“Because if that happens, I’m the one that’s going to have to put you down and I’m not taking the karmic hit for that,” he tells her. “That’s going to be on these two and I’ll never forgive them.”
There’s a moment of silence between the four of them, acknowledging the gravity of what Dave’s said. Bongo yips, breaking the tension for everyone but Dave, who’s grip tightens on the gun for a second before he speaks.
“Joe, grab your bags. Dakota, get the dog and carry him to the car. I don’t want us to have to chase the damn thing when he decides to sniff around your neighbor’s flower beds. Pam and I will be in front and I want the two of you to stay close behind us until we get to our car.”
“We can take my car too,” Joe says.
“No. I want us all in one vehicle and ours is already packed. When we get to our car, we’ll open the back doors for you before we get in. Don’t screw around. Just get in and lock your doors,” Dave tells them before looking through the peephole in the front door. “I don’t see anything out there but that doesn’t mean shit. There could be an entire pack of dogs sitting quietly on the other side of the door waiting for us to deliver lunch.”
“So, now what?” Pam asks quietly.
“We go anyway,” he tells her, bring the shotgun to the ready position and clicking off the safety. “I want you to open the door for me but then step back and don’t crowd me. If anything’s hiding on the other side, I’m going to shoot first and then slam the door shut. Got it?” The three of them nod. “Okay. On three,” he says, taking a deep breath and curling his finger over the trigger and aiming the gun toward the bottom of the door.
“Wait,” Pam whispers. “On three? Or one, two—”
“Just open the door,” Dave interrupts.
“Right,” Pam says, pulling the door open.
Dave sweeps the barrel across the opening. He keeps it low at first, making sure there’s nothing preparing to chew off his legs. Stepping into the doorway. He quickly pans right and then left, clearing the outside of the door. He moves the gun up, keeping it aligned with his eyes as he checks the parking lot.
“It looks clear,” he says, focusing his attention to the area around their car and heading for it.
The four make their way from the door to the car like circus clowns. Not quite stumbling their way across the lot, but also not managing to keep out of each other’s way. Getting to the rear door on his side of the car, Dave takes one hand from the gun to pull the door handle, but nothing happens. He stares through both car windows, watching Pam fumble for the keys he’d given her when they got out of the car. He’d done this in case anything happened to him so she’d still have an avenue of escape. He hadn’t noticed she’d locked it when they exited but apparently, she had.
“Sorry,” she mouths, looking back at him through the side windows as she pushes the button on the remote fob. The parking lights flash twice, and the door locks slide open. Dave and Pam pull the doors open for Joe, Dakota, and a squirming Bongo before jerking open theirs and getting in. The timing is perfect and they all slam their doors at the same time, loud enough to make the sound echo off the facing apartments.
“Shit!” Dave says. Pam hands him the keys and it takes two stabs for him to get them into the ignition and get the car started.
Glancing in the back, Joe sees all the dried and packaged food his parents packed from their home, including two cases of bottled water. There’s a cooler Joe assumes is filled with things from their freezer and a few bags and boxes with dry goods, bread, fruit, and a box of microwave popcorn.
“Jesus! Did you leave anything behind?” he asks Pam.
“Not much,” she answers.
“How about a can opener?” he asks, spotting the two large boxes, full of an assortment of canned foods.
“Fuck…” Dave says, looking at Pam.
“I grabbed one,” she assures him.
“Thanks honey. Did you get ahold of Zack?”
“No. I’ll try again once we get on the road,” she tells Dave. At the same moment, two people come shuffling from one of the apartments, their bloody-muzzled Pitbull scrambling out in front of them.
“What about Gramma and Grampa?” Joe asks as Dave drops the car into gear.
