“Nobody is coddling you,” said David, his face softening. “There’s just a limited supply of suppressed weapons, some of which we’ve redistributed to the tactical security team. Unless there’s a good reason, all shots fired outside the building need to be suppressed. Even from the rooftop.”
“What if I swap rifles with Roscoe?”
His dad raised a skeptical eyebrow.
“All right,” said Joshua. “So what exactly is my job out there?”
“Situational awareness,” said David. “When we have to range away from the door to find the third wanderer, you’ll watch our back.”
“Mr. Hoenig can do that from the security hub.”
“Good point,” blurted David before shaking his head. “Sorry. A video screen is not the same as being there. You can read the subtle signs Hoenig can’t, and better coordinate our attention.”
Joshua still wasn’t altogether buying the importance of his role, but he decided to keep his mouth shut about it. His dad must have read his face.
“Hey, we’ve all been tail-end Charlie before. It feels really unimportant, until everything changes—and it becomes the most important position on the team,” said David, taking a moment to read his face. “Still not buying it?”
“A little more than before,” said Joshua.
The sound of thumping boots echoed through the hallway, drawing closer until Roscoe burst into the open. The stout security guard stopped next to them, putting his hands on his knees to catch his breath.
“I really need to shift some of my gym time from weights to cardio,” he said, huffing for a few seconds. “Damn! Okay. I’m ready.”
“Are you sure?” said David.
“One hundred percent,” said Roscoe. “As long as we aren’t running.”
“I wasn’t planning on it,” said David. “But you know how things can go out there.”
“Yeah. Sideways. Real quick.”
“I think you’ve met my son, Joshua?”
“Briefly. When you guys arrived,” he said, extending a hand. “You ready to go out there?”
Joshua accepted Roscoe’s firm grip and shook hands. His arm felt like a twig that might snap. The guy must spend all of his time in the weight room. Before he could answer Roscoe’s question, his dad cut in.
“He thinks he’s the third wheel,” said David.
“Because his rifle isn’t suppressed?”
“Was everyone listening to the conversation?” said Joshua.
“Shit. Ain’t no third wheels around here,” said Roscoe, peeking through the window. “How do you want to do this?”
“We ease out the door and stay low. Use the shrubs framing the walkway for concealment, then take simultaneous shots,” said David. “We’ll have to hunt for the third.”
“I’m sure Gary will lead us right to him,” said Roscoe.
“I will,” replied Hoenig. “You guys going to talk about this all day or actually take care of business?”
“That’s my Gary,” said Roscoe. “Ready when you’re ready.”
“Let’s get this over with.”
His dad crept up to the door and carefully pushed the crash bar with the top of his left shoulder until it was fully depressed. With the locking mechanism disabled, he slowly leaned into the door, opening it far enough to fit through. Roscoe followed, quietly dropping himself to his hands and knees on the brick walkway outside the building and disappearing to the left.
Joshua held the door open with one hand and lowered himself to the tile floor with the other, clanging one of his rifle magazines against the metal door as he squeezed through. Great. He’d be grounded to the security hub for sure after this. When he finished squirming through, he held the door with one of his feet, easing it shut before crawling next to his dad.
“Sorry about that,” he whispered.
“About what?” said David.
“Making noise.”
“I didn’t hear anything,” said David. “Nice job closing the door with your foot.”
“You saw that?”
“I saw you fighting to get that vest through the door, too,” said David, winking. “Roscoe, status?”
“Tracking my target,” said Roscoe.
The security guard lay several feet to their left, aiming his rifle through a break in the thick green shrubs lining the other side of the brick walkway. His father lay against the right side, his rifle in a similar position.
“Joshua, count us down from three. Slowly but evenly,” said David.
“Me?”
“I can have Gary do it,” said David.
“No. I’m good,” said Joshua. “Ready?”
“Do it,” said Roscoe.
“Three. Two. One,” he said, almost pausing. “Fire.”
Despite knowing exactly when to expect the suppressed gunshots—they startled him.
“Targets down,” said Hoenig. “I see a few turned heads outside the fence, but that’s about it. Stay put for a minute. I’ll let you know when it’s safe to move.”
“Staying put,” said David.
Roscoe turned his head to them. “I’m not gonna lie. I hate being out here. I saw what they did to the team from the SRF.”
“We’ll be fine,” said David.
“You’re starting to sound like Larsen,” said Joshua.
“That’s when you know things are really bad,” said David, and they both laughed quietly.
“Who’s Larsen? That other dude?” said Roscoe.
“Yeah. He says that every time we’re about to do something really jacked up,” said David. “Kind of a running joke that’s not really funny.”
The distant sound of a vehicle engine caused them all to turn their heads back toward the building.
“Gary, tell me that’s the SUV.”
“It’s on the way,” said Hoenig. “Bad news is we have to drive it around the front of the campus. We can’t squeeze it through anywhere else unless we take it into the parking lot and jam it against the fence from the outside.”
“That’s too risky for the guys driving,” said David. “We’re fine with a little extra attention here.”
“Speak for yourself,” said Roscoe, laughing.
The engine noise grew louder.
“They’re driving across the lawn in front right now,” said Hoenig.
