Plague Nation (4 page)

Kai grinned. “You killed my father, prepare to die.”

I restrained the urge to shove a can of the stuff down each of their throats. Taking a deep breath, I turned to Kai.

“What, may I ask, is so awesome about Silly String?”

“Navy ordinance disposal teams used it in Iraq to find trip wires,” he replied. “Spray some of this shit, it catches on one of the invisible wires, and there you go.”

“Great,” I said. “But zombies don’t set trip wires.”

“It’s also highly flammable.” Kai tucked a couple of cans into his knapsack and held one can aloft dramatically. “Light a match near this shit and you’ve got zombie barbecue.”

“Seriously?”

He nodded.

“Yup. Couple of kids at a party found out the hard way.” He looked at the can, examining the ingredients. “I’m surprised it’s still even for sale.”

Something crashed to the floor in the back of the store. All three of us straightened up, staring back into the shadowed depths of the Wedding section, where something moved clumsily towards us. We heard the plaintive moan about the same time as the graveyard stench hit us.

“I got this.” Kai darted behind the counter and snatched up a cigarette lighter. Before I could smack it out of his hand, he pressed the button on the Silly String and clicked the trigger on the lighter, sending a jet of flaming string toward the corpse that was lurching in our direction. Its tattered clothing quickly went up in flames.

Just great.

“Oh, shit,” Kai said.
Zombie flambé
still staggered in our general direction, rebounding off the shelves and igniting a bunch of Pretty Princess tiaras.

Shoving Kai out of my way, I moved forward and thrust the business end of my tanto into one of its eyes. It crumpled to the ground and I proceeded to stomp out the flames on both zombie and the tiara display before they spread any further. The smell of scorched plastic mingled with the stink of burnt, rotting flesh.

I glared at Kai.

“No more Silly String.”

“You got it.” He tossed the can and lighter aside.

“What the hell is going on?”

The three of us turned as Gabriel strode down the aisle toward us, his expression reflecting the pissed-off tone of his voice.

Swell.

“Kai was demonstrating the efficacy of Silly String against the enemy... sir.” I kept my voice as neutral as I could, but I guess the sarcasm of the “sir” snuck through my limited acting ability, because the look Gabriel shot us could have started another fire.

“I can’t believe you three.” He shook his head in disgust. “Can’t you take things seriously, even for a few minutes?”

Tony and Kai exchanged sheepish looks. I, on the other hand, walked straight up to him until we were toe-to-toe, and glared up at him.

“In case you haven’t noticed,
sir
—” I didn’t even try this time “—we have a dead zombie here, which would intimate that Team A takes our mission
very
seriously. The fact that Lando chose to utilize an unorthodox weapon would show that he’s capable of thinking outside the box, if the occasion necessitates it.”

Out of the corner of my eye I saw Kai and Tony look at me with new appreciation as I piled on the bullshit. Gabriel, on the other hand, did not look impressed.

“The occasion didn’t necessitate it. This was just sloppy work.”

Since I actually agreed with him, I kept my mouth shut. But that didn’t stop me from chanting “douche” over and over in my head.

“Is that clear?” He glared at the three of us.

The Wonder Twins nodded. It hurt my neck and my pride to do so, but I did the same.

“Good,” he said. “We’re done for the day. Debrief in Room 217 in an hour. Don’t forget to mark the doors.” Turning on his heel, Gabriel strode out of the store without a backward glance.

This time I didn’t even appreciate the sight of his retreating butt; I just wanted to plant my foot on it and push hard.
Really
hard.

I couldn’t believe that three days ago he and I had engaged in hot monkey sex, and then fought the zombie swarm. Together. At some point between our victory and now, something had gone wrong. Or, more specifically, something had definitely gone fubar with Gabriel. Maybe it was his meds, maybe something else, but whatever it was I didn’t know whether to be worried or pissed off. So I went for both.

“Sorry, Ash.” Kai put a hand on my shoulder. He sounded sincere, so I resisted my first impulse to shrug it off.

“Yeah, okay.” I turned and faced him. “Just... no more shit like the Silly String, okay?”

Kai and Tony both nodded, expressions too solemn for comfort. But at least they were trying.

