Black Tide Rising - eARC

by John Ringo

  Sammy joined them, hiding just inside the door. It wasn’t as if they wouldn’t have warning, but his grandson was a pussy.

  Andy, at least, was shooting like a man who was protecting his family. Maybe Sammy would come around.

  “How do I use the clip loader thingy?”

  The boy didn’t know the difference between a charger clip and a magazine.

  Reggie reached over and showed him. “This is a clip.” He held up the ten round stripper. “This is a loading spoon. This is a magazine. Clip goes here, and press.” He showed, and ten rounds slid into the magazine. He pulled the clip loose, dropped it and grabbed another.

  “Work on that stack.”

  “Hey, these clips jam at five rounds.”

  He glanced over, and saw Sammy trying to press the rounds down.

  Shit, those mags.

  “Crap! Bring ’em back in!”

  He ran for the garage. Bench, where was the drill index? There. Eighth inch. Downstairs, swap driver bit for twist drill.

  “See this rivet? It blocks them at five rounds. Drill that out on each. Bring ’em up.”

  “What happened?”

  “Got ’em cheap out of New York. All you have to do to make them work is drill out a stud. Worthless gun control law, but now we’re stuck with goddamn zombies because of some…never mind, just drill.”

  He’d erased chunks of the spreadsheet as they went through his collection. He had a backup copy in the vault, under a false name, but he’d completely forgotten about these. They’d been bought online through a gift card, and delivered to a friend in Ohio who’d reshipped them as “used tools.”

  Drilling each rivet took about ten seconds. Stuffing in ten rounds took another five, and those mags went right up to Wendell and crew. Once there was a small stack, they could start putting two clips in each magazine, then three.

  He looked around.

  They had the windows reinforced, and wire set. The boys had completely missed the loops of concertina he’d stowed in the garage rafters during their intervention. Sandbags, plywood, those he’d called “Storm supplies.”

  He’d never understand the mindset that being prepared was somehow immoral or dangerous. He hoped, going forward to not have to do that again.

  He stood on the landing where he could give instructions up, down, and out.

  “Okay, tomorrow we toughen things up. More wire and traps, barricades around the property. We have to worry about people who didn’t prep who’ll be hungry.”

  “We’re not turning away starving people,” Monica said.

  He gave her The Look.

  “We don’t have enough for everyone. We’ll be charitable, within reason, and these are my supplies. You’re welcome to leave if you don’t agree.”

  She wrung her hands and went back to the kitchen.

  He figured she’d come around. She wasn’t stupid, she was compassionate, she’d just had a very easy life. She was learning.

  “Okay, we’re secure enough unless they start using prybars, which might happen. We have bars and plywood on all the lower windows, nothing they can climb on, and not much they can hide behind. It’s heading toward dark. We need to move inside and bed down. Wendell, can you take the office?”

  “Sure.”

  “Z Squad, how are you splitting?”

  Kristan said, “I trust the boys. Will the room with the gun vaults work?”

  “Just what I was thinking.”

  Trebor said, “Yeah, I don’t think my wife is gonna make it. I hope so, but she was on business on the West Coast.”

  “Sorry, man. Good luck.”

  “Thanks. We can hope.”

  “Yeah. Kyle, you’re a bachelor, right?”

  “Since two years ago, yes.”

  “Then we all bunker down for now. We’ll take turns on watch and be ready to respond. Keep a loaded gun with you. Sammy, your boys need to learn the Four Rules of Firearm Safety right now. Bring ’em over.”

  “Okay.”

  “Oh, and Sam?”

  “Yes, Grandpa?”

  “Go make us some coffee. It could be a long night.”

  He figured the boy was at least good for that.

  He looked over their new, small stronghold and started thinking about long term supplies. Water wasn’t a problem, but food and waste would be. They’d need to get on those fast.

  Once there was an opportunity, they needed to move out to Russell’s farm. He’d take Reggie and Wendell. The ZS people were in, he was sure. As for the others, he’d have to make sure they were up for the task. Regardless of anything, they were family. He couldn’t leave them. He figured they needed to leave in about a week.

