KILLER T

by Robert Muchamore

  ‘We’ve got drones up looking for them,’ Martinez said. ‘We’re doing all we can, but it’s a big old desert and this rocky terrain makes it easy to hide.’

  ‘The cops will stay here overnight, but they don’t have the manpower to guard us after that,’ Harry told Charlie. ‘I’ve already spoken with the neighbours. Officer Martinez says he knows a reliable security company. They put up guard drones and patrol the area twenty-four/seven. It won’t be cheap, but the cost will be split five ways and I don’t think we have much choice …’

  ‘At least until this gang is caught,’ Martinez added.

  • • •

  Ed grew more childlike when something spooked him. While Rosie helped Harry make dinner, Charlie sat on the living room sofa with Ed’s head in her lap, gently stroking his hair.

  The phone company wouldn’t repair the landline and internet until morning, but a young cop guarding the gate relayed a radio message, saying that Vern showed signs of a minor heart attack and would be kept in hospital overnight.

  Rosie didn’t like driving unlit desert roads after dark and, while Harry offered to take her to the hospital, they decided it was best to stick together until morning. Rather than spend the night alone, Rosie stayed in Charlie and Harry’s spare bedroom.

  Charlie sat by Ed’s bedside until he fell asleep. Harry was frazzled and crashed straight away, but Charlie wasn’t so lucky, staring at the ceiling, wide eyed and hearing everything at once: a police drone buzzing the house, the air-con, Harry’s rattling chest and the tick of the vintage Mickey Mouse alarm clock he’d bought for her nineteenth birthday.

  Money was Charlie’s big worry. Many businesses had gone bust after Killer-T. The ones that survived had cut back on advertising, so Harry only earned a fraction of what he used to from Vegas Local. Modding work paid well, but the risks of a long prison sentence or a shakedown were real.

  They’d been doing OK the past few months, but Charlie had promised money to Juno, their cars were on their last legs, there were medical bills, expensive jobs that needed doing on the house and now they’d agreed to pay for private security patrols in case the zombies came back.

  Charlie and Harry had made a plan: become self-sufficient in food and energy, build a healthy financial nest egg, then quit the risky modding business. But that dream seemed further off than ever.

  64 CARDBOARD THE PIG

  ‘Boys and their toys,’ Rosie smiled.

  It was just after 8 a.m. She was behind the wheel of Vern’s big Jeep as Charlie climbed in the passenger seat. Harry, Ed and a few neighbours from up the hill stood on a patch of relatively flat land inspecting a pair of security drones, and testing out the walkie-talkies they’d been given by just-arrived security guards, with a thuggish air and machine guns slung across their chests.

  ‘I hope these creepy guards aren’t around for too long,’ Charlie said, buckling her safety belt as Rosie drove off.

  ‘They can’t be,’ Rosie said. ‘Unless they start accepting payment in green beans and milk.’

  Down by the gate, the cops were loading their drones on to a trailer. As the Jeep reached the highway, they saw a phone-company crew repairing the cables, and Rosie lowered her window and introduced herself to a third security guard, who had waves of curly red hair coming out the back of her combat helmet.

  Vern had spent the night at Clover Medical Center in North Vegas. The hospital operated permanent quarantine and only allowed one visitor for short-stay patients. While Rosie took a chemical shower and garbed up like an astronaut, Charlie told her to give Vern her love and grabbed a taxi off the hospital rank.

  The coffee shop below Charlie’s office was super busy, with most tables in use and a dozen cars queuing at the drive-thru window.

  ‘It’s bedlam,’ Charlie told Gwen as she stepped out of the quarantine box and moved behind the serving counter. ‘What’s going on?’

  With no access to vaccines or quarantine programmes, the developing-world farmers who grew most of the world’s cocoa, tea and coffee had been devastated by Killer-T. Gwen explained to Charlie that she’d unearthed a supplier of fresh pains au chocolat, baked with real dark chocolate. Word had spread among local office workers and there was pandemonium whenever they got a delivery.

  The busy store was the first good piece of news Charlie had heard in a while, and she also felt pleased with her own business brain: Charlie let managers like Gwen decide what to sell and paid a bonus based on how much profit each shop made. At a time when the supply of basic items like coffee and milk remained erratic, it meant managers went the extra mile to find local suppliers, while staff at the big chains put up out-of-stock signs and awaited delivery from a warehouse hundreds of miles away.