Mika studied her reflection in the window that separated the pharmacy from the rest of the drug store. She nodded slightly, approving of the shine of her long glossy black hair and the contrast between her olive-toned skin and lush red lips, courtesy of Cover Girl’s “Desire” lipstick.

Then she looked past her reflection out into the store, and sighed.

“What’s wrong?” Emmet, one of her fellow pharmacists at the Sacramento Street Walgreens, took a swig of his fourth Coke of the morning. He averaged two per hour, and it showed in the comfortably expansive stomach that lurked under his white coat.

“Check out the line,” she said.

Emmett hoisted himself out of his chair and peered around Mika at the dozen or so people snaking down the medications aisle, at least half of them coughing, sniffling, or sneezing. He groaned, and then sat back down.

“What, did the entire San Francisco Financial District get sick at once?” he said. “Tell me these people aren’t all here for vaccines.”

Mika held out the sign-up sheet. All twenty-four slots were filled, each one with a check indicating the flu vaccine.

“This is just the top sheet,” she said. “Every reservation is full, and we have walk-ins.”

“Well, slap my ass and call me Sally.” Emmett shook his head. “Guess Walker’s Flu came to visit.”

Mika giggled as she always did when Emmett used one of his incomprehensible Mid-western expressions. Tossing her hair over one shoulder, she looked at the clock.

“It’s five till ten,” she pointed out. “We should start.”

Emmett heaved a sigh worthy of the drama queen he was.

“Right, then. No rest for the wicked.”

Mika smirked. “You must not sleep too much.”

“Funny girl.” He hauled himself up again. “How about you get the first two victims, and I’ll grab more vaccines so we’re stocked for the day.”

Swigging the last of his Coke, Emmett went into the stockroom, heading straight for the refrigeration units that held the various vaccines the drugstore chain was authorized to dispense. He skimmed over shingles, polio, and Japanese encephalitis, wondering yet again why the shipping and receiving clerks never put things in alphabetical order. TB... rabies... and the unit dedicated to flu vaccines. Emmett opened it, and found himself staring at empty shelves.

“Well, shit on a shingle.” He put a hand on one hip, and glared at the shelves. “Kenny! Kenny, you in here?”

Kenny—one of the two shipping and receiving clerks and, as Emmett always said, skinny as a drink of water—sauntered around the corner.

“What can I do you for, Em?” he asked.

Emmett rolled his eyes.

“First of all, don’t call me Em. I am
not
Dorothy’s aunt, got it?”

Kenny stared at him blankly.

“Who’s Dorothy?”

Emmett opened his mouth to answer, then shook his head.

“Never mind. Your lack of cultural awareness isn’t my problem. What
is
my problem, however, is the fact we appear to be out of flu vaccinations, and I’ve got a line of people running half the store, all wanting one.”

“No prob.” Kenny vanished back around the corner, reappearing minutes later with a cart piled high with cardboard boxes, all labeled “Keep Refrigerated!” Brandishing a box-cutter like a switchblade, he sliced the top box open and pulled out a hard-sided styrofoam container, sliding the top half off to reveal small boxes filled with little vials.

Emmett took one of the boxes.

“What happened to the rest of the stock?”

“Got a message from corporate, telling us to pull ’em ’cause we were getting this new batch in.”

“Why? The others were well under the expiration date.”

“Heck if I know.” Kenny shrugged. “I just work here.”

“Alrighty, then.” Emmett tucked the box under his arm, gave the clerk a little salute and headed back into the store. It wasn’t his business if corporate wanted to waste money and toss out perfectly good drugs. Time to go shoot up a bunch of local venture capitalists and bankers.

“What the hell is he doing here?”

I was tired, I was grouchy, and my blood sugar was beyond low. The last person I wanted to see sitting across from me in Patterson Hall’s cafeteria was Dr. Albert— my childhood physician, flu vaccine researcher, and the man responsible for the zombie plague.

Judging from their expressions, I gathered that Tony, Mack, and Gentry—the three other wild cards at the table—all felt the same way I did.

“I said, why is he here?” I repeated.

Dr. Albert peered at me reproachfully over his plate of pasta and salad, his pinched features and graying red hair reminding me of a ginger-haired were-rat. Only a day or so ago, he’d been practically suicidal after finding out the Redwood Grove zombie outbreak was his fault, and that it might have gone nationwide.