  He was going to miss this place. He’d had it set up just how he liked, and Russell’s place was a converted corn crib. They’d be tight in there. It was a lot more secluded and defensible, though, and this might go one for a long time.

  * * *

  Andy sat behind his rifle, twitchy and nervous. They were going to need to have someone on watch around the clock. He hoped he wasn’t going to get the middle of the night alone in the dark with animal noises shift.

  Grandpa said, “We’re going to take turns packing stuff, and it’ll be a lot of food and ammo. As soon as this wave of idiots die down, we’ll move out to the country where we can hold them off better.”

  He said, “I guess that means I’m quitting my job.”

  Grandpa looked very serious and calm as he said, “If they’re going to miss you, yes. Unless you want to hang around in a large city waiting to get infected. The outbreaks are getting bigger, and I expect they’re going to get worse. When this current panic is over, I’m going to have to restock. Delivery is going to be a pain. You’re paying for any shortages in the market. I expect prices are going to be high.”

  “Yes. Yes, sir.” He flushed again. Really, the whole idea was ridiculous, but it had happened. They were still alive because Grandpa was a devious son of a bitch.

  “So you need to close any accounts you’ve got, cash in stocks while you can, and figure on taking the tax penalty on your IRAs, if there’s even an IRS to worry about them by year’s end. But right now, lay those last ten sandbags. Then you can have an MRE. Do a good job and I won’t make you eat the Tuna with Noodles.”

  Grandpa was still a crazy old coot.

  He was very glad of that.

  Battle of the BERTs

  Mike Massa

  “Chomp!”

  Colleen’s brother-in-law bred Presa Canario mastiffs just outside Austin. On her last trip to visit her sister’s family, she had fed the dogs and noted that when then snapped a thrown treat out of the air they made a distinct chompf! sound. The suspected H7D3 victim that she and Larry were struggling to control was making the exactly same chomping noise as it fought to close the distance imposed by their field expedient lasso and stick arrangement.

  The electrically insulated capture stick allowed them to control the likely zombie at a safe interval while the third member of the team disabled it with a taser. That was the theory at least, and it had worked so far. The captured man slumped to the ground as the repeated current overloaded his nervous system.

  A banker, she judged from the tailored suit, and a recent turn. His shoes were still polished and his clothing clean. Usually, the detainees were naked, or mostly so. Her bank’s team of lab types explained that an early symptom was profound skin sensitivity. However, some infecteds turned so fast that this step seemed to be skipped occasionally.

  Once the potential infected was on the ground, the team was ready for phase two—getting a photo of the detainee and then bagging his head with a Kevlar snake sack order to prevent bites. She spied a human bite mark on one scrabbling hand—the probable infection site.

  “Hold onto the stick, Lare,” she instructed. “Let me run a patch test.”

  “Why bother? He is infected, plainer than shit. You’re wasting a kit.”

  “One, that’s the procedure we agreed to wh
en we started harvesting these poor fuckers. Two, there is a tiny chance that he is a vanilla EDP who is hopped up on bath salts or something and three, I am the team lead and I fucking well said so.”

  Larry was a few years older than her twenty-eight, and like many in the corporate security world, had spent time in the military and later as a contractor. His second guessing wouldn’t be acceptable in the long term under normal circumstances. In the current circumstances of a slow moving zombie apocalypse, it was potentially lethal, right now.

  Larry levered the capture stick down and put his weight on it, pinning the suspected infected if he should try to rise and placing the captured man in easy reach for administering the test kit. He didn’t otherwise reply.

  Colleen prompted, “Larry, I need a clear affirm before I get within grabbing distance of this guy, or you are going to be kneeling on that stick for a long time.”

  “Clear,” he replied curtly.

