by LC Champlin
“Yes. I am sending the files you need via drone. They contain the frequency you require to jam their transmissions.”
Another frequency broadcast. “What will happen if theirs is blocked?”
“They will lose their window to reprogram the cannibals. This will allow us to continue working with the data we have, and the frequencies we think work. I am doing this because I do not want them to take control of these creatures. LOGOS is not to be trusted. It is an extremely dangerous organization. As you likely know, they were responsible for the terrorist attacks. They worked with ISIS and its allies.”
Not only did LOGOS fit in the cannibal puzzle, it was the puzzle.
Static buzzed—in his ears rather than the phone—almost obliterating Lexa’s next words: “I am attempting to make up for their heinous behavior. Your radio tower is the tallest available. There is one in San Bruno Park, and another in the center of the San Francisco proper. Those areas, however, are overrun with cannibals. The government has erected a wall at the south end of San Francisco, which is keeping the majority of the cannibals from escaping the peninsula. The people who were to evacuate from the city have already done so. The government has decided to consider the area lost. Any residents who refused to evacuate were urged to stay indoors.”
“After the jamming broadcast, am I expected to transmit the frequency that will control the creatures?” Would she keep her word, or did she bluff? Why did she need him at all?
“The technology I have access to is not yet at that point.”
“Why do I have the honor? Why not use mercenaries again?”
“You proved yourself quite capable. You foiled Cheel’s plan, as well as LOGOS’s effort” —or her effort?—“to broadcast at the radio tower. I can think of no one more qualified than you.”
The suspicion of occupying a predator’s sights tickled the back of his neck. The same feeling overtook customers at a used-car lot.
“They will release the chemical powder tomorrow. You will notice military aircraft pass overhead at low altitude. You will not be able to see the lay-down as such, but it will occur. I would have advised attempting to stop the flights, but they come from a base in another part of the country.”
“What’s the time window?”
“The formulation reaches its peak effectiveness approximately five hours after the lay-down. The reprogramming period then lasts thirty minutes. That is when you need to begin broadcasting the jamming frequency.”
“If I fail, is it guaranteed that LOGOS’s frequency will control the cannibals? This all seems rather theoretical, considering their first attempt failed, and now they’re using chemicals that will simply make the cannibals ‘amenable’ to reprogramming. Has any of this been tested on the Dalits?”
“LOGOS is in damage-control mode. Much like British Petroleum during their disgusting oil leak in the Gulf of Mexico several years ago, they’re trying any and all options.”
Oil spill, a fitting comparison with the oil-spewing abominations.
“If the LOGOS operatives are going to broadcast a radio signal”—slowly, now—“and my location is the only tower not presently surrounded by cannibals, how are they going to transmit the signal?”
“They have other means. Since they have more manpower, as well as assistance from several government organizations, they’re able to cast a wide net.”
“How? Ships? Aircraft?”
“They will use mobile units equipped with quick-erecting antenna masts. They plan to pass through the wall’s gates to reach the San Bruno tower. With it, they will be able to increase their effectiveness. But even without it, they’re able to cover most of the area with their frequencies.”
“The cannibals will overrun them.”
“They have a shielding device, or so I am told.”
“Shielding?”
“I cannot provide specifics.” Cannot, or will not? “But it appears to repel the cannibals.” Like the frequency generator, but in reverse.
“It seems I have no choice but to stop them. Send the drone. I’ll be waiting.”
“Your assistance is appreciated.”
“Of course.”
“I know your preferred building is no longer at your disposal.”
How did she—“We have another that will fit our needs. It’s on the west side of Seaport.” She didn’t need the false impression that he’d lost control.
“I must warn you that another individual is in that area. I believe you know each other. He goes by the moniker Red Chief.”
Red Chief. So Sarge spoke the truth when he said the bastard survived. “I really should start checking for dead bodies.”
“He’s not at the building per se, but venturing near that location would be quite inadvisable.”
“Thank you for the warning.” Fuck, they’d have to settle for the buildings at the southwest end of Redwood Shores.
“Now, I have a question,” he continued.
“Yes?”
“Nanomachines, nanites, nanobots—I don’t know what you prefer to call them, but I want to know what they have to do with this situation.”
“I am not at liberty to say.”
“Yet I am at liberty to risk my life doing research for you.”
“You are doing research for yourself.” Her voice hardened. “Do not forget that. Good bye.”
Call ended.
Nathan raised his head, attention on the wreckage across the channel. The image shifted, growing gauzy. Scenes of downtown San Francisco superimposed themselves on it.
Red-gold eyes flared in the darkness of his mind.
Chapter 69
Drug Run
Zombie - We as Human
Outside, the sky turned liver-red, darkness bringing the cool of night.
The last half of Nathan’s last oxycodone dissolved under his tongue. Lying back on his bed, he closed his eyes. The familiar relief of the opioid would come soon. The pain in his ribs already began to decrease from the psychological reassurance of taking the pill.
Typical of a Saturday, the day had ended too soon. Even so, and even after the holocaust across the channel, he and his people had made progress on their goals: Sarge had left on a raid—er, salvage trip. The R&D department had begun making one of the research buildings near the self-storage facility useable. The survivors of the north shore debacle had even admitted the error of their ways.
