In Harm's Way (20 page)

“You have my word Boss,” Ian said as he felt his chest tighten and he tried to pull his eyes away from the creatures.

Robert Christian thought, for a brief second, that he detected fear in Ian Bishop’s usually emotionless eyes. He had a knack for remembering people’s weaknesses and archiving them for future use. If Mr. Bishop
ever
stepped out of line again he knew exactly how he was going to punish the man, and it was not going to be pretty.

“Mr. Christian, why don’t you carry a pistol?” Ian asked.

“Ian my boy,
you
carry my pistol,” Christian answered with a detached faraway look on his face.

Outbreak - Day 8

Schriever AFB, Quarantine and Research Tent

Colorado Springs, Colorado

The steady whirring from the centrifuge masked the ever-present background hiss of the large fans working to keep the environment clean and the tent under positive pressure. On the counter, a large glass beaker sat atop a Bunsen burner; the honey colored liquid inside roiled from the blue flame flickering underneath.

Fuentes had been explicit when requesting the specific equipment for his thrown together laboratory, and the soldiers from Fort Kit Carson, without regard for their own safety, ventured into the city to fill his shopping list. They had delivered in full. Even without the moving corpse the lab could be easily mistaken for something out of a horror movie. The only props needed to complete the picture were a tesla coil spitting electric sparks and an insane scientist running to and fro--the bespectacled, wiry Doctor Sylvester Fuentes nearly filled the latter part.

To make it easier for the doctor and his much taller and much more beautiful assistant, Jessica Hanson, to work on both specimens at the same time, Fuentes had arranged the bodies so that they were lying face up on stainless steel tables only a few feet apart. Although the infected were immobilized with the kind of thick leather straps originally designed to keep the insane and unruly inmates in control, only the Asian zombie writhed, snapping and hissing, whenever Fuentes or Hanson came anywhere near him. The second man, an agent for the Department of Homeland Security, didn’t show the usual signs of reanimation. Although the color of his face was ashen and wax like, his
chest still rose and fell with a slow steady tempo and a heart monitor beeped out a slow cadence.

A stark white sheet draped the man from the waist down while the fabric around his feet and ankles was dotted and streaked crimson where his blood had seeped through.

“The decomposition of the Alpha isn’t accelerating as rapidly as we thought it would Doctor. It’s been what?” Jessica ticked off the days since the outbreak with her fingers, stopping at the middle finger of her right hand. “It’s been eight days and the muscle and tendons still look like they were excised from a nearly fresh corpse...” She wore a pained look, staring at Fuentes through her plastic face shield, waiting patiently for his input.

“That worries the hell out of me because it shoots holes in my nine month theory,” Fuentes said. “And since every attempt at a proactive immunization has already failed, the antiserum has got to work. If it doesn’t then we are at a dead end.”

Jessica grimaced.

“That was a bad choice of words and I’m sorry,” Fuentes said softly as he fished an Oreo from the pocket of his lab coat. “Did you determine if he really was bitten? We need to be certain because we can’t rely on assumptions alone. The word of his fellow agents or the aircrew that brought him here doesn’t mean a thing. We
cannot,
in good conscience, use that man as a guinea pig--
unless
we know beyond a shadow of a doubt that he is infected.”

Jessica cleared her throat before answering. “I examined his legs and couldn’t find a definitive point of entry. Mostly he’s covered with deep scratches on his lower extremities. One wound on the top of his foot could have been from a bite, but I dismissed it because he had shoes on when he arrived.”

“Check the shoe. If there is a puncture mark going all of the way through then I think we should take a chance and test the first sample on him,” Fuentes reasoned.

“When did the people who brought him in say he was supposedly infected?” Jessica inquired.

“Hours ago, but he’s a big boy... I’d venture a guess at two-fifty at least. Even for a slow burn--this one shows longevity,” said Fuentes.

Jessica proceeded to go through the pile of clothes to get to the discarded shoes. She tossed his lightweight black windbreaker aside, the letters DHS stenciled in yellow across the back. A pair of Levis, the denim on both legs shredded and bloody, was tossed unceremoniously atop the wind
breaker. She uncovered the shoes and inspected the left one. “Shoot! I should have checked clos
er. There’s a perfect bite pattern and it’s evident where the canines went through the nylon tongue. Poor guy should have been wearing boots. How did he arrive here?”

“He was brought in on a DHS Border Patrol helicopter. I talked to the pilot to try and get a feel for the conditions out there.” Fuentes removed his glasses and wiped his eyes.

“How bad is it?” Jessica asked with a look of bereavement on her face.

Fuentes sat down heavily and watched his last ounce of hope go round and round in the centrifuge. “The pilot didn’t know much, but one of the Homeland Security guys told me--off of the record--he even made me promise not to repeat this...”
Fuck him though
, Fuentes thought. “He said that there are pockets of survivors spread out all over the United States. He also said the East Coast is a fuckin’ blood bath... his words, not mine. The most depressing news though... he said that conditions are really bad south of Springs. New Mexico, Arizona and on into California... the infected are overwhelming the last of the living.”

Jessica took a deep breath and then checked her watch. “How did this one get infected?”

“The pilot said there were thousands of dead around Sunport International Airport. They got swarmed outside of Albuquerque when they set down to refuel. A group of walkers got the jump on them and before they could finish filling up the helicopter... half of the people that fled Arizona with him died... he said he was forced to take off and leave them on the apron surrounded by the Z’s.”

Jessica glanced at her watch once again and then interrupted the doctor. “A few more seconds.” As if on cue the centrifuge slowed down and stopped completely.