  “Crystal, boss.” That was Solly, unbidden. Solly was a comfort. A retired Army lifer who retired to Long Island, he ended up driving for MetBank executives during the days of Occupy Wallstreet. He was a professional driver, easy going and the primary operator of their snatch truck—a panel sided six pack dually, complete with light bar and Biological Emergency Response Team labels on the front, side and rear. Solly was a huge add to her scratch team, the second one that MetBank bank had put together in order to accelerate the collection of the raw material needed to make a vaccine that would protect the critical staff who in turn, kept the bank running. Each BERT member was promised a vaccination, another for the person of their choice, a seat on the bank’s extract craft and a cool half million in specie and / or bullion, their choice. Most of the marrieds had already bailed out of the detail so her team mates were the bitter divorce survivors, the adrenaline junkies and the unmarrieds. Solly seemed to be a mix of the first two, but his calm, cheerful manner under extreme stress over the last two weeks had reassured her much as Larry’s pushback was pissing her off now.

  The BERT detail could sense the increasing apprehension in the city. Pedestrians were getting scarcer. Infecteds were easier to find. They had gotten both of their confirmed “donors” halfway into an eight hour shift. Her boss didn’t ask any questions about the captured “stock” and the cops—the cops weren’t even checking the test results anymore when the BERT truck cleared checkpoints on the way back to the bank. In the early days they carefully matched IDs to the capture picture to the test kits in order to maintain a paper trail and verify that the detainees were actually infected. The corporate BERT teams were careful to follow the protocol that had evolved out of Bank of the Americas initiative, and eventually had been blessed and copied by the NYPD. Now, there was a palpable change to the “feel” on the detail. Sooner or later the rules of engagement on infected was going to change, or evacuations would start. Maybe both.

  She glanced at the test strip after completing the jab through the potential infected’s suit jacket. Red. Make that confirmed.

  “Ok, this guy is infected. That’s makes four and we are now full up. Bag the head, zip tie the feet and hands and let’s load him up.”

  They were closing up the back of the truck when Colleen glanced up when at the sound of brakes squealing.

  “Boss, company,” called Solly.

  The truck that stopped was a converted moving van and was accompanied by a chase car. She recognized the driver.

  Ramon Gutierez had left MetBank for a bigger and better deal from a new competitor. That wasn’t unusual on Wall Street. That the new outfit was the largest importer of recreational pharmaceuticals in the tristate area was a bit…unexpected. Based across the East River in Queens, their leadership had first struck an informal deal with the local PD in that borough. The unis had been taking the casualties in higher numbers and some cops were deciding to stay home. As the Blue Flu spread, the 125-odd precincts that policed the city were forced to consolidate, and entrepreneurs like Ramon’s boss filled the vacuum. In exchange for “policing” their areas and suppressing any incipient panic, they were allowed to “harvest” their own raw materials.

  Colleen’s duties included vetting the deliveries that kept the bank running late into the night as the various desks reconciled their trades. Like their competitors, MetBank paid for whatever it took to broaden their profit margins, and that meant keeping staff onsite and working: dinner if you worked past eight pm, a black car home if past nine pm, and access to pharma based “help” if you were there all night. Therefore, she knew Ramon’s organization at retail level. One large entity that followed the rules was much easier to manage than dozens of small time hustlers. Certainly the had PD thought so during normal business times and tolerated the limited distribution of stimulants in the financial district—after all the business of New York City was money, and like everyone else, the PD wanted business to be good. Now however, the tolerated “entrepreneur” was a potential competitor and an even more necessary evil.

  Colleen had heard that Ramon’s boss had expanded into the Bronx. She didn’t know that they were this close to Manhattan.

  “Hey chico, we got this,” she called to the familiar face.

  “Yeah, I see that. You a little far from midtown, aren’t you?”

  Three men had exited the car and truck. All were armed with holstered pistols and tasers and had the bright orange BERT creds issued by the PD hanging from neck straps. Two were wearing their hair with the signature tightly braided mini-dreadlock that so many in Big Mac Overture’s gang affected, but otherwise, their appearance was anything but uniform. Big Mac wasn’t big on a dress code, just results.