Desperate to discover the cure for Walker’s Flu, Dr. Albert had helped falsify test results for his vaccine, in the hopes of making a buttload of money. As it was, the vaccine reacted to a normally dormant variant of a retrovirus present in about ten percent of the population. This caused a nasty but manageable flu bug to mutate into the walking death.

Thanks a hell of a lot, doc.

Yet here he was, sitting at the same table as several wild cards, each of whom had risked their lives to try and stop the spread of the virus he’d unleashed. Hell, one of us had died in the attempt. So much for his emotional I.Q.

I turned to Simone Fraser. Back when I was just a student at Redwood Grove College—“Big Red” for short—she was my teacher for “Pandemics in History.” I’d come to learn she was a long-time member of the
Dolofónoitou Zontanóús Nekroús
—which for some reason she liked to say without abbreviating it. I considered her my mentor.

“Seriously, Simone, why is he here?”

Simone looked up from her dinner and sighed.

“He needs to eat, Ashley.” She was clearly not in the mood for confrontation.

Well, tough shit.

“Seems to me he could eat in a locked room somewhere.” I slammed my tray of food on the table hard enough to bounce a few French fries off my plate.

My fellow wild cards muttered in agreement, all of us having nearly died, and then risked our lives more than once, all because of what Dr. Albert’s greed had unleashed.

I took an unnecessarily vicious bite of my hamburger, channeling Nomi from
Showgirls
. Sure, Dr. Albert had been my doctor since, like, forever, but somehow that made me even angrier. It was like finding out that it had been Dr. Mengele who’d done all those pap smears.

“I don’t see how he can eat,” Tony growled, tongue-stud clicking against the bottom of his teeth in agitation.

“I have to agree,” Mack chimed in. “I mean, if it was me, and I’d found out that I’d engineered Armageddon, I think I’d have a little trouble keeping my dinner down. Not to mention what this could do to future vaccination and immunization programs. Those are too important to lose, all because one man screwed up.” Strong words, coming from Mack—he was usually the one who tried to keep the peace.

“Good point,” I said, “although it may be moot if zombies take over the world.”

Gentry gave an almost imperceptible nod, keeping quiet. One of the soldiers sent into the quarantined area around Redwood Grove at the beginning of the outbreak, I guess he was used to having to keep his mouth shut in bullshit situations. I, on the other hand, felt no such constraints.

“Exactly,” I said. “Not to mention the fact that what he did
has
to be illegal. So why hasn’t he been locked up?”

Dr. Albert clucked indignantly.

“Ashley, after all the years I’ve been your doctor, I can’t believe you’re saying this,” he said.

Simone cut in before I could blast him.

“Dr. Albert hasn’t been locked up because, regardless of the ethics inherent to his previous decision, he still may be the only person alive who is capable of finding a cure.”

This matter-of-fact answer took the steam out of my self-righteous anger.

“Oh.” I tried to think of something else to say.
Nope, that’s all I’ve got.

“Oh, indeed.” Simone nodded, brushed a stray strand of honey blonde hair out of her face, and rubbed the back of her neck as if it hurt.

If not for the fact that the dead were already walking the earth, I would have taken this as a sign of the coming apocalypse. Simone
never
had stray strands of hair. Calm, composed, and well groomed, she always looked as if she’d strayed from some forties movie where the women all wore trumpet skirts and silk blouses, and styled their hair in chignons. She could have been anywhere between forty and fifty, and if I’d been casting her life story, it would’ve been a toss-up between Cate Blanchett and Helen Mirren.

To see her fraying around the edge—both emotionally and physically—reminded me that we were in some seriously deep shit.

With that sobering thought, I turned my attention back to my hamburger. Glancing around, I wondered briefly where Kai was. Probably still cleaning up. When it came to grooming, Kai was like a cat—minus the inappropriate spot cleaning.

As if on cue, Mr. Perfect sauntered in, hair still damp from his shower, looking as pleased with himself as the Old Spice Guy. He filled a tray in record time and plonked himself in between Tony and Mack, barely letting his ass hit the seat before attacking his food.