Read The Plague Years (Book 1): Hell is Empty and All the Devils Are Here Online
Authors: Mark Rounds
Tags: #Zombie Apocalypse
“Shit!” exclaimed Chris. “Sorry sir.”
“I said worse when I got the tasking. I am glad in a way that you are the one we are sending. I need your cool head. This is probably the worst job I can think of and I need someone who will do the right thing and keep the peace.
“I have some more bad news for you though?”
“Are you going to keep me after school for cursing?”
“Hardly,” said Mills with a weary chuckle. “You have been getting pretty close to Deputy Hoskins I hear.”
“The only thing faster than the speed of light is a rumor on the grapevine, but sir, we are just friends, I just read to her and we talk …”
“It’s OK Chris. She is a fine officer and we all need friends. But, I am sorry son, I don’t know any easy way to say this. She is going to be sent over to the high school.”
“But she is fine, the doctor told me …”
“Everyone with fluid exchange is being isolated. We have enough pull that she will be well cared for but, well, I thought you ought to know.”
May 16
th
, Saturday, 11:21am PDT
Chad was leaving yet another staff meeting where he had to present his findings. Each time, the basic theme was the same, restrict travel, quarantine those infected, and aggressively patrol the back roads. The only changes were the assumptions he had made were being knocked down one by one with hard facts, usually less optimistic than the assumption they replaced. Each time, Special Agent Macklin from Homeland Security pounded on the details and took personal delight in finding even the smallest flaw.
The scientific staff was mostly behind Chad but the elected officials he had been meeting with today including the Governor and a couple of state legislators were swayed by the fact that if they called out the National Guard before the feds declared a state of emergency, the state would have to pay for it.
The representative from the local police forces screamed at that one because they didn’t have enough manpower to even patrol the main roads, but the threat of cutting federal funds worked for today at least. They modified the current plan a bit to make the travel restriction mandatory instead of suggested and empowered the police to cite and if necessary restrain folks from travel, so there had been some progress but the spread rate was not slowing appreciably.
Macklin appeared to take a perverse pride in stomping any initiatives. Chad knew that this wasn’t the only place these issues were being discussed as there was a pretty active research net online trying to get traction on these issues but most of the scientists involved were very frustrated with the snail’s pace at which the government was moving to combat this disaster.
The meeting from hell was followed with an interview for the TV local news and his prediction, at Dr. Jurgen’s request, had been truthful and rather dire. Sheets containing the work Dr. Grieb had been doing about infection control were passed out and attributed erroneously to Chad.
_______________________________________________________
CDC -- Center for Disease Control and Prevention
By Dr. Terrance Grieb
_______________________________________________________
_______________________________________________________
They had also taken to calling him the ‘Dead Head’ after the shirt he had worn in his first interview and his association with the ‘Zombie Plague.’ He knew his wife wasn’t amused.
Chad was exhausted but there was something he knew he had to do. After entering his office and locking the door, he pulled out his cell phone and called is brother.
“Hey Bob,” said Chad, trying to sound casual, but even he knew he had failed.
“Hey Chad, why do I think this isn’t about my birthday that’s in two weeks?”
Chad and Bob were ten years apart in age, Bob was older and some said brighter. He and Chad were not close, when Bob was interested in girls and cars, Chad was playing with blocks, but they remained in contact. Bob’s divorce had sent him into a depression and for a while, he spoke to almost no one save what was needed in his position at the University of Idaho in Moscow where he taught and did research in Bio-Informatics. Lately, he had been being more interested in life but he was still prickly and easy to anger.
“Well,” said Chad, who was not sure how to start, “have you been following the news?”
“You mean where my idiot brother spoke on national TV in a ‘Grateful Dead’ shirt? Talking about the spread of the pathogen that the news folks are calling the ‘Zombie Plague?’ No, why do you ask?”
“Bob, can we be serious for a bit?”
“I will hold my renowned wit in check for a moment. What’s on your mind?”
“Look, we haven’t been all that close but times are becoming uncertain. Crap, what I am trying to say is that if things go bad, well, what I mean to say is some friends and I are making some plans; you are the only family I have since mom died. I just thought …”
“I am really touched,” said Bob, “so much so that I will forego my normal snappy rejoinder. I actually listened to what you and others had said on the subject as well and all the chatter on the web. Several faculty members, myself, and a group of grad students have also begun some preparations. I was going to make the same offer to you. Moscow is off the main transport grid, limited air travel, only the occasional freight train and no interstate highways. We are in pretty good shape.”