Meanwhile, their research on the cannibals continued. Badal, Dennis, and a few of the other researchers reported they’d made headway on developing a frequency for the ReMOT. The files Lexa had provided via drone-drop supplied the missing dots to connect.
Most importantly for the day, however? Kennedy and his team had recovered the frequency generator amid the rubble.
Nathan shifted his shoulder blades in search of a comfortable position. No dice. Well, the oxy would set in soon. He would only need the pain medication for a few more days. The incision on his side had largely healed, and most of his bruises had faded to gray-brown. Some had resolved completely, vanishing in the natural tan of his skin. Bones, however, took longer to heal.
But where to find more oxy in the meantime? Drug dealers didn’t roam the streets just now, not that he’d know how to find them even if they did.
He could possibly take a donation from the residents, but making them aware of his weakness rankled. If he showed vulnerability, it should come as one he could leverage. True, he could remind them that he received the fractures at the hands—or the boots—of the Red Devil Goats, but at this point, it resembled whining too much for self-respect.
The pharmacy? Yes, he’d just drop by the Walgreens drive-through and pick up a refill. He gave a derisive laugh.
He could assemble a team and recruit Sarge. But the mercenary would want a percentage, and the only percentage that would interest him came in the form of prescription pain and anxiety meds. “I can’t afford that.”
That meant a su
pply run with the Redwooders. Assuming pharmacies kept pain meds in locked cabinets, anyone who came with him would notice if he pocketed the meds.
“I’m probably blowing this out of proportion,” he muttered. No one gave a damn at this point. They were probably all on pain and psych meds themselves. Still . . .
Only one option remained: a solo mission. Not the greatest idea at the best of times, and especially not with fractured ribs, limited ammunition, and enemies at the gate. But if anyone had the skills for the mission, he did.
He gathered his gear, dressing in black over his DHS vest. The pistol slid into the pancake holster inside his belt. His satchel carried his essentials: ammo, flashlight, first-aid kit, multi-tool, paracord, water bottle, and a can of ravioli. Other less critical items occupied his pants pockets. A small pry bar hung from the back of his belt.
At the front door, he paused. Memories of Janine going ballistic when they first began living together surfaced. He’d neglected to write a note stating where he went, even though he’d only gone to the store for ten minutes. Granted, the ten minutes turned into three hours, because he realized he needed to stop at Best Buy, the Home Depot, and the office. And he’d forgotten to take his phone off silent.
Fuck it. He grabbed a sticky note from the counter and scribbled: Going out scouting south. Looking for pharmacies.
If Amanda found it before his return, so be it. But if things went as planned, he would slip back into the house and dispose of the note before she could find it.
Duty done, he crept out the front door. After locking it behind him, he took his makeshift spear—two kitchen knives duct taped onto a mop handle—and started down Keelson Circle.
Curfew didn’t apply to him or the other leaders, but avoiding detection would simplify matters. Slipping out proved rather simple: it involved ducking through a yard gate, then sliding over the fence under the cover of trees. He would assign a crew to work on shoring up the weaknesses when he returned.
According to the maps of the area, the nearest pharmacy resided in the Nob Hill Food grocery store. A group had already searched it for food, of which they recovered none, but a few pain pills might have escaped the frenzy.
At Marlin Park, he found Carolyn’s SUV parked like a mobile gravestone, a monument to her last moments. Flecks of her blood still stained the side panel. He’d left the vehicle here in case he required an escape. God bless forethought.
He tossed his spear in the back to join a number of other improvised weapons. Then he swung into the driver’s seat.
Down Redwood Shores Parkway, all seemed still. A buffer zone of numerous houses and businesses existed between Redwood Shores and San Francisco. Most of the people in downtown had likely already fallen to the cannibals.
As he neared the Bayshore Freeway, groups of Dalits began to appear along the side of the road. Twos and threes only, nothing like the hordes that had attacked Mason and his morons.
The Acura rolled into the Nob Hill Foods parking lot. After parking, he closed his eyes and gripped the wheel. One, two, three, four. When he and Albin first visited Redwood Shores, a Red Devil Goat had dropped them off at this grocery store. Get your game face on. Time to hunt.
After exiting the truck, Nathan pulled on his plastic poncho and protective gear. One of the store windows already lay in shards across the sidewalk, so he ducked through the hole. Night vision adjusted, but he flicked on the P2X Surefire flashlight and held it high in his left hand. His right kept his spear close to his chest.
Checkout lanes devoid of customers and clerks, shelves devoid of food, cash registers devoid of money. Shopping carts lay on their sides. Here and there shattered remnants of bottles shimmered in the P2X’s beam. Pharmacy? Ah. The light played over a sign marked Pharmacy and pointing to the left. He crept along the front of the store, hugging the wall. Not that he could hide; the light revealed his position. Clicking it on and off as he needed provided a sense of stealth.
An engine rumbled outside. Headlights illuminated the front of the store. Shit! Light off, he pressed behind a lottery-ticket kiosk.