  Charlie had no modding clients to meet. After scoffing two pains au chocolat, she grabbed a bundle of money from her office safe, then jumped into another taxi. First stop was her most recently reopened coffee shop. She’d hoped the location close to the University of Nevada’s Las Vegas campus would be popular, but so far business had been underwhelming.

  Two staff stood inside with hands in their apron pockets, jolting like anxious schoolboys when Charlie stepped out of the quarantine box. There was a studenty crowd at the tables, but most of them were chatting and not buying much. Some were blatantly scoffing cola and cheap space-food doughnuts that came from the supermarket across the parking lot.

  ‘Where’s Bill?’ Charlie asked, squaring up to a bearded barista several years older than she was.

  ‘He was here earlier, but he had to go run an errand for his girlfriend.’

  ‘Oh, did he?’ Charlie hissed as the barista got a you-shouldn’t-have-said-that look off his colleague. ‘When Bill gets back, tell him to call me. And when you get this crowd in, hogging the tables and not buying anything, here’s what you do.’

  Charlie reached under the counter and turned the music up loud.

  ‘And how come I see you two standing around, but the floor’s filthy and four tables need wiping? Also change the code on the bathroom lock. That guy just walked in off the street. If this place is still losing money in eight weeks, I’m closing it down.’

  The two workers gave Charlie filthy looks as she stormed out to a waiting taxi. She told the cabbie to take her to The Paddler motel.

  Before Killer-T, this stretch of East Harmon had been a lively strip of old-fashioned motels, wedding chapels, convenience stores and family restaurants, mostly frequented by tourists who couldn’t afford fancier places on The Strip.

  But with half the big resorts closed and tourists thin on the ground, Cleveland had a ghostlike air and The Paddler was one of the last places open for business. Charlie now resented agreeing to give hard-earned money to Juno, and the more she thought the more she suspected it would do little to help her godson.

  Maybe if I sat down and spoke to Juno … Instead of giving her money, try persuading her to get the zombie mods removed and be a better mom. But who am I kidding? People turn themselves into zombies because it makes them happy no matter what. Zombies lie and make bad decisions. Above all, they’re selfish.

  Juno had messaged late the night before, saying she’d checked into room eighteen and asking if Charlie knew when she’d get the money. With their internet down, Charlie hadn’t picked up the message until she’d got to the hospital with Rosie, and its bluntness made Juno and Mikey seem more mercenary.

  Am I being soft? Why don’t I walk away? This million will pay Ed’s medical bills for six months. But Patrick’s my godson. The prospects aren’t rosy for a kid with a dead dad and zombie mom, but I should try to help, shouldn’t I?

  Room eighteen was past an ice machine and up an outdoor staircase. It was near noon and the sun was blazing, but the room still had curtains drawn. Charlie checked her bag to make sure she had the gun close, before ignoring the Do not disturb tag and giving a knock.

  ‘Juno, open up,’ Charlie said irritably as a kids’ show blared from the TV inside. ‘It’s the middle of the
day.’

  Mikey’s BMW is here, so they can’t have gone far. Maybe the type of z-mod they have makes them sleep a lot.

  ‘I’m not coming back for this shit,’ Charlie shouted, this time pounding hard on the door and getting a look from a guy stepping out five rooms down.

  I’ve got enough on my plate. I’ve …

  Charlie noticed the door handle rattle from inside. There was a little voice around waist height, but the TV blotted it out.

  ‘Patrick, is that you?’

  Charlie went down on one knee and put her ear close to the door.

  ‘I can’t open it,’ the voice said.

  ‘Push the handle.’

  ‘I am,’ Patrick said.

  Charlie tried to think what the inside of a motel room door looked like.

  ‘Is there a bolt, or a lever below the door handle?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  Charlie wondered if Patrick understood what a bolt was.

  ‘Patrick, is it a handle, or is it a knob, like a ball?’

  ‘Like a ball.’

  ‘Is there a button in the middle of the ball?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Push the button,’ Charlie said. The knob rattled, then there was a click. ‘OK, now try turning it.’

