stopped his car and walked over to the crowd. As he got closer he could hear the sound of smashing glass from within the delicatessen. Ned Horvitz had lost a finger and was standing on the corner, blood dripping onto the road. It was Joe Levine the Wall- Mart Security Guard who spoke first.
“Thank God you turned up Mitch, he’s gone berserk in there.”
Joe’s face was bloodied and bruised, his white security shirt heavily stained with blood. He had what looked to be a bite mark on his right cheek. The rest of the group were badly shaken; James Burke was using his inhaler. Chattman walked up to the doorway and peered in. The hubbub had all but stopped, bar for a sound that made him think of a pig eating. Stepping into the doorway he could see what was left of Sam Lock.
The man’s stomach had been ripped open with most of its contents slopped onto the black and white tiled floor. However, before Chattman could fully take the terrible scene in, two powerful hands grasped his arm and he felt someone bite down onto his coat. The force of the assault pushed him backwards, landing him on the sidewalk with a crash. Chattman looked up into the lifeless eyes of Al Paxmore.
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