Zombies! (Episode 7): Conflicts of Interest (3 page)

Inside the building was dusty but decently lit. There weren't any really tall buildings in the vicinity so the light hit pretty much the entire yard. Smith led Heron up four three of stairs to the top floor. There were two officers standing at the entranceway to the stairs and another with his weapon trained on a figure huddled on the floor. The figure was clearly a zombie and clearly a woman. She had long auburn hair, still looking pretty much as it had in life. But her skin was that awful grayish color and you could see the blue veins pushing through. She wore a T-shirt with the peace sign on it and a pair of blue jeans. On the front of the T-shirt was a sticker, one of those introduction stickers that people wear at support groups or meet and greets. It was tough to see because of her position but Heron squatted and angled his head.

HELLO: MY NAME IS Linda - Please DON'T hurt me.

"Is this a joke?" Heron asked, turning his head toward Smith.

Smith just shook his head. "I don't guess she wrote it herself. Maybe one of the
ZRA
guys stuck it on her before they left."

"Then why leave her behind?" Heron asked, standing and backing away.

Smith shrugged. "That's why we think she was hiding. We found her crouched under there." He indicated an old wooden desk. It was easy to see underneath but there were some old drapes that were discarded into the corner. Smith informed Heron that the drapes had been awkwardly covering the desk. Linda had only come out from underneath when they'd pulled them aside.

"She gave us a hell of a scare," he said. "She even hissed at us. But that's it, lieutenant. She hasn't made a move since. Have you ever seen a zombie that just sits and cowers?"

Heron shook his head. She looked just like a frightened animal, except the eyes still lacked expression. She was a zombie all right but she was unlike any zombie Heron had encountered. He thought of Dr. Luco saying that there would be all sorts of unusual zombie anomalies popping up. And Heron, as the officer in charge of protecting the public from them, would have the opportunity to observe many of them firsthand.

"I just thought it was important," Smith said, suddenly doubting himself.

A zombie that screamed, a zombie that fired bullets at oncoming policemen, and now a zombie that was scared. It was getting time to look past the George Romero definition of zombies. Both the screamer and the shooter were long gone, dissected and analyzed in the laboratories beneath
Arthur Conroy Memorial Hospital
. But this one…

"Do we have someplace we can keep her?"

"You mean besides
Arthur Conroy?
"

Heron nodded. "I want to watch her myself."

"Can't you…" but Smith stopped himself. If Heron didn't want to entrust Linda into the care of Dr. Luco then there was a reason for it. "I'll set something up in the basement at headquarters."

"Good," Heron said. "Until then, just keep a guard on her here. Get guards who don't get easily spooked. I don't want her being accidentally shot."

"Will do, lieutenant."

"I'm glad you called me, Smith. Good job."

***

PUSH UPS
was quiet. It was after the morning rush and most of the crowd had finished their workout and gone on to their jobs. Abby was left with a couple of people who worked odd schedules or didn't work at all. She didn't know them well, but recognized them as regulars. They weren't interested in having conversations, just listening to their music and running their treadmill or elliptical. That was all right with Abby. After the morning, she was all talked out. Being friendly with most of the clients was good for business but it made it difficult for her to get any work done.

Shortly after ten o'clock, the door opened and in walked Anthony Heron. She hadn't seen him in a few weeks and had figured that their friendship, borne of a mutual interest in zombies, had sort of fizzled as their lives went in other directions. After a few cases of the zombie infection had been linked to
Push Ups
, he'd asked her to be on the lookout for any trouble. Since Suzanna DeForest, there had been no others so she hadn't had a reason to call him. And clearly, he'd had no reason to call on her.

"I was in the neighborhood," he explained with a grin. "Sorry I haven't been in touch."

"That's all right. Everyone's busy."

The truth was that she was feeling somewhat guilty. The week before, she'd gotten involved in a movement to counter the
Zombie Rights Association.
It had all seemed harmless at the time but something had gone horribly wrong. Peter Ventura, a doctor who had been trapped in the
Sisters of Mercy
ER with her had recruited her to post signs on zombie safe houses. On the news the next morning, she saw that there had been a fire at the building where they'd put up the signs. Peter swore up and down that he was not responsible for the fire but that didn't mean the signs weren't. A firefighter had been killed. For two days she had cried and Martin, her husband, hadn't known why. She blamed it on hormones and trauma, both of which she had to spare.

"How are things here?" Heron asked.

Abby shrugged. "Normal, I suppose. Or whatever passes for normal these days. How's your job?"

He grinned. "It's killing me. It's bad enough fighting zombies but now we're pinched between the zombie rights nutjobs and a new group that's on the other end of the spectrum."

Abby tried to hide her startled look. "What group?"

He dismissed it. "Nevermind. I didn't come in to talk about zombies. I came in to see a normal face and have a normal conversation. Tell me about Martin and Sammy."

She wanted to press him, but she didn't know why. She knew exactly what he was talking about. By coming into the gym to talk to her he had unwittingly put her in a very awkward position. She respected Anthony Heron and the job he did. She knew that it was because of him that they had overridden the lockdown on the ER when she had been trapped. She knew that he fought hard every day to keep the city as safe as it could be. And yet she still went along with Peter, who said the police and the government were hastening the apocalypse by doing nothing. Heron had used the word
pinched
. It described exactly what she felt.