  The door cracked open and Charlie saw Patrick, bare legged and wearing the same striped shirt and stained briefs as the day before.

  ‘Who are you?’ Patrick asked, forced to step back as Charlie shoved the door.

  A stink of unwashed everything got through Charlie’s virus mask. She kept a hand on the gun and gagged as she stepped inside. There were two double beds. Juno was on the one furthest from the door, face down in socks and knickers.

  ‘I ate the chocolate,’ Patrick said, facing the wall guiltily and scratching one leg with his big toe.

  Charlie trembled as she closed in on Juno. There was urine soaked into the bed. Juno showed no sign of breathing and a deep bruise ran in a straight line across her throat.

  ‘Where’s Mikey?’ Charlie asked urgently.

  Patrick pointed into the bathroom. Charlie straddled dirty clothes, passed the blaring TV and leaned into the bathroom.

  Mikey had been in the shower when the bad guys showed. He was face down, naked, with shampoo lathered through his long hair. The method of execution was identical to Juno, with the purple wound across the neck.

  ‘Is my mom too dead for a doctor?’ Patrick asked, pleading eyes making Charlie choke up.

  ‘I think so,’ Charlie said.

  I feel sick. What do I do? What do I do? What do I do? What do I do?

  Charlie’s lawyer had said it was unlikely anyone would randomly dig up the old investigation into her work in Mango’s lab, but the FBI file would still exist and it would surely surface if she reported the murder of her former lab partner …

  I can’t be linked to this, but I can’t abandon the little guy …

  Killer-T had created a thousand times more orphans than the child-protection system had been designed to cope with. Most kids got taken into good homes with relatives or friends, but thousands had vanished and there had been a ton of media coverage about paedophile abductions, grotty makeshift orphanages in school gyms and overcrowded foster homes.

  The only way I can be sure Patrick doesn’t get dumped somewhere awful is if I take care of him.

  ‘OK, little man,’ Charlie said, trying to sound confident and friendly. ‘I think it’s best if we leave. Where are your favourite toys?’

  Gotta think about forensics. I’m wearing anti-virus gloves and the only thing I’ve touched is the door handle. The only people who can link me to this location are the guy who came out of the room down the hall and the taxi driver who took me here. Hopefully the local cops will put minimal effort into investigating the death of a couple of zombies …

  Patrick climbed on to the empty double bed and grabbed a well-worn stuffed pig and a grubby fleece blanket.

  ‘Has your pig got a name?’ Charlie asked as she looked inside an open suitcase by the door.

  ‘This is Cardboard,’ Patrick said.

  ‘That’s a cool name for a pig,’ Charlie said.

  There were some of Patrick’s clothes in the bag, but it was jumbled with dirty bras and Mikey’s crusty boxers. After a rummage with her gloved hand, Charlie found a pair of green soccer shorts.

  ‘Take those dirty briefs off and put these on,’ Charlie said, flicking the shorts to Patrick as she spotted toddler sized Nikes with Velcro fastenings.

  Patrick wore a serious expression as he sat on the floor, pulling on the shorts. ‘Are you allowed to take me away?’ he asked thoughtfully.

  ‘It’s just until we sort things out,’ Charlie said, peeling back the Velcro tabs to open the shoes. ‘You can’t stay here, can you? There’s nobody to look after you.’

  Patrick considered this as he fully stretched the waistband of the shorts and let it ping against his waist.

  Charlie changed the subject. ‘I like these sneakers, Patrick. I bet you can run really fast in these.’

  ‘Zoom!’ Patrick said, throwing a hand into the air and stepping towards Charlie.

  Charlie helped him put on the shoes. Focusing on Patrick’s needs made her detach from Juno’s dead body eight feet away. But when she looked up she felt it: a little boy’s dead mommy and a person she’d once considered her best friend.

  ‘OK, soldier,’ Charlie said, stifling a sob as she stuffed Cardboard the pig and the tatty blanket into her bag. ‘Let’s march outta here.’

  65 BUBBLEGUM

  Vern left hospital two days after the zombie attack. He’d been told to take it easy, but as soon as he arrived home he checked on his beloved dairy cows, then crossed the driveway to check on Charlie and Harry.