“Shit!” Pam gasps. Not from the presence of the shamblers, but because of her son’s question. She and Dave had been so fixated on their kids, she hadn’t even thought about her own parents’ safety. Dave’s parents were divorced, but they’d both passed away within eight months of each other, shortly after she and Dave were married. Her parents are both still alive and living in Canton, about thirty minutes south of Akron, where Zack and Ben lived. Just the two of them in their early seventies, and their eighty-pound Golden Retriever, Apollo.
Apollo has always been a great, loving dog. Mike and Lynn got him from a rescue a few years ago. He’d been a service dog for an elderly woman but when she finally passed, her drunk, asshole husband took it out on Apollo. This treatment ruined him from ever being a service animal again, but the couple fell in love with him at first sight. He was always happily bringing them things as they sipped their coffee in the mornings. Sometimes it was the newspaper or his leash. Other times it was a random shoe, an article of clothing from the laundry hamper or something he’d snuck inside from one of his walks and hidden in the home to proudly present to his owners at a later date. And if he wasn’t bringing you one of his treasures, he was showing you something he found fascinating. Apollo would do this by gently taking your hand or wrist in his mouth, holding it between his large canine teeth, and leading you to it.
“Try the boys again. Then call your folks,” Dave tells her, hurrying out of the parking lot as the two figures start running for them.
CHAPTER EIGHT
“Any new reports?” Brooks asks Riguez’s replacement. The Major was on her way to the airfield for the sync-up with her troops but wanted the latest intel on the situation before leaving.
“Our scientists have had one of the first specimens for a few hours now and they think they know how the infection is transmitted,” Sergeant Nichols replies.
“I thought it was from being bitten?”
“That too, Major.”
“Please tell me it’s not airborne,” Brooks says.
“Almost as bad, ma’am,” the Sergeant answers. “Based on their preliminary tests, our scientists believe the virus can live outside the host for an unusually long period of time. At least hours, maybe days. They also believe it’s some new kind of cross between a germ and a parasite. Our boys have named it a virusite. According to the brains on our team, a bite isn’t the only way it can be transmitted, but it’s the most expedient. They also say it can be transferred through mucus membrane contact, and that’s the biggest threat.”
“Like a venereal disease?”
“Sort of.”
“Are you telling me our biggest risk is doggy-sex?” Brooks asks.
“Unprotected sexual contact will definitely transmit the virusite. Either between or across species,” he says, pausing to let that sink in. “But, I mean more like the cold wet noses to doggy-buttholes, kind of contact. Anytime one dog meets another, there’s a lot of sniffing and licking going on, and that’s how they believe it’s been spreading so quickly.”
“Fuck me,” Brooks mutters.
“It gets worse,” Nichols continues. “Like I said, the virusite can stay alive outside the host for a period of time. Have you ever seen what a dog does when it’s out and there are no other dogs around? Eating scraps from people and other animals. Sniffing over everything as they walk, especially anything left by another animal. And when they come across a single spore of the virusite…” He trails off letting the Major fill in the rest for herself.
“Any other bad news?” Brooks asks, realizing the virus’ transmittal acts almost like it’s been intentionally designed to behave that way.
“I’m afraid so, ma’am,” the Sergeant continues. “As an example. A guy gets
up in the morning and cuts himself shaving. He finishes up, gets dressed, pours himself a cup of coffee, and sits down to read the paper or whatever this guy does. But the guy has a dog that’s been infected and before the little bastard goes nuclear, it wants one more minute of being man’s best friend, jumps on our guy’s lap and licks his face where he cut himself earlier. And bingo!”
“Our guy’s infected? Without being bitten?” she asks Brooks. She staggers slightly but steadies herself by touching the back of a nearby chair with the tips of her fingers.
“That’s what they’re saying,” he replies, beginning to tick off items with his fingers. “Through the blood. Biting. Mucus membranes to open sores. Ingesting the germ due to poor hygiene. Hell, ma’am. An overzealous doggie-kiss. Maybe stepping in a three-day-old turd in your bare feet with a popped blister, can seal your fate.”
“And every infection is fatal…”
“They used to be.”
“Used to be?”
