John Ringo: Under a Graveyard Sky

“You’re shitting me,” Patterno said. “No way!”

“He mentioned ten sixty-fours before the call,” Young said. “ Hostile ten sixty-fours. He said there was going to be some sort of announcement at noon.”

“Son of a… I’d heard about that ,” Patterno said. “The CDC was scheduling a joint press conference with the Fibbies. Okay, meet you at Waterson… Shit, change in call…”

Young glanced at his board and shook his head. There were alarm calls going up all over the place. Including…

“I’ve got a…” he said, then braked, hard. A naked girl, teenager, had just run in front of his car. Her face was… He keyed his radio as the girl jumped onto his hood, then started smashing at the glass. Her face was distorted, insane. She looked pasty as if she’d been sick. Just…something wasn’t there.

“Unit Eight-Seven-Three to Base. Hostile Ten sixty-four. Female. Four Six Zero Butterworth Drive. Attacking my car. Request female officer assistance.”

“Eight Seven Three. Ten-Zero. Protocol Five-One Five-Zero. No assistance available.”

“Base, Eight Seven Three. Say again female, expand, teenage female, Three-One-One.”

“Roger. No assistance available, Eight Seven Three. Ten-Zero. Five-One Five-Zero. Transport to Emerson on Secure.”

“What the fuck?” Young swore. Use caution. Crazy person. Duh. No assistance? No female officer for a naked teenage girl? He was going to get the crap sued out of him.

He was avoiding using a certain word even in his head. Not that not thinking “zombie” was keeping him from thinking “zombie.” Problem being, the girl was not the level of threat that permitted the use of a firearm. If he shot her he’d be lucky to get just administrative leave. He’d be looking at assault or manslaughter at the very least.

He caught movement in his peripheral vision and saw a man, probably the girl’s father, staggering across the lawn. He had multiple bite marks on his chest and arms, both of which were bare. He’d apparently just thrown on some shorts to follow his naked daughter into the street.

The girl was going absolutely insane on his windshield, hammering it so hard her hands were bleeding and biting at the recalcitrant glass. The cars had been upgraded with a stronger type of auto glass or she’d probably have shattered the window.

Young didn’t hear what happened but the girl suddenly looked to the passenger side of the cruiser. The words “feral” came to mind. The look of a wild predator that had heard the sound of prey. She leapt off the hood and charged the man on the lawn.

Then Young bailed out. He wasn’t sure how he was going to handle the wild child. The department, after a series of lawsuits and protests to the city government, mostly over YouTube videos that hadn’t happened anywhere near Williamsburg, had taken Tasers away from all officers except sergeants and above who had had the state course in same.

The girl was already on the man before he could even get around the cruiser. She was-not howling, not screaming-keening he thought was the word. A high, long, weird sound. And she was thoroughly locked onto the man’s left arm with hands and teeth biting and ripping at it.

“HELLLP!” the man screamed, looking at Young while struggling to free his arm. He was pulling the girl’s hair half frantically half gently as if afraid to actually hurt her. “FOR THE LOVE OF GOD HELP ME! JESUS CHR-! CHELSEA! CHELSEA! ”

Young just stood there for a moment, hands on his hips, then opened up the back of his cruiser. In a box there was a bag that was for “assistance in securing hostile animals.” Generally called a snake bag, it was just part of the kit. Cops didn’t secure wild animals but if they had to back up animal control they carried “snake bags.” Like the M4 he was seriously contemplating for if they had to back up SWAT. He regarded the bag for a moment, judging the size of the opening. About large enough to fit over a teenage girl’s head.

There were also tactical gloves. The Diamonds were a pain to wear all the time but if there was ever a time to put on a set of gloves it was now. He wished they were thick leather. As long as he kept her off his arms he should be good.

He took the bag in hand and duck-walked up behind the girl, gaze fixed on the back of her head.

“Would you HURRY?” the man snarled, then screamed wildly as blood began to spray all over the freshly cut green lawn.

Young paused behind the girl for just a moment, then snapped the bag across and down. The girl’s mouth was locked on her father’s arm but as the bag went over her eyes she reared back, clawing it, permitting the man to fall back onto the grass. He pushed himself backwards toward the house trying to staunch the spurting artery his daughter had torn into.

Young, meantime, had his own troubles. The girl had started spinning before he could get the bag fully over her head and had one hand under it. He was afraid to simply yank the closure line too hard. It could permanently choke her. But the bag had at least slid down enough to cover her mouth. She was no longer keening, just gutturally grunting.

He also wasn’t sure where to put his hands. Freaking cameras were everywhere these days. He wasn’t in direct view of the car but people were probably breaking out their cell cameras for the spectacle. Although, come to think of it, distribution or even ownership would, probably, assuming the girl was under eighteen and she looked more like fifteen, be a federal crime. In fact, his car camera might just be considered a federal violation. Cops weren’t automatically exempt. Of course, he couldn’t, legally, turn it off absent orders or completion of the call. Which was not yet complete. So he was probably covered. Probably.

Which is exactly what he expected to be thinking when fighting his first zombie. Not.

First incredibly strong, wiry, excessively underage, fast, naked, female , zombie.

Then he heard the screams behind him.

Looking over his shoulder he saw a woman running out of a home down the street. She was clothed but the clothing was ripped. Pursuing her was a naked man covered in blood. And she was, naturally, running towards the policeman for help. With the subject in hot pursuit.

“Screw this,” Young said, holding the bag barely closed with one hand and drawing his Glock. He placed it against the girl’s quadricep and pulled the trigger. The girl shrieked and fell to the ground, grabbing at her leg.

“What are you doing ?” her father shrieked.

“Trying to save your life, her life and mine,” Young said, spinning around. “Come on!” he said, waving at the woman to pass him. “Come on!”

Don’t let them bite you…

“Don’t,” the woman said waving her hands. She was dressed in jeans and a nice blouse as if she had been headed out to the store when her world came apart. The blouse was now rent and bloody and she had a large bite mark at the juncture of her shoulder and neck. “Please don’t! I don’t know what’s wrong with my…”

“ I do,” Young lied, targeting the oncoming man’s chest. He was big enough and violent enough it might be ruled a good shoot. If what appeared to be happening was, well, what was happening, probably would be ruled a good shoot. Virginia wasn’t, quite, San Fransisco. In Frisco he’d assuredly be fried.

“HALT OR I WILL FIRE IN DEFENSE OF SELF AND OTHERS!” It was usually a phrase used by civilians. Cops were supposed to use anything but firearms to resolve the situation. You only drew a gun if there was another gun. Maybe a knife. But the guy was big and the girl was going to be up and hopping any second now and he had no backup. Young was out of options. “HALT! HALT! HALT! ”