Pox Americana 3

by Zack Archer

  “The antidote’s in there?”

  “We certainly hope so,” Lucy replied.

  “What’s it made of?” Layla asked.

  “A drug manufactured in part from the blood of Komodo dragons. It’s supposed to be the bee’s knees.”

  “Are you kidding me?”

  Lucy shook her head. “The dragon blood is full of unique, antimicrobial peptides that are believed to effectively attack and kill the virus.”

  “So, we’re flying down to Miami?” I asked.

  “Eventually.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “There isn’t enough fuel in the helicopters on the other side of the base to get you that far.”

  “So where are we headed?”

  “Oak Spring Farm near Upperville, Virginia,” she replied. “It was once a four-thousand-acre working farm owned by Paul and Bunny Mellon, a couple of sophistos who once palled around with the Kennedys. The government has long used their fifty-one-thousand-foot private landing strip, which is not too far away from another classified facility, Mount Weather.”

  “What do we do once we get there?”

  “There are several dozen pre-positioned units of fuel. You’ll execute a brief stopover at the farm and then continue on down to Florida, where you’ll link up with some friendly elements on the outskirts of Miami. They’ll guide you the rest of the way.”

  “Just like that?”

  A flat smile splashed Lucy’s face. “Just like that.”

  She clicked off her laser pointer and the lights came up. “Everyone keep their peckers up. We’ve got seven hours and forty-two minutes until Site R is abandoned. You’ve got three hours to rest and get ready. Dustoff is at twenty-one hundred hours.”

  Once the presentation was over, I stepped into the hallway to confer with Slade.

  “What’d you think of the presentation?”

  “Hated it. How can you put on something about South Beach and not show a single chick in a bikini?”

  “Gonna need you to focus, here, Slade.”

  “Okay, well then the presentation was what it was.”

  “Well said…”

  “Worst case scenario, you get a crapload of cash and a free trip to the Sunshine State.”

  “What about the Woken?”

  “The whole city’s underwater. I assume the zombies are all dead.”

  I hadn’t thought about that. That was an excellent point. If the city was drowned, the flesh-eaters were as well. I started feeling better about the whole thing.

  Lucy exited the room and moved briskly down a corridor as I powered Slade down and hustled to catch up with her.

  “Got a quick question for you, Miss Cummings!” I shouted.

  She stopped and glanced over a shoulder. “What can I help you with, Mister Dekko?”

  “It’s Nick.”

  “Okay…Nick.”

  “Well, I was sort of wondering about the cure.”

  “What about it?”

  “Does it work?” I asked.

  “The studies suggest that it will, but we won’t know until we actually get our hot little hands on it.”

  “And the groups we’re linking up with?”

  “A group of what you might call partisans.”

  My brow furrowed. “Ma’am?”

  “The ones we are meeting with are good guys who are fighting against the bad guys.”“How will we be able to tell the good guys from the bad guys?”

  “The good guys will be wearing Hawaiian shirts.”

  I was thrown by this. She grinned. “I’m pissing around with you, Nick.”

  She spun on her heels, and I followed alongside her. “What happens if the cure doesn’t work?”

  “Then it doesn’t work.”

  “We’ll have wasted time and risked everyone’s lives.”

  “Then I suppose we’ll all have a good cry, won’t we? If you think about it, we cry at both ends of life, don’t we? At the beginning because we know so little, and at the end because we know so much.”

  “I never really thought about it,” I replied.

  “I think about death all the time.”

  “I prefer to focus on the good things.”

  “You’ll have to tell me what those are because I’ve been searching for the last several months and haven’t found anything…”

  “Friends.”

  She stopped.

  “There are no more friends, Nick—”

  “Yeah, I’ve heard it before. Just allies and enemies, right?”

  “Something like that.”

  “What about me?” I asked.

  “What about you?”

  “What am I?”

  She reached out a finger and tapped my chest. “The jury’s still out on you, Nick. If you’re curious, I make it a rule to never rate a man until after I’ve seen him in action.”

  She winked, then swiveled her gorgeous hips and disappeared into the bowels of Site R.

  I turned back to find Raven eying me. She tilted her head in Lucy’s direction. “What did what’s her lips say?”

  “That it’s unclear whether the antidote to the virus will actually work.”

  Raven scowled. “There’s a part of me that’s worried about this operation.”

  “Just one? ‘Cause every part of me is always worried…”

  She smirked. “What I meant is, what happens if we actually find it?”

  “What?”

  “A cure.”

  “You mean besides dancing up and down the goddamn streets?”

  “What do we go back to?”

  My mouth opened, but nothing came out for several seconds. “I g-guess we go b-back home,” I finally sputtered.

  “There are no more homes, Nick. Everyone’s dead and there’s nothing we can do about it. And what about us? All of us? Am I supposed to just drop my guns and try to go back to a normal life?”

  “I guess I hadn’t thought about any of that.”

  “Well, we need to because we’re all in this together. We’re like…a tribe.”

  I smiled. “You’ll always be a member of my tribe, Raven.”

  She returned the smile, but it was a manufactured one.