Make a run for the back aisles? Too late: Voices echoed in the store.
Chapter 70
Smurfs
Warriors - Imagine Dragons
“Come on! We need to make this fast!” A female’s voice echoed in the store’s entry.
A male replied, “I don’t think this is gonna be helpful. I’m pretty sure all these places have been hit. We might as well keep going.”
“You don’t know that.”
“Come on, guys.” Another male—a baritone.
More than two, then. Nathan sank deeper between the lotto stand and magazine rack. In front of him sat a train of carts.
Flashlight beams flickered through the broken window, followed by shuffling and grunting. Not the most athletic looters in disaster history. They sounded young, however, so they might run with the gangs.
“Come on, man. If they don’t have any here, I don’t know where we’re going to look,” whined the first male.
“There’s another pharmacy a couple miles away. We’ll get that,” reassured Baritone.
“Dude, how do the dealers have customers left?”
The female laughed. “Of all the times people want something to take the edge off, now is a fucking winner!”
Of course the demand for recreational drugs skyrocketed during times of stress. Supply and demand would drive the price into the ionosphere.
The squad of newcomers entered the checkout area: three people, all under thirty years old, with the female looking the youngest.
A hammer hung from the largest male’s belt. A tire iron also belonged to him. The girl looked even more ready to deal death: the hilts of knives stuck out from her waistband, and she carried a bat.
The last of the three, a weedy boy in his early twenties, must have drawn the short straw when it came to weapons, because he carried a rake. “This way.” He waved them toward Nathan’s direction.
“Are you sure that key’s gonna work?” the girl asked.
“It’s my bro’s work key. I don’t know why it wouldn’t.”
The trio could open the pharmacy for him. Excellent. They likely knew exactly where to find the controlled medication, too.
Flashlight beams danced across the checkout lanes and shopping carts. “This place is a wreck,” Weedy exclaimed.
Footsteps neared. Don’t move, don’t breathe. The group trooped past, then paused. Shit, move!
“Should one of us stand guard?” Bat Girl asked. “Is that what they do in the movies? I don’t know anymore. This is all way out of my . . . my world.”
“There’s a lot that’s out of your world.” Weedy gurgled a laugh.
“Look.” She shook her shock of bleached-white hair from her forehead and aimed the flashlight into the mocker’s face. “You don’t have any right to talk. You haven’t even finished your first semester at Berkeley. Don’t you tell me I’m inexperienced. For one, I’ve fucked way more guys than you have. More girls, too.”
Weedy shoved the light out of his face. “That’s your standard for experience?”
“Stop fucking around.” Baritone echoed Nathan’s thoughts.
The light scraped the lottery ticket kiosk, bounced over the carts, and slashed across the magazine rack. Crouching, eyes slitted, Nathan held his breath. Sometimes having a six-foot-two frame proved a detriment. But the idiots had drugs on their minds; he could probably bid them good evening and stroll out without them noticing.
They blundered on toward the pharmacy.
Sssssaaaahhh.
Again Nathan froze. According to Stacy and the other researchers, the creatures performed well in the dark. The scientists theorized that cannibals sensed electromagnetic fields, like a platypus sensed insects with its beak. Was this what the invertebrates felt just before death came for them? Hiding from the Dalits would prove far more difficult than avoiding a pack of drug-hun
ting kids.
Sssssaaaahhh.
Why the hell hadn’t Sarge done a better job of guarding the entrance to Redwood? He would have to explain his dereliction of duty when Nathan returned.
A lone shopping cart rolled across the checkout area, wheels squeaking. It clanked into a bagging station.
“What was that?”
The flashlight beams flicked across the checkouts.
“Fuck!” one of the looters whispered. “The oil suckers. Damn it, why didn’t anybody keep watch?”
“Why didn’t you?” Bat Girl demanded.
Three Dalits stepped in to the entry area. The lights and sounds from the junkies acted like a beacon for them. Their heads whipped toward the pharmacy, eyes bulging. They split up: one stalked in the direction of the looters, and the other two padded toward the aisles. They would attempt to flank the humans.
Crash! From the front windows?
“Where the fuck are you bastards!” Male voice, unfamiliar, from the same direction. “I said I wanted my shit. That didn’t mean I wanted it next week.” A drug user, or a drug dealer?
Two thugs sauntered in, pants crotches at their knees. One Caucasian, one Hispanic. They carried semi-auto handguns. However, they held them in the idiotic, jam-prone way of Hollywood rap stars: sideways, one handed, as if they couldn’t decide whether to drop a cracker or drop a beat.
“Hey, there’s some of them cannibal fuckers.”
“All right!” Excitement? Either they had little experience with the monsters, or they’d sampled far too many of their illicit wares.
“Let’s get them!”
The gangbangers swaggered closer to the Dalit at the checkout area.
Hissing, the monster spun to face them, dropping into a crouch. Then it began to spasm with forced vomiting.
“Fuck, it’s so scared it’s puking!”
“Cap ’em.”
Nathan pushed his thumbs to his ears, pressing his traguses over the canals.
