The Valley of Shadows - eARC

by John Ringo

  The security point was typically manned by two bored civilian rent-a-cops, but as the little convoy hove into sight, Copley noted a infantry squad in full battle rattle manning the now reinforced Vehicle Control Point. Backing them up was an armored combat vehicle, a Mine Resistant Ambush Protected truck, or as the acronym mad Army called them, MRAPs. Thousands had been made for the Iraq war, and several different models were fielded.

  As the two HMMWVs and Copley’s truck passed the VCP, the sergeant could see that this MRAP retained a loaded fifty caliber machine gun in the turret position behind the cab, and it was manned by an watchful soldier. This level of alert was something that had not been getting airtime on cable news.

  They weren’t in Kansas anymore.

  * * *

  The sign read Unit Check In Here, but to Copley, who was fluent in nonverbal fobbit-ese after his Iraq experience, the dour look on the colonel’s face read “abandon all hope.” Nonetheless, Copley came to attention behind the battery XO as they reported in.

  “Colonel, Lieutenant Pozzo reporting with the advance party from 1st of the 258th,” 1LT Pozzo said, announcing them.

  “How many with you now, Lieutenant?” asked the colonel, looking over the officer’s shoulder and squinting skeptically at Copley.

  “Seventeen, sir,” came the answer, as Pozzo handed over a manifest.

  “Seventeen whole soldiers?” The colonel’s question was clearly rhetorical. “Astroga!” The colonel snapped his fingers and then extended his arm, palm up. A pert brunette private in crisp, unfaded ACUs materialized and slapped a clipboard into his hand. He consulted the papers, flipping a few.

  “Your battery has sixty-eight soldiers assigned and this is all you brought?” the colonel asked, shaking the paper at the pair of artillerymen. “The chain of command is taking notice of units that are failing to report in with the majority of their strength. The state of emergency has been declared for a while now and yet a suspicious number of units are late reporting and understrength. Including yours, Lieutenant.”

  For a second, Copley thought that Pozzo was going to argue, which was generally frowned upon, even among weekend-warrior types. In some cases, especially when dealing with units outside the New York Guard, politely refuting an unjustified or incorrect senior was possible. However, he was getting a distinct feeling that their current situation was closer to the early days in Iraq than it was to a normal drill weekend, or even a routine hurricane response. Thankfully, the battery XO apologized and suggested that the colonel take it up with the battery CO or even the colonel who commanded the 258th.

  “Your colonel is still en route, but due to the pressing need for boots on the ground, I’m sending you to reinforce the First of the Sixty-Ninth Infantry. Their headquarters company has the TOC set up at Tomlinson Square Park,” the colonel stated, glowering. “Take your detachment and report there. Billeting will be at a local hotel. If you don’t already have ammunition for your personal weapons, draw it before you leave. Tell your CO to report to me personally as soon as he arrives.”

  “Sir, don’t forget the updated rule of engagement,” the little private said, offering yet another clipboard to the colonel for a signature. “Since, these guys actually belong to my unit, why don’t I go along to show them the best routes to get through the checkpoints between here and Manhattan.”

  “Your unit?” the colonel raised an eyebrow, as did Copley. He knew everyone at all three batteries that made up the 258th by sight.

  “I was supposed to join HHB the 258th in Jamaica before I got shanghaied here,” the private replied, referring to the headquarters component of the arty regiment. “These are our guys.”

  On Copley’s forehead the second eyebrow rose to join the first. He doubted that Captain McCabe or anyone at Battery A would have thought of themselves as “Private Astroga’s guys.” Whoever she was.

  “Fine,” the colonel answered, scribbling on another proffered authorization.

  “Private, tomorrow or the next day, grab one of the Officer Friendly types and guide this detachment over to the Tomlinson ops center. Whatever it takes to get the 258th off the dime. Lieutenant, you have until we move you into the city to get the rest of your unit here.”

  * * *

  The Holland Tunnel exited onto street level only a hundred meters from the historic blue painted entrance to the First Police Precinct. Both the white legend over the lintel and the more colorful NYPD badge logo on the door proclaimed control of the island to the incoming cars as they exited the tunnel into Manhattan.

  Pre-Plague, the traffic exiting the tunnel had been very high. Now, the number of cars and trucks serving the city was still considerable, but much less than there used to be, and dropping every day.

  The traffic reflected the police force’s control of the city, mused Dominguez.

  Senior staff as well as additional line officers not read into the vaccine manufacture were receiving the weekly operations summaries. As the audience listened to statistics about service call coverage, arrests figures, the numbers of officers reporting for duty and the other routine reports, Dominguez sensed a resignation in his fellow cops. The change in the situation from day to day wasn’t catastrophic. The trend was.

  The next briefing officer began the threat intelligence briefing. He painted a bleak picture.

  “Across the river, Matricardi has effective police control over everything west of the Ninety-Five,” he said, highlighting the area on the plasma. “There are still uniforms, but Newark PD is in his pocket, and most of the sheriffs in the northern counties. Intelligence reports they’re harvesting infected for illegal vaccine production. Where and under what conditions is unknown. We are denied access to some parts of Newark and everywhere near the airport. The state troopers are pretty much absent—haven’t seen them at all.”

