John Ringo - Under a Graveyard Sky

“Of course, homo sapiens is a higher order primate,” Tom said, his face hard and cold.

“And…yes,” Curry said. “Homo sapiens would… Yes, we are.”

“Thank you for that information, Dr. Curry,” Bateman said. “Besides attenuable virii, what do you need to make vaccine?”

“It’s been a week, sir,” Curry said. “Everything is installed and ready to go. As soon as I can get some virus bodies I can start cranking out the vaccine.”

“Understood,” Bateman said. “And, again, thank you for your assistance in this time of difficulty.”

“Thank you,” Curry said, closing the connection.

“Now I understand his insistence that this conversation was secure,” Bateman said. “And it never occurred.”

“Yes, sir,” Tom said.

“Dr. Curry needs some materials to produce the vaccine, Mr. Smith,” Bateman said, standing up. “I’ll detail a significant budget for this. Are there any questions?”

“No, sir,” Tom said, standing up. “I’ll take care of it, sir.”

* * *

“You understand that this never happened,” Tom said, suiting up.

Although he’d been told he’d never have to “take care” of something, he’d also been hired for his proven ability to plan ahead. And part of planning ahead was making sure that he had back-up in case his bosses were wrong.

Jim “Kapman” Kaplan and Dave “Gravy” Durante were part of that planning.

The term was “functional sociopath.” Both were former special operations. Both had combat experience. Both enjoyed combat. People, other than those close to them, weren’t really “real.”

Tom understood the mindset. He had the same type of brain. It was almost required to be in elite military units. It didn’t mean any of them were serial killers. He’d had them go through advanced poly tests to ensure that they weren’t going to be an “issue” as employees of the bank. They’d never done so much as assault that wasn’t under controlling legal authority. They kept their killer side under control by tight discipline. They just had the potential. In fact, they just really needed a good reason. Like, say, fighting terrorism. Or saving their bosses and family from a disease.

“Your bonus is one out of fifty doses,” Tom said, putting on the gloves of the Hazmat suit. The warehouse was a nondescript property in Alphabet Soup that the bank had reposessed. It was ostensibly untenanted. Setting up the “lab” for this mission had been easy enough. “We get vaccinated right after Dr. Curry. Curry, us, Dr. Bateman and then down. You can use the doses for anyone you want and you get two seats on the evacuation plan.”

“Understood, sir,” Kaplan said, pulling on his own gloves and holstering the taser. “Although I can actually see some value to this. Better than NYPD’s answer.”

The “Afflicted Temporary Holding Facilities” had already made the news. And the term “hell hole” was generally used.

“I’d rather be turned into vaccine than put in that place,” Durante said, holstering a back-up sidearm in case the taser didn’t do the trick. “And since we’re bonding, that’s my official answer. If I go full zombie, make me into vaccine.”

“Will do,” Tom said, getting an odd sensation. It took him a moment to recognize it. It was the feeling of coming home. This, really, was where he was designed by nature to be. In a team on the sharp end. “Same here.”

“All for one and all that,” Kaplan said, grinning through his mask. “I’m in. Strip my spine and put my head on a shelf.”

“I’ll do that for you, Kap,” Durante said, mock sobbing. “I’ll put your head on my mantelpiece and toast you once a year on the anniversary of you becoming a zombie. I swear, man!”

“Let’s load up,” Tom said, opening the door of the Heavy Emergency Response Vehicle. “Before you Yanks start kissing and stuff.”

They rolled out of the warehouse and down Avenue B, maneuvering carefully through the traffic. The one positive to the disaster was that traffic was getting lighter and lighter as people found anywhere but New York to exist. Everybody knew that no matter what the government was saying, things were getting bad and getting bad fast.

They didn’t even get to Houston Street before they had their first customer.

* * *

Corinda was cursing her choice of delis for lunch and blessing her decision to wear walking shoes. If she’d been in heels the zombie would already have caught her. Unfortunately, it seemed to be in better shape than she was and was obsessive in chasing one Corinda Carfora, wildcat marketer. She’d been running nearly two block and it wasn’t even swerving for other pedestrians. She’d turned the corner for God’s sake!

And, being New York, nobody was so much as giving a second glance to a naked man chasing a woman down the street. Much less helping.

“You’re passing fatter people you idiot!” she screamed, giving a glance over her shoulder. Still there. This was ridiculous . The other mercy was that lunchtime walking traffic was light in Alphabet City so she didn’t have to dodge much. But she was wearing out. “Look! That guy! He’s fat! Eat him !”

Never a cop…

That hoary adage was belied when she was half way down the first block of B Avenue. A big black truck marked “Biological Emergency Response Team” swerved into traffic with blue lights on and stopped, blocking half of north-bound to a blare of horns.

Puffing, she swerved towards it as a pair of men in moon-suits and masks exited. One of them waved for her to pass between them as they both pulled out guns. She recognized that one was holding a taser. The other was a gun-gun. Bang you’re dead gun.

“Thank you,” she panted as she passed between them. “Thank you. Thank you…”

* * *

Tom waved the woman between them and took up a position covering Durante. Kaplan was driving and prepared to move out as soon as the zombie was tagged and bagged.

“Deep breath, mate…” Tom said, soto voce.

“Don’t make me laugh,” Durante replied, then took the shot.

The zombie seemed to throw off the effect of the taser at first, nearly reaching Durante, then dropped to the ground, shuddering.

“Keep up the juice,” Tom said, stepping forward. He holstered his Glock and pulled out an ampule. The auto-injector drove 15 ccs of Dilaudid into the zombie’s thigh. Then he stepped back.

“Let up on the juice,” he said.

The zombie, a man in his early forties and previously in good condition from the looks of him, stumbled to its feet and started to lunge for the team leader, then stumbled to its knees. In a moment it was back on its face as the narcotic took hold.

“Tag and bag,” Tom said, pulling out a pair of flex-cuffs. “Ma’am, do you know this gentleman? Can you identify him?”

“Never seen him before in my life,” Corinda said, still gasping for air. “He just came around the corner as I was going in the deli. I’ve been running ever since. I mean he turned the corner off Houston to chase me! Why?”

“No idea, ma’am,” Tom said. He and Durante had already flex-cuffed the zombie and bagged his head in case he came to. As Durante started the blood test Tom pulled out a receipt and filled it out with bogus information. “If you know of anyone looking for him, please refer them to NYPD. They’ll be able to determine his disposition.” He pulled the receipt off the pad and handed it to her.

“Okay,” Corinda said, looking at the paper. “Is he… Is he going to the Warehouse?”

“I’m afraid so, ma’am,” Tom said. He looked at Durante who nodded. “He’s positive for neurological packet of H7D3.”

“I… Guess I survived my first zombie attack,” Corinda said, trying to smile. “That’s something.”