“We can hear them,” said David.
Joshua lifted his head, catching movement to their right. The third crazy must have heard the gunshots or engine noise—and backtracked.
“Contact. Right,” he said, without thinking.
His dad rose to a kneeling position and fired a single shot that spun the cleanly dressed woman to the left. A second shot knocked her to the grass. She lay motionless over her crumpled legs for a few moments, until one of her arms started to drift slowly to her blood-splattered chest. Joshua stared at the dying woman, confused by his reaction. He didn’t want her to die. She looked too normal to die. Too much like his mother.
He heard someone call his name, but his gaze was fixed on the woman’s fading movements.
“Joshua,” said his father, squeezing his shoulder.
“What?” he said, hesitating to take his eyes off the woman.
“I need you at the door, watching our eastern flank,” said David. “This could blow up in our faces if they attract a large enough swarm. If that happens, we can’t waste time swiping cards.”
Joshua nodded, still confused by his emotions. “Are you sure you don’t need me on the fence?”
“It’s up to you,” said David. “This is going to make a lot of noise either way.”
Joshua looked at the fence and the crazies beyond, feeling no pull in that direction.
“I got the door.”
His father patted his shoulder. “We’re gonna be fine.”
Joshua cracked a grin. “Are you sure that’s not just your inner Larsen shining through?”
“I sure as hell hope not,” said David.
While his dad and t
he others defended the breach in the fence, cutting down any of the infected trying to squeeze past the oversized vehicle, Joshua crouched in the open doorway—watching their backs. His eyes kept darting to the right, to the woman lying in a heap near the corner of the building. She’d stopped moving. He backed up a few inches, the door frame blocking his view of her bloodied corpse. He’d seen enough for a lifetime. Unfortunately, this was very likely just the beginning.
Chapter 31
Larsen gritted his teeth as Dr. Hale pulled the stitches in his thigh tight and tied a knot, her fingers pressed against the wound. She’d applied the last of the topical anesthetic from the infirmary, which did nothing to dull the deeper pain. The limited medical supplies in NevoTech’s small infirmary must have been gutted by the initial rush of injured employees. Not that any of it could have made much of a difference. The labels on the mostly empty shelves implied that the infirmary focused on treating minor injuries and routine illnesses. Small cuts, scrapes, fever and diarrhea—the kind of things that might distract an employee from work.
On top of that, the employees that had sought shelter on campus had stretched the infirmary’s already limited supplies very thin. Hale had used the rudimentary stitch kit from his IFAK (individual first aid kit) to sew the wound shut, along with the rest of his antibiotic ointment. In hindsight, he should have grabbed Ochoa’s and Ripley’s IFAKs. The kits were basic, but they would give Hale the ability to stabilize and treat some of the more serious wounds that might arise.
“Sorry about that,” said Hale, looking around. “Do you have anything in your kit to wrap this properly? I don’t see any larger bandages. No butterflies either.”
“We can reuse the Israeli,” said Larsen, grabbing the blood-soaked compression bandage.
“I really hate to do that,” she said.
“You can wrap a layer of sterile gauze under it if that makes you feel better,” he said.
“It does,” said Hale. “Sort of.”
Chang stepped into the room with a packed tray of food, closing the door behind him. The smell of French fries hit Larsen first, followed by overcooked hamburger.
“Breakfast of champions,” said Larsen.
“Apparently, they have no shortage of fast-food items in the freezer,” said Chang.
“That smells so good,” said Hale.
“I can finish this on my own,” said Larsen.
Hale didn’t need additional convincing. She scrubbed her hands and joined Chang at the nurse’s desk, barely pausing long enough to swallow between bites. By the time Larsen had reaffixed the blood-soaked Israeli bandage and washed his hands, Chang and Hale were hovering over his food like vultures. He approached them, shaking his head.
“If I didn’t know any better, I’d say ‘welcome to the 77th annual Hunger Games,’” said Larsen.
Chang and Hale laughed, easing into their seats.
“Literally,” said Chang. “I didn’t realize how hungry I was. I haven’t had much of an appetite over the past twenty-four hours. Kind of hit me all at once.”
“The two of you can split mine,” said Larsen. “I’ll hit up one of the vending machines.”
“I think most of those are empty,” said Chang.
“You need to eat,” said Hale. “You lost too much blood.”
“I feel fine.”
“The adrenaline hasn’t worn off yet,” said Hale. “Trust me. You’re about to crash hard. Eat up.”
Larsen didn’t argue, wolfing down the greasy burger and overcooked fries before either of them changed their minds. He was accustomed to going for long periods of time without eating more than a protein bar or drinking the water he carried on his back—even under the harshest physical conditions. It was all part of the rigorous training that had defined his professional career as a SEAL. He knew his limits, having repeatedly pushed himself physically and mentally to the very brink of falling apart. But he also knew it was easy to miscalculate, which he had nearly done a few moments ago. He’d lost enough blood to throw everything out of whack. Hale was right. It would have caught up with him, probably at the worst possible moment.
He leaned against the wall next to the desk, letting the food somewhat settle into a nervous stomach.