  Patrick sat swinging his legs off a chair as Vern helped Harry replace a broken hinge on one of the kitchen cabinets. The four-year-old looked less babyish with his hair cut, nails clipped and smart new shorts and shirt. He was confused by what had happened, sometimes mentioning that his mom had died, but at other times asking when she was coming back.

  ‘Mikey can never come back, right?’ Patrick asked anxiously, for the third time in an hour.

  ‘Never ever, ever, ever,’ Harry said, smiling as he screwed a new hinge on the door.

  ‘Good,’ Patrick said, nodding.

  Harry whispered to Vern, who insisted on helping by holding the door steady. ‘Charlie almost cried when she took his shirt off. Whip and burn marks all over his back and buttocks.’

  ‘What are you whispering?’ Patrick asked. Then when he didn’t get an answer: ‘Where are Charlie and Ed?’

  ‘Ed has to do schoolwork,’ Harry said. ‘Charlie is working down in the shelter.’

  ‘Can we play catch outside again tonight?’

  ‘Maybe,’ Harry said. ‘I have to start making dinner when we’ve fixed this cupboard.’

  Vern cracked a warm smile. ‘Maybe you can come across and meet my cows later, Patrick.’

  Patrick acted shy. ‘Will you come with me, Harry?’

  Harry had seen horrible stories about the overworked child-care system on TV news and Vegas Local. He supported Charlie bringing Patrick home, but wasn’t used to little kids and found the constant need for attention a strain.

  ‘I’ll be making dinner,’ Harry said. ‘But Ed might go with you.’

  ‘What’s the gooey stuff?’ Patrick asked, sliding off the dining chair and moving closer to the epoxy filler that Harry had mixed to fill the screw holes where the old hinge had torn loose.

  ‘Don’t touch that,’ Vern and Harry yelled in unison, just as the phone started to ring.

  ‘Can you fetch that, pal?’ Harry asked.

  Patrick ran into the hallway, returning with the ringing handset as Harry wiped sticky hands on his jeans.

  ‘Afternoon, Harry speaking.’

  ‘Young Mr Smirnov,’ the man on the other end said brightly. ‘It’s Dr Harkom. I’ve had your biopsy resu
lts back, and I was hoping you had a minute to catch up.’

  Harry asked Vern to keep an eye on Patrick, then crossed to the living room and shut the door.

  ‘How’s the cough been since I saw you?’ the doctor asked.

  Harry settled into an armchair. ‘It’s manageable in the day, when I’m busy doing stuff, but at night it tickles like crazy. Sleeping propped on pillows helps.’

  ‘Are you still bringing up blood?’

  ‘Blood most days,’ Harry admitted as he heard one of the patrol drones skim over the house.

  ‘Better or worse since you started the steroid injections?’

  ‘No difference so far,’ Harry said disappointedly. ‘You said you had the biopsy results?’

  Dr Harkom laughed uneasily. ‘My colleagues found your lung tissue interesting.’

  ‘In a good way?’ Harry asked nervously.

  ‘The picture is complex,’ Dr Harkom explained. ‘For the first ten years I practised medicine, you looked at symptoms, compared them to a list of known ailments and diseases and decided which one it was.

  ‘Now, we have patients altering their genes, synthetic viruses, mutant bacteria, purple wasps, neurotoxic dog bites and Lord knows what else. And, of course, all those things interact with one another, and the health infrastructure is overwhelmed with millions suffering the after-effects of Killer-T and superflu.’

  ‘So we’ve not got anywhere?’

  ‘Your lung tissue was sticky and inflamed,’ Dr Harkom explained. ‘Healthy lung tissue has a colour and texture similar to a fresh white mushroom. Under the microscope, your sample looked more like chewed pink bubble gum. I showed the pictures to some colleagues. One had seen similar tissue in a keen amateur cyclist, who had the same respiratory mod as you.’

  Harry was surprised. ‘But my respiratory mod is common. I’ve looked online and there’s nothing saying it’s dangerous.’

  ‘It’s clearly a rare complication,’ the doctor agreed. ‘The KL553 respiratory modification is now on the approved list of mods and can legally be given to severe asthma sufferers. It’s hard to say what is causing your problems. It may be an infection that reacted badly with the modified lung tissue. Or an environmental factor, such as an allergy to something in your diet or workplace.’