Chad thought that over for a moment before responding. His points all made sense but he wasn’t ready to tear up and leave and anyway with the new restrictions, he wasn’t sure he could.
“Bob, how about if I take a rain check? I don’t know how bad it’s going to get but I think I can ride it out here; but let’s stay in touch. If you have to run, you are welcome here.”
“Same goes for you, brother,” said Bob with more than a little emotion in his voice. “Mother would never believe this conversation, but perhaps I am wrong. Don’t forget to call me on my birthday and gloat on the fact that I am ten years closer to retirement than you are.”
May 18
th
, Monday, 12:02 pm PDT
Special Agent Macklin’s second phone buzzed silently as he sat in his loaned office. He hesitated a moment before answering it. The day hadn’t gone well. Strickland had made him look foolish more than once in the last meeting and as a result local travel restrictions were now mandatory. There were other jurisdictions in the country where that was happening but it was not complete by any means.
Then there was the damned news conference that he was powerless to stop. Again, Strickland had used his geek charm and his techno babble to make things sound worse than they really were.
His superiors in Washington DC were also beginning to overreact. Resources were already beginning to be staged and there was talk of a national state of emergency.
He glanced at the phone in irritation. The number was masked but he knew who it was. He wanted to disconnect but his inner voice cautioned him about his ‘other’ arrangement.
“Macklin.”
“Strickland is becoming a nuisance,” said a familiar voice. “You will need to neutralize him. He is having more impact than we calculated.”
“I can’t have you calling me here,” said Macklin with a rising note of panic in his voice.
“We will call you where, and when we please.”
“Yes sir.”
“There are enclaves springing up all around the country where the infection has not taken hold and local authorities are being swayed by these newscasts and Strickland has become the new darling on the web.”
“Strickland isn’t the only one out there you know.”
“No, and we have plans in place to neutralize them too. You aren’t the only card in our deck and who we play is up to us. Do not fail us”
The line went dead before Macklin could frame and answer. With shaking hands, he punched another number.
May 18
th
, Monday, 8:46 pm PDT
Chad was headed home. His day had not gone well. It started out with Macklin coming into his office right after the most recent interview, pounding his desk, and said that he was personally undermining the security of the nation. If it hadn’t been so serious, Chad would have laughed. He wasn’t the only one making dire predictions but because of that stupid T-shirt he had more than his share of notoriety. Still he was shaken so he had put on his shoulder carry rig for the Colt New Agent .45 that Dave had loaned him and loaded the pistol.
Herb Burnside, the security chief for the complex they were in had let it be known that anyone caught carrying a gun would be punished and then also said that the metal detector on the west set of doors was malfunctioning, so please avoid those doors. He was not subtle, but Herb was a good man.
The windbreaker he had carried in this morning completely covered the gun but he felt a little guilty going out the west side door even though it would have been marginally closer to walk to his car from the north side doors. He was surprised to see Herb at the west side doors when he got there, but all Herb did was take his pass card and open the door for Chad.
“Working late Dr. Strickland?” asked Herb as he held the door for Chad.
“Yeah, I had another interview with the news folks,” said Chad nervously. He didn’t normally carry a firearm so it felt like it was four feet across and weighed ten pounds.
“I heard about that. These doors are normally restricted but I supervise them personally from 6:00 pm on. But do keep that coat buttoned, it’s a little chilly out there tonight.”
Chad grabbed his zipper on his jacket and yanked it all the way up.
“Sure, thanks.”
“Listen son, you clearly haven’t much experience carrying concealed so let me give you a piece of advice, relax. People will spot your jitters long before they spot a suspicious bulge in your jacket.”
Chad nodded and fled out the door. He wandered around the lot until he found his Camaro. Not that it was hard because it was late and there weren’t that many bright yellow 1968 SS Camaros in the lot. He had taken to driving it to work because, as long as he could still get premium to fill the tank, it would get him home faster than anything he owned or could reasonably acquire if things got bad.
Besides that, he loved the old car and kept it in pristine condition. Using it as a daily driver bothered him a bit as there was still some salt left on the roads from the winter but he resolved to wash it the next time he was near a brushless wash.
Chad fired up the engine and the high compression L34 396 cubic inch V8 engine turned over almost immediately. The ‘Beast’ as his wife called it had brutal acceleration between zero and a hundred miles an hour but was fun to drive and provided more than a bit of boost to his middle aged ego.