“Doctor Hanson. I want you to record the subject’s vital signs while I ready the injection,” Fuentes ordered, truly hoping they could save the man’s life.

“Yes sir... right away,” she answered.

Fuentes loaded sixty mils of the antiserum.

On the table the final ounce of fight left the man’s body. He convulsed once and went motionless.

“Doctor... he’s turning. We’ve got a limited window. Hurry... please.” Jessica knew that she shouldn't be telling Fuentes how to do his job but she still she kept talking. “He
has
stopped breathing Doctor... and I’m losing his pulse.”

The heart monitor emitted a high pitched squeal as Agent Stockton flat lined.

Jessica reached across and turned the volume down so that she could communicate with Fuentes.

“Doctor Hanson, stand back,” Fuentes said as he quickly crossed the room in her direction, holding the syringe, needle pointing skyward. He clamped his hand on the dying man’s cold forehead and without hesitating slid the six inch needle into the soft flesh under the agent’s right eye. Fuentes was aware that injecting the antiserum directly into the man’s thalamus was a long shot, but seeing as how the man’s heart had just ceased beating he was confident he had made the correct decision.

Outbreak - Day 8

Sentinel Butte, North Dakota

Cade had a clear view of the entire convoy from where he had set up his hide. His job was to take out the Humvee gunners first and then the drivers next.

Captain Gaines would target anyone that was armed first, and then “squirters” or personnel trying to run away were his secondary targets.

Cade patiently waited, running Desantos’ instructions through his head one more time.

“We’re going to wait, conserve our ammunition, and let our adversaries handle the Z’s. When we go hot, do not hit the trailers... I do not need to tell you what could happen if you do. Lastly, don’t kill them all, let’s try to identify any leadership or ranking personnel and capture them.”
 

The report of the hammering .50 caliber M2, or Ma Deuce as it had been affectionately called by multiple generations of soldiers, was loud enough to wake the dead... or at least loud enough to get the attention of every single one of them for miles around. Walkers poured from the truck stop. Cade guessed they had been either employees or infected that were left behind by desperate people just trying to survive. He had been there--the will to survive saw him through--just barely. Portland to Springs had been no cake walk. He hadn’t even had the time to process that cross-country ramble through hell let alone spend a little time with his family before jumping back in the saddle again.

The .50 chewed up the dead but the gunners were leaving too many crawlers for Cade’s liking. They dropped in large numbers but didn’t die, and he could tell by the way the gunners raked the M2s back and forth haphazardly that they were not trained professionals. The shooting lasted less than a minute before the big guns went silent. Then the Humvees disgorged armed men; from their helmets to their boots they were clad all in black. The sporadic cracks from their carbines echoed off of the buildings as they walked among the fallen zombies, methodically putting down any of them that still moved.

One of the black clad storm troopers entered the UPS truck Cade had left blocking the four lane highway.

Good luck with that
, Cade thought. Not only had he cut the wiring harness out from under the dash, but he had also yanked the ignition from the steering column and discarded it into the scrub brush beside the road.

The trooper emerged, shaking his head and motioning for the driver in the lead semi to join him. The driver warily climbed from his safe cocoon, negotiated the corpse-strewn road, and exchanged words with the man in black. After conferring for a moment the driver climbed up and disappeared between the cab and the trailer of the Kenworth.

They’re going to try and unhook the trailer
, Cade thought. It didn’t matter, because he knew the truck was wedged so tightly that they were going to need one of the big semi wreckers to clear the road.
Besides
, Cade thought,
they weren’t going to be alive long enough to wait for Triple A anyways.
To his horror Cade realized that Duncan’s gallows humor was starting to rub off on him.

Click. Click. Click.

Cade recognized the go sign. His first shot hit the gunner in the throat. The energy the .338 Lapua delivered shredded the man’s carotid ending his life.
Effective, but a little low
, he thought.

“Good hit,” Maddox said calmly.

After acquiring the second gunner Cade changed his elevation and windage incrementally and readied his shot.
Breathe in. Exhale. Gently squeeze.
The suppressed Remington spit lethal lead down range. The second gunner didn’t know where his death came from. The bullet hit him in the nose, caving in his face; the energy spun his body around sending it corkscrewing down into the Humvee.

“Good hit,” Maddox announced.

Ronnie Gaines put his Remington MSR to good work as he systematically culled the dismounts, rapidly dropping and acquiring new targets.

The Humvees were not up-armored models; this allowed Cade to get easy clean kills on the drivers.

While Gaines finished off the remaining troopers taking cover behind the uphill Humvee, Cade took out the dismounts crouched on his side. In seconds the armed men were down and the helos were inbound. The way the security personnel froze up, virtually cowering, gave Cade pause. He made a mental note to take his observation up with Desantos.

At gunpoint, the truck drivers wisely exited their rigs with their hands held high. The driver from the lead vehicle, a reed thin man with bushy black hair exploding from under his ball cap, performed a slow motion pirouette in the center of the road,
scanning the hills for the death dealers.

Desantos had been watching the fight unfolding via the monitor in the Ghost Hawk. An unarmed UAV orbited high over the ambush site, continually beaming live video to the helo. “Let’s go and get ‘em Night Stalker,” Desantos ordered his pilot.

“Copy that,” Ari answered. He instantly nosed into a steep dive, taking the helo from 1000 feet AGL to nearly nap of the earth flight in seconds.

“Not wasting any time huh Ari?” the General quipped.

“Waste not want not...”

“When can we go back and retrieve my stomach?” Desantos asked.

“Cowboys are supposed to have cast iron stomachs; therefore, yours should still be banging around here somewhere.”

“Smartass,” Desantos muttered.