  “Just leaving. Plenty more where these came from,” Colleen replied, hooking a thumb towards her truck. Her glance took in Solly, now with a shorty AR hanging on a friction strap, calmly backing her up, and Larry, ostentatiously repacking a large gear bag, with both hands out of sight.

  Ramon followed her glance.

  “Sure, plenty more. Still, maybe we should cooperate. We can watch this bit around the Queen’s Tunnel and you stay over on the island? We have plenty of manpower and you guys at MetBank, you have just the one truck, no?”

  “More all the time Ramon, more all the time.”

  In fact, MetBank had exactly two trucks. The two teams each averaged four infecteds per day. Eight “donors” meant two hundred or so doses of vaccine, under perfect conditions. Metbank had thousands of critical personnel and family to cover. Colleen wasn’t sure of the math, but she guessed that they weren’t more than halfway to the number needed to protect everyone while maintaining operations at either the main bank location or the primary Disaster Recovery, or DR, site.

  “Ramon, let’s talk about this later. We can talk during a break at the meeting at Goldbloom’s, ok? If you need help, just come up on the BERT channel and we can roll a truck, like when your boys got stuck in last time.” She laughed easily, deliberately. “Next time, maybe don’t try for so many infecteds at once, right?”

  Colleen wanted to remind him that she had saved his boys recently. It is harder to force a confrontation with someone to whom you owed a favor.

  Ramon grimaced. Colleen’s team had helped one of his. The dumbshits had elected to leave their siren on while making a snatch. In the middle of bagging and tagging another infected had appeared, and then another, and his assholes didn’t hear them over the sound of their newly purchased cop siren. Colleen’s team had arrived just as Ramon’s crew had exhausted their taser cartridges and were preparing to start shooting. Even now, the police would have an issue with openly shooting infecteds. No shooting meant no cops. No cops meant that they could keep collecting infecteds, unpoliced. Good business.

  “Sure, sure, chica.” Ramon gestured to his team, who mounted back up.

  She watched for a moment and then moved her hand in a circle over her head, still watching Big Mac’s team get situated.

  Turning around, Colleen glanced at Solly. Still perfectly composed, he slid behi
nd the wheel and slipped the weapon into the rifle sock that had been bolted to the interior door panel. Larry was in the rear of the cab, visibly tense.

  “Home, ‘James,’” she said to Solly. “Let’s dump these four at the lab. Then, I need to get ready for the pow-wow.” She waved good bye out the window to the other team.

  Solly got the BERT unit rolling, turning south.

  Larry asked, “Are we gonna jump soon?”

  “Nope. We still need more vaccine,” Colleen replied.

  “Chill out, Larry. No need to be nervous yet.”

  “Fuck you, Solly,” I don’t have a death wish. I don’t want to get infected and I don’t want to square off against a big shot narco like Big Mac Overture. I just want my vaccine, my money and I’m good.”

  “I’ll tell you guys when it is time to jump. You know that,” Colleen tried to reassure her two team mates.

  “All good.” Solly’s hands were steady on the wheel, and Colleen saw him smiling.

  “Sure,” replied Larry. “But who is going to tell you?”

  They drove down Second Avenue in an uncomfortable silence.

  * * *

  Most New Yorkers never gained the access to the fancy buildings that dominated the Manhattan skyline and didn’t really know what went on in the various luxury skyscrapers, let alone appreciated just how amazing the view was from some of them. At this point, luxury views weren’t the first thing on the famously insouciant New Yorkers’ agenda. Pretending that they weren’t fighting a deadly plague was.

  As long she had to stand up behind her boss at what promised to be a long meeting to divide up the management of the five boroughs of New York, Colleen appreciated the distraction of the view beyond the boardroom window, only slightly marred by the occasional plume of smoke from a car fire. The first gathering of its kind since Boss Tweed met with union representatives in the aftermath of the Draft Riots of 1863, this get together had been organized in order to carve up the policing of the city, and the management of certain “assets.”