  Dominguez’s deputy blinked and looked at his boss, who blandly returned the glance. The source of NYPD’s vaccine was publicly attributed to a secret pharmaceutical laboratory somewhere near the pharma corridor in New Jersey. Although some negotiations with the different gangs was a matter of record, detailed knowledge of their underground cartel operation was still close held.

  “The lower number of cops in Newark appears to have led to a very high number of zombie calls,” the briefer continued. “That begs the question about zombies getting across the river. In addition, both the Matricardi gang to the west as well as the Overture organization in Queens are reported to have heavy weapons. In a chance encounter, they potentially outgun anybody but the Ajax and Hercules units.”

  “What do we do to keep them out?” The gruff captain from the Nine-Four spoke up. “We’re holding in Manhattan. The Guard is scattered to hell and gone, their armored trucks never leave the car parks and the grunts don’t do much more than enforce curfew, even though they’re bringing in more zombie chow to replace losses and quitters. We’re holding the line in the east, but I can see a time when the island is squeezed from both sides.”

  The surviving special agent in charge from the FBI field office had unofficially thrown in his lot with the NYPD a few days earlier. Direction from his bosses in D.C. had continued to focus on the goose chase to find the originator of the plague. Whoever had done it was long gone and there wasn’t a cure. Better to focus on what could be salvaged than on figuring out how it all started.

  “We’ve got heavier stuff,” the SAIC admitted. “And I’m solidly dialed into the Guard. If we had to, we could control the tunnels and bridges—create a semipermeable barrier. Essentially a border crossing for Manhattan only.”

  Heads swiveled at that.

  “Temporary, or permanent like?” A classic New Yark drawl from the back sounded.

  “Either,” the SAIC replied. “Both. It’s part of some of our post-9/11 planning.”

  “It’s a little premature to treat all of the Bridges and Tunnel crowd like zombies,” Dominguez said, keeping his tone artificially light and adding a chuckle. “We aren’t battling Jerse
y, Billy. Yet.”

  All the commuters, whether from Long Island, the boroughs across the East River or worst of all, from New Jersey, were labeled “Bridge and Tunnel” by the full-time island residents. Manhattanites of long standing had ever resented them as not truly being “of the City.” However, the ongoing business activity remained utterly necessary for the city-shaped human-colander that was New York. The money that commuters, businesses and visitors left behind after each trip, whether for work or play, fed directly into the financial bloodstream of the City.

  Yet, Matricardi represented the worst of the New Jersey crowd. Flashy and cheap, he continued to aggravate the de facto chief of half the remaining cops in New York. As the cops lost strength, the jackals like Matricardi gained in power and reach. He’d have to talk to Kohn about that again.

  It might be necessary to keep him out of New York at some point. Or, if the situation in New Jersey went entirely out of control, Dominguez thought that it would be helpful to have a way to close the door.

  He scribbled a note to himself to chat with the feeb and then addressed the group again.

  “Let’s talk security for open spaces like the Park. When do we go to a full curfew? Ideas?”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Tom Smith walked the various security posts frequently, less to check on the attentiveness of his staff—between the obvious severity of the situation and Durante’s scrutiny he didn’t really expect to find any slack—rather it was the way that he could check on the mettle of his crew as well as take the temperature of the city at ground level. It also helped to just get out of his office. He stopped briefly at the NYPD vehicle checkpoint, which was one of several that guarded approaches to the NYSE a block or so away, and then kept walking in the warm mid-August morning sun.

  Two of Durante’s team stood outside the underground garage entrance.

  “Hey boys,” he called to them as he approached. “Did the BERTs already roll?”

  “Yes, Mr. Smith,” the nearer guard said, offering a handheld radio. “’Bout fifteen mikes since they left. You need to reach them?”

  “No,” Tom said. “Just checking. It’s all good.”

  Smith kept walking until he reached the corner at Wall Street. He could see along the front of the bank. The double doors into the atrium were full of the morning rush; even at a quarter of regular staffing several thousand people still had to enter in a short period in order to meet the opening of the market. He started to head back in when a painfully loud crack went off right behind him, like a single beat shattering an enormous bass drum. He flinched again a split second later as what felt like heavy rain struck the back of his suit.

  * * *

  Kendra was in the atrium lobby grabbing a coffee from the local caffeine pusher. As long as the world’s largest coffee franchise was still in business in downtown Manhattan, things couldn’t be that bad, right? She turned to the sugar and cream station to properly adulterate her daily lifeline in its white and green paper cup.

  A very loud boom, the next thing to an explosion and sounding like an anvil being dropped into a dumpster, shook the lobby windows. One person screamed in startled reflex.

  She spun towards the direction that the sound had come from. For a moment she couldn’t parse what she was seeing.

  Several feet from the heavy glass atrium walls a pile of bloody rags appeared to be tangled with a fractured red and yellow Jell-O mold lying on the sidewalk. A moment later, her eyes traced one line of red to the window opposite her. A mangled human hand and a fragment of cloth snapped into focus. Suddenly she could trace all of the streaks of what must be blood back to the point of impact. In the center lay a what looked a dark and greasy bit of carpet remnant.