  7

  In the few hours before we moved out, I tried to take a nap, but the adrenaline coursing through my veins had other ideas and besides, it’s fucking hard to sleep with two cannons strapped to your hands.

  Wanting to test out my new hand-cannons, I checked with a security guard who detailed the location of the base’s other gun range, although this one was a little different than the one I’d seen before.

  This range was actually a tiny mock village located in a large chamber, three or four structures made of plywood and sheets of metal and plastic. The structures were one-story, without windows, and there didn’t appear to be a single light on inside any of them.

  “What do you think, Slade?”

  “Looks like one of those old-time spook houses at the county fair.”

  “Anyone home?”

  “One person,” he replied. My HUD revealed an orange blob inside the village.

  I advanced toward the first building which had an open door. A sign pinned above the door read “Kill House” in red spray paint.

  “Hello,” I called out. Nothing stirred on the other side of the door.

  I took a step through the doorway and a sensor light snapped on. A figure emerged from the shadows and I brought my cannon up into the face of a little old lady! Actually, it was just a wooden figure of an old lady holding a cat. Lucky for you, I thought, wagging my cannon at the elderly woman. Beyond the old lady was a collection of cylindrical weapons.

  “Paint guns,” Slade said.

  I hoisted a gun and found a way to position it across my cannon so that I could fire it with my left hand.

  Plodding forward, I realized that the Kill House was indeed a place where Site R’s security folks trained. This was confirmed when I stepped on a concealed metal plate that caused s
everal unseen motors to roar to life.

  Lights flashed and sounds echoed as the Kill House sprang to life.

  The inner portion of the Kill House had been chopped up into various rooms where targets and traps were laid. I saw several closed-circuit cameras dangling from the ceilings like gargoyles.

  Another wooden figure leaped up out of the floor and I aimed at the guy, a rough-looking hombre holding a gun. The man’s head was gone, appearing to have been chopped from his body, and his torso was covered in fresh orange paint.

  Five paces later I found another wooden figure. A young punk. His wooden body had been split down the middle and he too was soaked in orange paint.

  Whomever was hiding inside the Kill House had left a path of destruction.

  “I know you’re in here!” I shouted.

  “Good one,” Slade said. “Way to creep up on ‘em.”

  I tuned Slade out and heard a noise at the back of the Kill House. Charging forward, I turned one corner, then another, catching sight of a dark silhouette.

  I opened fired with my paint gun, squeezing off a salvo of orange pellets that barely missed the silhouette.

  “Give up while you can!” I laughed.

  There was no response as I moved forward on the balls of my feet, sweeping my gun left to right, and then—

  WHOMP!

  A wooden figure of a woman holding a little baby popped up out of the floor. I blinked, then lowered my gun. That’s when the shadows exploded.

  A figure barrel-rolled out of the gloom and opened fire. Paint pellets flew in every direction. I brought my gun up but it was too late. I was struck in the chest by three pellets that hurt like a sonofabitch.

  A red light flashed on, and then a buzzer sounded and a spotlight sizzled to life, revealing Hollis. She was clad in black yoga pants and a gray T-shirt that look painted on, and balancing her paint gun on one hip, smiling hugely.

  “Wow,” she said. “You only lasted two minutes.”

  “You sound like my first girlfriend.”

  She dropped her paint gun and whipped out the tomahawk that Boz had given her. Pivoting, she vanished into the back of the Kill House. I followed her. At the rear of the Kill House was a circular space whose far wall was exposed mountain rock. Positioned in front of and against that wall were several sets of pugil sticks, body armor, and blocks of ballistic gel cut into vaguely humanoid forms.

  Hollis immediately went on the attack, using her tomahawk to do great damage to the blocks of gel. She dropped low and brought the hatchet down, carving a huge chunk from the translucent block. Then she spun and brought the weapon backward without looking, sending the sharpened edge of the hatchet into the middle of the gel, striking a death blow.

  “How come you just don’t throw the thing?” I asked.

  She looked up, wiping sweat from her brow. “That’s an old myth.”

  “What?”

  “That you’re supposed to toss a tomahawk.”

  “Why wouldn’t you?”

  She approached me, circling a finger near the side of her head as if to mime that I was loony. “Because as soon as you throw your weapon, you’re defenseless.”

  “Good point.”

  She grinned, and in one explosive movement heaved the tomahawk at the final block of gel. The hatchet slammed into the block with enough force to split it in two.

  “You’re getting better,” I said.

  “We all need to get better. Miami isn’t going to be like D.C.”

  I grinned. “No zombies.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Slade told me.”

  “You really believe him?”

  “Has he steered us wrong before?”

  She quirked an eyebrow. “You really want me to answer that?”

  “I’d really prefer if you didn’t.”

  She grasped one of the pugil sticks and tossed another one to me.

  “I’ll pass,” I said.

  She whacked me in the head.

  “Hey!” I shouted. “What the hell was that?”

  She whacked me again. The second blow doubled me over. Hollis twirled her stick.

  “Where did a nice girl like you learn to do that?”

  WHACK!

  The third strike hurt worse than the first two. “I’m going to say something here, Hollis,” I said, holding up my stick defensively.