“The cross-species jump from dogs to other domesticated animals and with the first human victims their brains eventually cooked in their skulls and burned itself out, killing the host. But, when it started spreading from person to person, the infection mutated again.”
“The virusite isn’t killing them?”
“I didn’t say that, ma’am. I’m saying they’re not staying dead. Our guys in the labs are reporting the subjects appear to be dying a horribly, painful death caused from the virusite. And then things get weird.”
“Then things get weird?”
“The corpses are dead as doornails, and then they reanimate…”
“Are you trying to tell me they’re becoming zombies?” Brooks asks.
“Not your traditional, Romero type of zombies, Major. More like your, 28 Days Later variety.”
“I haven’t seen that one,” Brooks says.
“They’re not shambling drones in the pursuit of brains.”
“At least that’s one good thing,” she replies, feeling slightly relieved things aren’t totally lost.
“Actually, ma’am, I think we’d be better off if they were. I’ll spare you the details from the movies, but the virusite is making runners out of them. Runners with some degree of problem solving skills left in their burned-out brains. I’m not implying they’re solving the equation for time-travel or anything that complicated, but they can use doors, bludgeoning weapons, and have shown some basic combat and attack strategies. Utilizing scouting groups, decoys, that sort of thing.”
“Does it take a headshot to bring them down?” Brooks asks, wanting to know what to tell her troops if it should come to that. She knew the movies made it look as simple as the bullets magically finding their targets. But in real life, when your heart is racing and you’re constantly moving, it’s just not that easy to target the head. It’s a relatively simple shot for a trained, calm sniper to hit a slow-moving or stationary target, but that’s not a normal combat scenario for most soldiers. Soldiers are always moving, advancing, taking ground. That’s why troops are trained to always aim for center-mass. Hit the big target and bring the enemy down by blowing a hole in their torso and letting them bleed out. If the only way to kill the infected was to blow their brains out, she’d have to consider a more cautious strategy.
“It’s definitely the most efficient way, but not the only one,” Nichols replies. “Most of our troops have been issued M4s. The standard issue 556 round they fire, is definitely going to splatter brains out the back of an infected head. This will immediately drop them. But, so will a bullet to the heart…”
“Thank God,” Brooks sighs, finally settling into the chair she’d been holding onto for support.
“I’m not done, ma’am,” he says, ticking off fingers again. “And the lungs, liver, and kidneys. You basically have to destroy all the internal organs like you’re spraying them with a high-caliber meat grinder.”
“Well shit…” Brooks says, realizing this new information changed some of the plans for Operation Washout, significantly.
“Our strategists suggest focusing on the legs. Their opinion is, if they can’t get to you, they can’t infect you. Once they’re down, you’ve got time to use the M4s to put them out of your misery. In my opinion, taking out a knee seems more difficult than a headshot, but that’s their recommendation. It’s all here in the report the Colonel wanted you to have,” he says, handing her a thick, legal-sized envelope.
“The Colonel already has this information?” she asks, taking the envelope from the Sergeant. She turns it over in her hands, thinking there must be an entire ream of paper inside. It’s unsealed with the words Restricted: National Security Clearance Required printed across both sides. The letters are in black because they only use red in the movies for effect. Brooks has always wondered why they have the warning at all, thinking by advertising, the documents inside immediately became forbidden fruit.
“You seem to know a lot of the information in here,” she says.
“Yes, ma’am. I was the one who compiled the report for him. That’s his copy,” Nichols says, nodding at the package in her hands.
“Before I head to the airstrip…” she says, standing with staccato movements. “I want you to radio ahead and contact Captain Walker.”
“What about? Missus Walker?” Nichols asks.
“What?”
“Nothing, Major. Sorry for the interruption,” he replies.
“Tell the Captain,” she continues. “I want the squads to swap out the standard 556s with the 556 hollow-points.”
“Good idea, Major. They’ll fit the M4s and pack a bigger punch.”