  Hair.

  A person had jumped. From her building. While she had her coffee.

  Screams, varying in register, began to rise in earnest around her as onlookers realized what had happened. She recognized a member of the lobby security team who ran over and started talking into his handheld radio, his Jersey accent somehow perfect for the scene.

  “Yeah, someone else just gave notice,” he narrated casually. “Eh, ’bout fifty floors worth. Main entrance. Send the cleanup guys over to the Pine Street entrance and they can work from the outside in. Call it in to Durante, he can pass it up the chain and handle the cops. Nah, we’ll have to clean it up ourselves. EMS ain’t gonna come out for no street pizza.” He paused and looked outside. “Shit, that’s the boss. Yeah, Smith is already outside. Shit shit shit. Nah, he looks okay.”

  Kendra could see Smith gesticulating at the guard, pointing to the employee turnstiles.

  The security man watched Smith for a moment, nodded his head exaggeratedly and then keyed his radio before resuming his comms.

  She looked outside again, and just outside the densest part of the spatter pattern she saw Smith looking at the body, frowning. His stature was calm, hands folded in front of him, just another day at the office. Just another minor security issue to manage.

  He was annoyed.

  Annoyed.

  Kendra’s unwilling attention was broken by the voice of the security man.

  “I’ll look for an employee badge on the stiff,” the security guard’s voice grated on her suddenly raw nerves. “You make sure that everyone going up still gets screened. People are running to the elevators.”

  Disgusted, he started snapping on a pair of latex gloves before looking up and noting Jones.

  “Hi Jonesy. Helluva thing, eh? Some folks can’t take the heat, amirite?”

  She nodded jerkily and forced her eyes away. The elevators were over there, on her right. Kendra turned precisely, and holding herself carefully erect, walked over and pushed the elevator call button.

  Then she realized she had about three seconds to make it to an open trash can to puke.

  * * *

  “Smith here.”

  “Tom, I need you on thirty-two now.” Kaplan sounded perfectly calm and apart from using his boss’s first name, his delivery was deadpan. “Faith just scrummed with a zombie. Again.”

  Tom knew that calm was a bad sign.

  “She was just here, damnit.” Tom’s answer was equally without inflection. “Is she bit?”

  “No obvious marks, but she might have been contaminated with blood through an open wound,” Kaplan replied instantly. “I am taking her to decontam now.”

  Smith could hear Faith talking to someone and an elevator ding in the background.”

  “On the way,” Tom said, hanging up.

  * * *

  “We got this down to an art, Boss,” Tradittore said happily, holding his fingers up in an “okay” symbol. “Art.”

  The early, messy days of vaccine production were behind them now.

  Matricardi had purchased a funeral home and after trying out more than a dozen candidates, settled on a pair of experienced butchers, one from his very own delicatessen. Tradittore had loaned the operation his understanding of just-in-time manufacturing, so they didn’t have an enormous backlog of confined zombies to manage. Members of the cartel had toured the police-run holding facility in order to “see” how the cops managed the process. Oldryskya thought that “hellish” didn’t begin to cover it.

  She stood with Matricardi and his lieutenant, safely behind the glass of an observation room, as they watched the assembly-line process. Each morning, the previous day’s zombies were delivered already dead, usually from a carefully aimed small-caliber pistol shot to the head, which preserved the structural integrity of the skull. Corpses were lined up on gurneys, and drained into the purpose-built blood gutter that ran the length of the large room. She wrinkled her nose at the fecal smell, mingling unhelpfully with the heavy iron scent of the blood already running down the spouts to the trough. The suited and masked pair rapidly incised each corpse’s neck and, after separating all connective tissue, withdrew the spinal column and placed it in a specimen tray. Processed bodies were dumped into very large triwall cardboard boxes for
truck delivery to a large industrial incinerator.

  “We’re matching the bank’s number now,” Tradittore exclaimed. “Better than seven doses per asset average. Our teams plus the take that we are getting from Newark PD is two hundred zombies a week. Fourteen hundred units per week and street price is at over seven thousand bucks per, cash. Our team is fully vaccinated, and most of the cops that have taken our deal have the first shot. ’Course, there aren’t as many left as I’d like, but…”

  His snow-white shirt popped into view as he shot his cuffs.

  “…not really too surprised. Cops, you know. No vision.”

  Matricardi grunted.

  “Are you making nice with Dominguez?” the boss asked. “That guy is coming unglued.”

  “Well, nice, sure—but I mean, like you say, that guy is a piece-a-work,” Tradittore said, temporizing.

  “What did you do?”

  “Nothing, I swear,” the lieutenant said, holding both hands up at shoulder height. “Just busted his balls a little bit, when he gave me stink eye.”

  Matricardi sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. There wasn’t time to sit on everyone, every minute, but he did not need problems with the cops right now.

  “And Overture?”

  “His teams tried a few sorties near Fort Lee,” Tradittore replied. “We persuaded them otherwise.”