"Martin hates his job," she said. "But at least he has one. Sammy's fine. I think he feels the tension, but really doesn't understand what's going on." He was only two years old.

"I wish I could say the same," Heron said. "Mellie's seen and heard too much. Alicia tells me that she wakes up every night screaming that her daddy's been killed."

"But you don't go out on calls, do you?" Abby asked.

"Sometimes, but I don't really put myself in harm's way. Naughton would have my head."

She smiled. "You're that valuable?"

He smiled back. "They'd better give me a day off and soon. I'm starting to become a zombie myself."

They eased into a conversation after that. A few minutes went by with simple chit chat, enough to relax them both. Abby brightened as the door opened and in walked John Arrick. Heron turned to see him and knew they had met before but couldn't place the face. Arrick recognized the lieutenant immediately.

From Abby's perspective, Arrick looked terrible. He was, if anything, thinner. He certainly hadn’t been working out so he must not have been eating. His eyes were sunken and she could see dark circles underlining them. He had this perpetual expression of doom. For a moment, it appeared as if he was going to turn around and leave, but he thought better of it.

"How are you, John? What brings you in?"

He tried a small smile. "It's a testing day so I don't start for another hour and a half. Late proctoring, you know. I thought I might try getting back to my exercises."

"That's great," Abby said. "Oh, this is Lieutenant Anthony Heron. He's a friend of mine."

"We've met," Arrick said.

Heron finally nodded. "Suzanna DeForest, right? I'm really sorry about that."

Arrick shook his head. "Ancient history at this point, mate."

Heron nodded. "You seem healthy, though. That's good to see."

Arrick pounded his chest weakly. "Can't bring down a good Scot."

Heron laughed, then turned back to Abby. "I've got to go anyway. It was good to see you Abby."

"You, too, Anthony. Please don't be a stranger."

Smiling, he said a polite goodbye to Arrick and left.

Abby turned to the Scotsman and said, "Where do you want to start?"

He shook his head. "I actually don't have as much time as I said. I came to tell you something."

Her smile faded.

"I know we don't know each other that well, but you're a good natured sort and I trust you. Last week, you told me that you were part of this group. An anti-zombie group."

She shook her head. "I wasn't happy with their methods."

"Then you've got your policeman friend." Arrick jerked a thumb out toward the door. "Either way, you've got someone to tell. And me, I barely have the strength to tell you."

She reached forward and took his hand. She was overcome by this conflicting feeling of pity and dread. Wanting so much to help him, she would shoulder any burden he dumped onto her. But she knew that her own psyche was fragile at this point. How much more could she take?

"There's a place in the Bronx where men fight zombies in a ring for sport. They pack the place and make a lot of money from the betting." Reaching into his coat, he pulled out the same battered business card that the stranger had given him. It had the address and times of the fights written on the back. He placed it on the counter.

She looked at it but didn't touch it. "Seriously? How did you get involved?"

"I went to fight."

"Fight? John, why would you do that?"

"They can't hurt me, Abby. I've had the disease and recovered. I was with Suzanna when she died and turned. We fought and she bit me."

Abby let go of his hand as if it were burning.

"I don't blame you," he said. "I suppose I could be a carrier but no one else I know has gotten sick."

"You've got to tell the police, John. You've got to tell someone."

Nodding, he began backing away. "I just did. Goodbye, Abby." And with that, he was out the door and gone.

***

IT
was early for lunch and late for breakfast but Heron was hungry so he stopped at a diner and ordered a plate of eggs and toast. His appetite hadn't yet recovered from his bout with cancer and its treatment. He ate when he could.

While waiting for his meal to arrive, he gave Smith a call and checked on the status of the zombie he had found. Linda. Smith confirmed that they had transferred her to headquarters and been able to set up a makeshift cage in the basement. She wasn't hidden, though. Heron didn't care. He had his own reasons for keeping her to himself and he'd take on anyone who contested them. Ordering Smith to post a twenty four hour guard, he turned to his arriving meal.

It was all he could do to get it down. He should have known better than to mix work with meals. Paying the check, he went back out to his car and began the midday drive back to Manhattan. When he arrived, Lance Naughton was waiting there for him with a serious expression.

"Shit," Heron said. "What happened now?"

Naughton remained stonefaced. "Maybe we should talk in your office."

This wasn't going to be good.

Through all of the weeks since the beginning of the zombie plague, Heron had been unable to figure out Naughton's role. Prior to the outbreak, he'd been Heron and Stemmy's direct superior. But Heron was no longer a homicide detective. He had been given his own division and was in charge of it from top to bottom. But Naughton still kept a finger in his pie. He didn't exactly resent it. The captain was likeable enough and a good man to have as a boss. He never really asked anything from Heron except information. He didn't give orders. Maybe he was under orders himself. After all, Heron had gone from detective to lieutenant and been given a command. But he wasn't on the command track. So maybe the commissioner wanted Naughton to keep an eye on him.

Inside the office, Heron closed the door and offered Naughton a seat. Respectfully, Naughton took the visitor's chair instead of the lieutenant's chair. There were higher-ups that did that. They'd march into your office and take your chair just to demonstrate their superiority. Heron had vowed that he would never stand for it. With Naughton, he would never have to worry about it.