“Tell him I want it done before we get there,” Brooks adds.
“We, ma’am?” Nichols asks.
“Then grab your gear. You’re coming with me. For now, you’re the closest thing I have to an expert on this shit,” she says, lifting the envelope a little. “And I want you there on the ground with me.”
CHAPTER NINE
“I guess we know why the neighborhood streets are empty,” Dave says, pulling into the line of slow-moving vehicles that lead to the cluster of freeway onramps. His plan was to hit West 70 to get out of Ohio and then cut north once they were in Indiana and meet up with the boys outside of Gary. Providing they could get a hold of the kids, that is. And after Pam contacted her parents.
“I’ve tried to call Zack and Ben, and sent them both text messages,” Pam says. “I’m going to try my parents, but I’m using the car’s Bluetooth. I’m tired of holding this thing to my ear,” she adds, tapping her phone screen and causing the Rogue’s display screen to come to life. A couple of seconds later, the inside of the car is filled with the sound of a phone ringing. After five rings, the phone picks up.
“Hi. You’ve reached the Fosters. We can’t take your…” Mike Foster’s voice begins.
“Damn it!” Pam curses, cutting off her father’s recording without leaving a message.
“Was that the house phone?” Dave asks.
“Yeah,” she replies, scrolling the phone screen with her thumb.
“Try your mom’s cell,” he suggests.
“That’s where I’m going,” she says, a second before the call connects and ringing fills the car again.
“Hi. You’ve reached Lynn Foster. I can’t take your call right now, but if you’d leave…” Pam’s mom’s voice says before Pam kills the connection with extreme prejudice.
“Did they use a fucking script?” Dave asks, rolling the car forward a few feet.
“Probably,” Joe answers from the backseat.
“What are you doing now?” Dave asks Pam.
“Sending her a text,” she replies like he really should’ve known without asking.
Glancing into the rearview mirror, Dave’s more than a little shocked to see Joe sliding a loaded magazine into the handle of a pistol and chambering a round.
“Hey! What’cha got there, buddy?” he asks, trying to keep his voice calm and unthreatening.
“It’s obviously a gun,” Joe replies.
“Where’d you get it?” Dave asks.
“It’s the nine-millimeter I bought when I got my concealed carry permit, a year ago,” Joe replies. This was the subject of a couple of arguments between him and his mother at that time, and he glances at the back of her head to see her shake it slightly.
“Can I see it?” Dave asks, holding his hand up and carefully watching Joe in the mirror.
“I guess,” Joe answers, grabbing the barrel and starting to hand it over, grip first.
Dave pulls his hand back a fraction and asks, “Is the safety on?”
After looking at the gun, Joe reaches up with his other hand and touches the safety, and Dave hears a soft metallic click.
“It is now,” he says, setting it in Dave’s hand.
With great care, Dave checks the safety for himself. When he’s satisfied, he leans over, opens the glove box, sets the pistol inside and gently closes it.
“What the heck?” Joe shouts. “I might need that!”
“And if you do, I’ll give it back,” Dave replies. “But I don’t want you to accidentally shoot me in the back while we’re in the car!” he says, having had this recurring nightmare more than once since he and Pam met.
“That’s not going to happen,” Joe protests.
“Not now,” Dave agrees, ending the discussion. “Why don’t you try your dad’s phone?” he asks Pam.
“Please,” she replies.
In the age of the handheld computer, better known as smartphones, Mike Foster still uses the original flip-phone he purchased in 2003. He insists he only needs it for making calls, not taking them or sending text messages. Because the thing only has a numerical keypad, all the grandkids agreed with him. Besides the fact it was usually stuffed in his golf bag with a dead battery. Everyone in the family knew to call Lynn on her cell and if they wanted to talk to Mike, they should use the house number.
“Like he ever carries it,” Pam says.
“Better safe than sorry,” he replies.
The F*cked Series (Book 1): Uppercase Page 7
