John Ringo - Queen of wands

“I would hate to put it that way in any sort of report,” the neurologist said. “But…yes. Very angry and vicious ones.”

“What about treatment?” Kurt asked.

“So far there doesn’t seem to be one,” the neurologist said. He seemed indifferent to the possibility.

“Trust me, Kurt,” Barb said. “These things are beyond treatment. Not. Alive. Take my word for it.”

“Wait,” Kurt said, his brow furrowing. “PCP is a glutamate inhibitor. Right?”

“An NMDA uptake inhibitor,” the doctor corrected. “But it has the practical effect.”

“So it’s like they’re on PCP?” Kurt asked. “Sort of PCP zombies. Ouch.”

“Again, I did not say it,” the psychiatrist said. “But the effects have some similarity to PCP overdose. That was the initial finding of the admitting doctors. But it’s not PCP. What it is, we’re unsure. As I said, psychotic break, homicidal, cause unknown.”

“Double ouch,” Kurt said. “Cannibalistic PCP zombies.”

“And I don’t think that will be in any reports, either,” Barb said, nodding. “Good summation. That’s enough.” She looked at Downing and snorted.

“I don’t know exactly why you let that thing ride you, but you did. And apparently with some understanding of what you were doing. It wasn’t a good choice. It wasn’t even an intelligent choice. But it was a choice. And for that, Doctor, you are damned.” She chuckled and shook her head. “Literally, not figuratively. How you could have been that stupid, I don’t know. I’ll just mention, in passing, that Jesus is pretty forgiving. If you can get your head around getting that…thing out of you, you might just be forgiven. On the other hand, if you keep on your current path, you’re choosing one life of whatever it gives you in exchange for eternal torment. Again, your choice. But I’d suggest that you start thinking about alternatives.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Downing said, frowning slightly.

“Me, I’d damn you and be done with it,” Barb said. “But I tend to be rather Old Testament. Jesus is the forgiving one.”

“So,” Barb said as they headed back to the office. “Tell me about PCP. You said you were a street cop once, right? Ever deal with it?”

“Rarely,” Kurt said, holding onto the door handle as Barb weaved through traffic. “It’s not as big as it was in the eighties. When something gets a bad street rep you know it’s bad. But, yeah, I had to handle a couple of guys on it.”

“How bad?” Barb asked, slipping into a narrow gap between a semi in the left lane and the truck ahead of her in the right. “I hate semis that go slow in the left lane and just barely pass other trucks.”

“Pretty bad,” Kurt squeaked. “They don’t feel any pain so when you hit them with a K-11 it’s like you might as well not even bother. They’ll dislocate their own bones if you put them in a lock. You pin them to the ground and they end up doing one-handed cop push-ups. They get ahold of you, and you’d better have some good escape techniques. They bite like nobody’s business. Lost a chunk of flesh on my forearm to one. You start to recognize the signs after a while and call for backup if you’ve got time. The best bet is to do a Rodney King on their ass, but departments frown on that. And, hell, hitting a guy on PCP with truncheons just pisses him off. You get enough Tasers on one, you can knock him out. That’s about your best bet, five or six Tasers more or less simultaneously. And hope he’s got a good heart.”

“Don’t have to worry about killing these things,” Barb said. “They’re not human anymore.”

“You think you’re going to find anything in here?” Kurt said, setting down another stack of folders.

“I have no clue,” Barb replied. “I hope so.”

“Because one thing you’ve probably noticed is that these attacks have been getting closer and closer together,” Kurt said. “The first one that we’ve pinpointed as being similar in nature was two years ago. Then a year after that. Then three months. Then four in the last six. The last three in the last two months. That’s when we got called in.”

“I’ve noticed the pattern,” Barb said. “I’m looking for any indication of what may be causing it.”

“That’s what over a dozen agents have been doing for the last two months,” Kurt pointed out.

“They weren’t looking for what I’m looking for,” Barb said. “Most of this seems to be looking for an environmental cause. A drug that’s not detected by the usual tox screen. Some environmental toxin they’ve been exposed to. You’re not going to find a mystic cause by taking a surface swab. The good news is, it’s not movie zombieitis.”

“That would be bad,” Kurt said. “You’re sure they’re zombies?”

“That or something damned close,” Barb said. “Did they go nuts then lose their souls? I suspect it’s the other way around.”

“So what are you looking for?” Kurt asked.

“I’m not sure,” Barb admitted. “Patterns that normal investigators would dismiss. Unfortunately, so far I’m going over tilled ground. All males in their twenties.”

“Tilled,” Kurt said.

“So I’ve noticed,” Barb replied dryly. “Mostly students at the University of Tennessee, Chattanooga branch. All residents of the Chattanooga area. But none of them from the same area of Chattanooga.”

“UTC is a commuter college,” Kurt said. “Most of the students don’t live on campus. They’re making more dorms but it’s still mostly commuters. That’s just FYI.”

“Thanks,” Barb said. “Some of the information I need about them isn’t even in these files. The investigators talked to people who knew them, but they weren’t asking the right questions. I need to…talk to some of the same people.”

“Most of them lived with their parents,” Kurt said.

“And most of them went to school in the area,” Barb said. “I think it might be better ground to talk to people who knew them for a while but are less…disinterested than parents. I need to know who these guys really are, not what their parents want people to think they are. Were. Religious or atheist, subculture…”

“Teachers?” Kurt asked. “Fellow students?”

“Guidance counselors.”

Karen Gill was medium height with long, dark hair, a lined, tan face and bright black eyes. The guidance counselor’s office was small and cluttered, with the most notable feature being a large inspirational poster on the wall of a man standing on a mountaintop. The title was “Success,” and the inspirational quote was “Success means knowing who you are.”

Barb was not much given to cynicism, but she wondered if the counselor considered her life a success.

“Darren was not a natural student,” the guidance counselor said, sitting in her chair after ensuring her guests did not want drinks. “He struggled through his courses. I give him credit for his efforts in that regard.”

“Ms. Gill,” Barb said carefully. “Darren is currently in long-term psychiatric care for attempting to eat another person. He is but one of seven recent cases of similar problems. We are trying to prevent a reoccurrence and, if possible, find what happened to him so that doctors may be able to give him a normal life. I’m afraid we really do need something besides ‘He was a nice boy and not a natural student.’”

“I am an accredited psychological counselor,” Ms. Gill said, making a face. “Communications with my clients are privileged.”

“Can you tell us anything that is not from a counseling session?” Barb asked. “Was he counseled frequently?”

“As an alternative, we could come back with a court order,” Kurt said. “I’m not making a threat; I’m just saying if that would help…”