  “If you’re about to cry uncle, I’m all ears,” she replied.

  “Get closer.”

  She did.

  “You hit like a girl,” I said, sticking my tongue out.

  She charged, and I feinted right, then went left. Hollis’s momentum carried her forward. She managed to jab me in the gut with the end of her stick, but I was able to clobber her over the head.

  Our sticks tangled up and I pulled with all my might, drawing Hollis in close enough to kiss.

  “Be honest,” I whispered. “Was this your idea of foreplay?”

  She brought her knee up and I blocked it. Then she tried to smack me in the face and I grabbed her wrist. Her knee dropped and I let go of her wrist, slipping my hand around her waist instead.

  “You’re such an asshole, Dekko.”

  “And you’re beautiful.” I threw caution to the wind and made my move. She didn’t pull back and we shared a long, deep kiss. We kissed again, and then she rested her head against mine.

  “Somebody told me something about you that I find hard to believe,” she said.

  “Is it really that hard to believe that I’m one of the most interesting men left in the world?”

  “Not that.”

  “What?”

  “That you died back in D.C.”

  “Oh, that,” I said, waving my hand dismissively.

  “Is it true?”

  “Depends on your definition of true.”

  “Factually accurate.”

  “Yes, it is…”

  “Jesus, Nick,” she said, squeezing my hand. “How did it feel?”

  “Aside from the part where I actually died from a gunshot, not that bad.”

  Her face fell. “Not everything’s a joke, okay? I was worried about you.”

  “And I was worried about you, too.”

  “So much so that you picked up a few new ladies.”

  “They’re friends.”

  “I’ll bet. The best of friends,” she said, making a face.

  “Does it bother you?”

  She shook her head. “No, I get how it is. These are new times. I’m cool with it and besides, they are some tough chickas.”

  “If it’s any consolation, you will always hold a special place in my heart. After all, when the world ended, you were the first one to pull a gun on me.”

  “You always remember your first, Nick.” She laughed and kissed me on the cheek, and then we headed back up to get ready for our mission.

  8

  Hollis and I separated in the main corridor. She headed to our sleeping quarters and I had plans to hit the armory one last time to see if there was anything else I wanted to take. Unfortunately, I wasn’t completely familiar with the layout of Site R so I got lost and instead of going up, I followed a walkway that curled into the heart of the facility. The walkway spooled to a mesh catwalk and soon I was stumbling through a semi-darkened space with bare stone walls that were slicked with moisture and algae.

  Halfway across the catwalk I stopped, because there was a red light glowing inside a niche carved into the rock up ahead. Moving slowly, I saw that the light was cast by votives, dozens of them, the same kind that people light and leave in places of worship in remembrance of the dead. They lined the walls inside the niche along with a string of white Christmas lights, creating what looked like a crude chapel.

  It was hard to make anything out, but in the meager light I spotted a form kneeling at the front of the chapel. I stepped on a bit of gravel and the form reacted. It was Lucy.

  Before I had a chance to react, her dual-bladed staff was at my throat. “It’s not poli
te to creep up on a lady when she’s in prayer, Dekko.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “You know what happens to trespassers?”

  “No, ma’am,” I said, hands in the air.

  “They lose their heads.”

  “I’d really like to keep mine,” I said.

  The staff came down and Lucy shot me a look before turning back to the votives. She closed her eyes and muttered what sounded like a prayer and then, staff in hand, she brushed past me.

  “What was that place?” I asked, pointing back.

  “The place I always come before a mission. I call it the Chapel in the Rock.” She stopped and mentally counted the votives. “Thirty-nine of them, if you were wondering,” she said, reading my look. “One for every person I knew here who’s gone on to his or her reward.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Why? They’re in paradise and we’re still in hell, right?” She struck off down the catwalk, then opened a hidden door that led to yet another stairwell.

  I struggled to keep pace as she took the steps two at a time. Shouldering open a door at the top of the stairs, we edged through a room with a sign that said “tankage.” The space was filled with industrial-sized metal drums. The air was warm and heavy, suffused with a rank, biological odor.

  “This is where the waste collects,” Lucy said, using her staff to gesture at the drums. “We’ve made every effort to repurpose everything given our limited space, so what we do is dry out a portion of the crap that we produce and then grind it into a fine powder and mix with some other stuff to fertilize the vegetable and fruit banks and indoor fish farms.”

  She motioned for me to follow and we crossed the room and through a set of pneumatic doors that hissed open. On the other side was a hydroponics shop, an indoor greenhouse of sorts that took up most of an entire building floor.

  The space was glassed in on three sides and filled with long, heated tables where cubes of what Lucy said were rock wool were being used to grow vegetables under banks of sodium lights that dangled from the ceiling below a maze of sprinklers and fans.

  Periodically, a nozzle near the sprinklers released a cloud of mist to maintain the moist, humid air, while nutrients were piped to the vegetables via long sets of hoses. I stopped and took it all in, my nostrils filled with the odor of vegetables, fertilizer, and the funk that came from the small swimming pools on the other side of the room.