He pulled out of the parking lot and started home. As he pulled out onto Stevens Drive headed south, he noted that a rusty red mustang had pulled in behind him. It looked familiar but he couldn’t quite place it.
Then his rear window was shattered by a fusillade of gunfire and he instinctively ducked low behind the wheel. Three rounds carried through and penetrated his front windscreen leaving a spider web of cracks that partially obscured his vision. Now he knew why the Mustang reminded him of something. Clinton Taylor’s description of the car used in his drive by shooting matched this Mustang exactly.
He mashed the throttle to the floor and momentarily lost traction as the torque generated by the big block Chevy engine broke the rear wheels loose. Luckily, the street was cool and as he backed off a little on the throttle, he was rewarded by a rush of g forces pushing him pack into his bucket seat. Before he could blink, he was doing eighty miles an hour down Jefferson Street still accelerating and on the ragged edge of control.
Chad risked a quick glance in the rear view mirror and saw that while the exterior of the Mustang behind him was poorly maintained, the drive train was still in fine repair. Chad was putting some distance between the cars but not much. There was thankfully little traffic, as most folks that still worked were already home and few people wandered around after dark anymore after the virus became common knowledge. He blasted through the red light and on to Washington 240 southbound in front of the airport.
There were two men in the Mustang, both dressed in dark clothes. Chad couldn’t see much more than that as they were still firing at him. The weapon they were using appeared to be Hi Point carbine. He remembered Dave calling one like it he had seen in a movie a punk’s weapon as it looked mean, but fired a pistol cartridge, and had little stopping power. It was not an accurate firearm to begin with and both cars were swerving to avoid obstacles and other cars. The pure physics of driving that fast on a city street meant the shooter couldn’t hit the broad side of a barn.
They were firing full auto which wasn’t right as the Hi Point is was normally a semi-auto and didn’t seem to be concerned that there was an ammunition shortage in town. Chad was concerned about the bullets being fired almost randomly hitting someone by mistake. Even though the odds were small that whoever was trying to kill him would actually connect, that many bullets bouncing down a city street would eventually hit something and there was never a cop around when he really needed one.
Then Chad remembered from his last staff meeting that they had taken over Richland High for an overflow hospital and that there were a dozen cops working there to keep the patients and staff safe. If he could just reach the parking lot, there would be lots of police.
Chad got on the brakes hard, got the Camaro sliding sideways and barely made to corner onto Swift Boulevard headed east. The Mustang’s driver was alert and first gained back most of the distance that Chad had opened up but then had to also break hard as it was obvious he wasn’t going to catch Chad before he made the turn and so would have to make the same corner. The Mustang was going faster when he tried to turn so he slid across the intersection and banked off the light pole holding the stop light. This crumpled some of the body work but the Mustang spun gravel as it ran over the curb and into the gravelly area next to the road. In an instant, he was back on the road still hard after Chad. Swift Boulevard was not six lanes wide like Highway 240 was but rather an arterial leading through a residential neighborhood so it was harder for Chad to keep it on the road.
He risked another look back and the Mustang was still after him, however the bank shot off the light pole had spooked the shooter or perhaps injured him because he was not firing out of the window anymore.
Chad stayed on Swift until he got to where it split into a four lane. Again braking hard, he turned into the parking lot of the Church of Christ on the corner of Swift and Thayer. The Mustang missed that turn but then braked to make the turn onto Thayer headed south a half a block ahead.
The misdirection bought Chad a few precious seconds and he roared through the parking lot and down Thayer a half block into Richland High’s parking lot. He could see several police and sheriff’s cars in the lot which was otherwise pretty empty. He began laying on the horn and driving as close to the building as he could and as fast as he dared, trying to get somebody’s attention.
Chad’s car was nearly fifty years old and it had been meticulously maintained. However, many of the parts were still original and the pounding of the high speed chase took their toll. One of those parts, the tie rod that controlled the direction of the left front wheel, suddenly gave way and the two front tires pointed in wildly different directions. As a result, Chad now had very little directional control and so he got on the brakes to keep from crashing into a Washington State Patrol car in the lot. As soon as the car got more or less stopped, he flung the door of the Camaro wide, and rolled under the WSP car. The Camaro took several more rounds until the hoods in the Mustang realized he wasn’t in it anymore.
Chad drew the .45 from the holder under his now ripped windbreaker. It was only a matter of time before they figured out where he was and there wasn’t much he could do about it.
