John Ringo - Under a Graveyard Sky

“Yes, ma’am,” Tom said, taking one of the zombie’s arms. “Have a nice day.”

* * *

It had only taken an hour to collect five zombies. Three male, two female. And they’d seen more “incidents” on the way back to the warehouse.

“I can’t get that people are still just going to work,” Durante said, hooking one of the female’s flex-cuffed ankles into a hoist hook. “I mean, they’re walking right past other folks being attacked and it’s like ‘Whatever. Got to get to lunch.’”

“It’s New York,” Kaplan said, bringing over the butcher knife. “What do you expect? I mean, how do you tell the difference between a zombie apocalypse and every day?”

He drove the knife into the woman’s throat, then cut out and away. There was a spray of carotid blood that fell on the pre-spread painting tarp in a broad splatter of red.

“Hey, look,” Durante said. “We’re making modern art. We could probably sell this in a gallery for big bucks.”

“Can it,” Tom said. He understood. At a certain level they all really hated what they were doing. They hated that it was necessary. And they hated even more that they were enjoying it. They hated themselves. And so they joked. But if he let it go too far they might forget that they were, in fact, humans and under discipline. “Cut all the way up and back to the highest cervical vertebra.”

“Roger,” Kaplan said, slicing further into the neck as Durante stabilized the woman’s body. The ceramic knife slid up through the muscles, tendons and arteries of the neck like butter. The cut around the spine was somewhat ragged but serviceable.

“Okay,” Tom said, coming over. “This is the tricky bit. Gravy, hold the body firmly. Kap, get the clippers and bag ready…”

Tom applied a sharp twist and snapped the connections at the disk, then slowly and smoothly slid the spinal cord out of the spine.

“Don’t let it hit the floor,” Tom said, juggling the head in one hand and catching the falling spine with the other. “We want to reduce contamination.”

“Roger,” Kaplan said, holding the lower portion of the white cord. “This I’ve never done. I mean, slaughtering pigs, yes. I’ve done that. And goats. But I’ve never stripped a spinal cord.”

“I don’t think many people have,” Tom said, holding up the head by the woman’s hair. He tried to ignore that it was a fine, light brown. The woman was probably in her forties but she’d taken care of herself. Until she became a zombie of course. “Got it?”

“Got it,” Kaplan said, working the cord into a zip-lock bag. He gathered the ropelike material into the bag, then snipped it at the base of the woman’s spine with a pair of bandage scissors. The last of the spinal cord dropped into the bag. “That it?”

“That’s it,” Tom said, setting the head down on the floor and taking the bag. “See that red?”

“Blood?” Durante said, leaning forward to look.

“Spinal cords should be pure white or a slight yellow,” Tom said. “That red you see is virus bodies. Big bundles of millions of individual viruses. Which makes this one a winner.” He carried the bag over to a cooler, opened it up and dropped the bag on the ice.

“Four more to go…”

* * *

“I assure you I decontaminated the outside before I brought it over,” Tom said, setting the cooler down on the doctor’s desk.

“Which is why you’re wearing nitrile gloves?” Curry said. So was he. And goggles and a light respirator. He opened up the cooler and pulled out one of the bags. “Should I ask?”

“There are people in the city who have pet monkeys,” Tom said, tonelessly. “They get zombieitis too.”

“It’s not zombieitis,” Dr. Curry said, examining the spinal cord. “Itis refers to inflammation. Positive for H7D3, though. Zombigenic? Nobody has a really good term yet. This ‘monkey’ would be about five foot seven at a guess…”

“And in good enough shape to chase a woman two blocks,” Tom said. “Fast monkey. Your point?”

“None, really,” Dr. Curry said. “I’ll be doing the work in the hot zone. And I suppose that twitting the person who brought it to me is one of the stupidest possible things I could do all things considered.”

“Doc, as long as you’re producing vaccine, you’ve got nothing to worry about,” Tom said.

“That had a faintly sinister tone to it, Mr. Smith,” Dr. Curry said, starting to suit up.

“And if you think I’m not feeling rather sinister at the moment, Doc, you’re an idiot,” Tom said, yawning slightly.

“I’ll keep that firmly in mind,” Curry said.

* * *

“Voila,” Curry said, holding up a vial from the door of Tom’s office. “Primer.”

“Come in all the way, please,” Tom said. “That wasn’t quick.”

It is, to say the least, a tedious procedure,” Curry said, closing the door. “The longest part as a process is separation through a medium. But I even checked the attenuation level. It’s good.”

“I need a detailed SOP on how to produce it,” Tom said, walking over and taking the vial. He held it up to the light, then paused. “Sorry about the sinister thing earlier. We need you for more than vaccine. This is an ongoing issue and I’ve convinced Dr. Bateman that you’re definitely needed on the evac. So you’re secure.”

“Trust you?” Curry said with a snort. He pulled out a couple of syringes. “Ready to shoot up?”

“Very,” Tom said. “And I’m, of course, trusting that this works and isn’t going to give me the virus. Or be some odd poison.”

“See how sinister things can get?” Curry said, pulling out a dose from the vial and rolling up his arm. “Me first. How’s that?”

“I can think of at least ten ways this could be a trick,” Tom said, injecting the biologist. “Starting with you’ve already given yourself the vaccine and this is just water.”

“Oh ye of little faith,” Curry said, shaking his head. “I take it you’re on the executive evac list? Like I want a zombie your size to go nuts onboard? How are we getting out, by the way?”

“Depends on the situation at the time,” Tom said. “Probably helo to the airport, then jets to the remote site. Which means I need vaccine for the pilots and crew as well. How much did you get?”

“Forty doses,” Curry said. “Of the primer.”

“From five…primates?” Tom said, grimacing. “That’s all?”

“That’s all,” Curry said. “Despite the nodules being visible, there’s not really a lot of virus there. Less than rabies for example. Roll up your sleeve.”

“Okay,” Tom said, taking off his shirt. There was no way he was getting the sleeves all the way up his shoulders. Then he rolled up his t-shirt sleeve. He held up his hand at the doctor. “Just… Gimme a second.”

“What’s wrong?” Curry said, then laughed. “Oh, my God. Seriously?”

“I’m okay with getting shot, knifed, blown up and shot again,” Tom said, grimacing. “Tatoos, even. I just don’t like needles, okay? Just…” He closed his eyes and turned his head to the side. “Just do it quick…”

“Said the virgin,” Curry said, stabbing in the needle and injecting the vaccine. “There, done, you big baby.”

“Uh, uh…” Tom said, shuddering. “I hate that. I really really do. Although I hate even more that you only got forty doses.”

“And that’s just primer,” Curry said, handing him a small black package. “More for your bully boys. That’s just the first dose for forty people. And figure on a minimum of ten percent wastage. And ten percent is low. We’re going to need a lot of…primates.”

“We’re looking at a minimum of two hundred doses for critical personnel alone,” Tom said. “Damnit.”