“Is everything under control out there?” said Chang. “They started to evacuate everyone, then stopped. That’s how I managed to sneak a few burgers away.”
“The helicopters are gone for now,” said Larsen. “But they unintentionally blasted a section of the perimeter fencing out of place. Security managed to block the gap with their SUV, but it’s not an airtight fix. They’ll need to keep at least one person at the nearest door. Hoenig can keep an eye on the gap from the security hub and let them know if they need to go outside to stop any intruders from getting past the SUV. They really should post two armed guards to be one hundred percent safe.”
“Doesn’t sound too bad,” said Hale.
“It’s not, but it adds another layer of difficulty to an already tenuous situation,” said Larsen. “Even one crazy poking around can set off a chain reaction. Guard fires one or two shots, which attracts more attention, requiring more shots. If the shots are fired with a roving mob nearby, things could go from bad to worse faster than the security team can react. Someone can crawl under or climb over the SUV in a matter of seconds.”
“The building’s exterior doors would still be locked tight,” said Chang. “And security can compartmentalize any of the building areas that are breached.”
“True. But what happens when the power is cut to the city,” said Larsen. “They probably have some sort of backup generator system to run the security features, but I can’t imagine they have more than a three- or four-day supply of fuel for the generators. This NevoTech haven is a very temporary solution to a long-term problem. There’s only so much food here. Medical supplies are nearly nonexistent. The disaster outside these gates isn’t going away any time soon. Staying here is a guaranteed death sentence.”
“What can we do about it?” said Hale.
“Nothing from here,” said Larsen. “Tonight, when we fly clear of this mess, I’ll do what I can to notify the right people about the situation here. Maybe the National Guard can mount a rescue operation.”
“And take everyone to one of the quarantine camps?” she said. “Or wherever they’re taking people.”
“It has to be better than staying here,” said Larsen. “Chang, you said it earlier. What we’re seeing outside right now is just the tip of the iceberg.”
“Statistically. Yes. Dr. Hale, when did you first start seeing violent patients?” said Chang.
“It was around ten or eleven p.m. on Thursday night. One of the patients waiting in the ER went haywire. Nearly killed me. He put another patient in a coma. We hadn’t seen anything like it prior to then. The police removed several patients earlier in the day for excessive verbal abuse or outbreaks, but we just assumed that was due to frustration. People were waiting hours to get into the ER, and it was hot outside. I didn’t like it, but I couldn’t really blame them. I had no idea it was related to the virus. None of us did. We had a few more violent outbursts that night, all preceded by verbal abuse—then we started to see it in the patients already admitted to the ER. We had to start handcuffing people to their beds.”
Hale zoned out for a few moments, staring at the wall while she whispered, “I can still see that guy. Must have been two hundred and fifty pounds of pure muscle and rage. He was so angry. Just furious.”
“He hit you?” said Larsen.
“A few times,” she said, lifting her T-shirt to expose a fist-sized black and blue mark.
“Jesus. I assume you had that checked out?” said Larsen.
She nodded. “Bruised rib. Still hurts like hell when I think about it.”
“I bet,” said Larsen, turning to Chang, who squinted his eyes like he was running numbers in his head. “So. What does it mean?”
“Sounds like you saw an early outlier. Possibly some
one already prone to violent behavior,” said Chang, shaking his head and sighing. “And that was thirty-six hours ago.”
“A lot has changed in thirty-six hours,” said Larsen. “It’s like The Walking Dead out there, except they’re not walking. They’re running and shooting guns.”
“This is bad. Based on my research and some very trusted secondhand information, we’re looking at a ninety-five percent neurological impairment rate.”
“All of them will get like this?” said Hale.
Larsen had heard this prediction already.
“We don’t know the exact rates. If this were a normal strain of herpes simplex encephalitis, I’d say less than five percent of the cases. In a population just under a million, maybe fifty thousand spread across the entire city?”
“That’s a lot of people,” said Hale. “But this isn’t a normal strain, is it?”
“No. From what I could tell from the sample you delivered, this is an intentionally modified strain. Weaponized. There’s no doubt about that,” said Chang. “I just can’t determine the impact of those modifications on the virus behavior using the equipment here at NevoTech. My guess is that the designers of this virus have increased its affinity for the temporal lobes and its specificity for attacking the areas that govern behavior. The anecdotal evidence I mentioned suggested something in the fifty to seventy percent range for severe, violent symptom presentation.”
“That’s fucking insane,” said Hale. “You’re saying that half of the city could go homicidal?”
“Not actively and aggressively homicidal, but easily pushed to that point,” said Chang.
“Same thing,” said Larsen.
“And the rest of the population?” said Hale.
“Varying degrees of brain damage.”
“My god. Who the hell would release something like this?” said Hale. “How could our government let something like this happen? How could this slip under the radar?”
Larsen glanced at Chang, who took a deep breath, his face betraying the theory in play.
Before he could begin, Hale shook her head. “Bullshit. This administration has some serious problems, but releasing a biological weapon against your own population is something entirely different. I’m not buying it.”
KILL BOX: A Post-Apocalyptic Pandemic Thriller (The Zulu Virus Chronicles Book 2) Page 15