May 18
th
, Monday, 8:52 pm PDT
Chris Vaughn was in a converted classroom reading to Amber when he heard tire squealing and the sound of a barely legal muffler on a big V-8 motor. Sometimes kids did stuff like that on a dare and like most cops, he tried to ignore it if there wasn’t a safety concern. Chasing them only made it worse.
Chris was tired anyway, as he had worked most of the afternoon and into the evening keeping the flow of patients to the converted high school smooth even as accommodations were still under construction. They had had two patients break restraints and attempt to get away but in each case, police in full riot gear including tactical gloves were able to tackle and subdue them without resorting to lethal force. Chris was more than a little proud of the fact that he and his team got all of today’s patients secured and he had not had to shoot anyone despite Lieutenant Mills’ dark charge.
After everyone was secure, Chris had given the rest of his motley crew a couple hours to eat, clean up and organize their sleeping arrangements because they were going to stay here 24/7 until relieved. He and a corporal from the Richland PD who had also had to shoot an infected individual and was waiting for his board did the first shift of ward security. They had about forty patients, mostly in classrooms with five or six in each room and so they actually were using just one wing in the high school. Amber had her own room but that would change if they got any other female law enforcement personnel. There was also work going on in the gym to convert it to a big open air ward so they were clearly expecting more, many more. Chris shuddered at the thought.
He had set up a patrol schedule for the evenings with two hour shifts so everyone got some rest and so all of them could be up and alert when tomorrow’s patients started arriving.
He was about to go back to
The Hobbit
when he heard what sounded like a burst of automatic weapon fire. Chis lunged out of his chair and grabbed his shotgun as he headed for the door.
“Don’t do anything stupid, Chris,” shouted Amber as he headed for the door.
“Not to worry ma’am, I am the soul of caution,” he quipped as his disappeared around the corner.
As soon as he had the door closed, Chis got on the radio even as he was headed for the front door.
“Kowalski and Brown cover the back door. Simms, get Jack out of bed and cover the hall entrance. Ottman and Grasseli, you have roving patrol. Everyone else get to the front door.”
Chris cursed himself silently for not thinking of this sooner. It was only a matter of time before some dirt ball was going to try and solve the ‘Zombie Problem’ by shooting every infected person he could find. Why couldn’t they have waited a day so he could do some planning with the rest of his detail?
He checked himself before he burst out of the front door. That would likely get him killed. He took a combat crouch and peered around the last corner. There was a beat to crap rusty red Mustang pulling to a stop out in front. As he watched they put a half dozen more rounds into what must have been a really cherry old Camaro. Apparently, they were not only were they dirt balls, but they had no culture either.
Just then his corporal from the Richland police force whose name he vaguely remembered was something like Howard rushed up beside him.
“What’s the plan Sergeant?” asked the corporal.
Chris was about to speak when he saw the shape a man under his car.
“Crap, there is someone out there under my cruiser and these guys are gunning for him.”
“Just your luck, they will probably shoot up your shiny new cruiser too” said the corporal with a bit of a smirk then he was all business. “If we bust out there, they are liable to fire on us too, if they are druggies, do we let them shoot it out and pick up the pieces?”
“The guy under the car doesn’t look like a druggie. It looks like some poor shcmuck that got caught up in some road rage or maybe by some of the infected. I am going out. I will order them to put down their weapons. If they start shooting, put some .40 into the engine of that Mustang. It will make them easier to catch and maybe make them duck while I get to cover.”
“You’re the boss,” said the corporal as he drew his side arm.
The Mustang had stopped, though you could hear the engine burbling through an almost non-existent muffler. A very large man with long curly blond hair holding a Hi Point carbine in one hand was looking around the Camaro. He was obviously angry because he gave the left rear fender a resounding kick. It dented the fender but obviously hurt him more as he let out a string of profanity that would have made a sailor proud.
Chris slowly opened the door and moved off to the left behind a low retaining wall. The second man, smaller and Hispanic, started to get out of the driver’s side of the car. This one carried a pistol gripped Mossberg 930 shotgun with an extended tube. Chris was going to be really pissed if he shot his new cruiser with that thing. Both were looking at his cruiser and not at the entrance to the school so they were surprised when Chris shouted.
“Put your weapons down and back away from the car!”
The larger of the two was momentarily confused, but the smaller man with the shotgun was situationally more aware and turned and began firing. Pellets broke a number of windows to the left and right of Chris, but none got close enough to be a concern.