John Ringo - Under a Graveyard Sky

“I don’t know that I’d want to get vaccine from drug dealers,” Sophia said. “Not knowing what I know about how it’s produced. And that’s here .”

“In which you are wise,” Curry said with a snort. “Over two hundred people have become infected due to bad vaccine. If it’s not properly attenuated: Instant zombie.”

“You’re sure this is attenuated?” Sophia said, holding up one of the vials.

“That’s what I’m checking,” Curry said, gesturing at the screen he was using. “The binding sites are still there but the RNA is well and thoroughly trashed. I’d say that this RNA has less coherence than rabies but the binding sites are about as robust. That’s good for vaccine. Not sure what it says about the organism long-term. What is worse, most of the ‘vaccine’ that’s being bandied around in the City is nothing but colored water.”

“Why colored?” Sophia said. She held up one of her completed vaccine bottles to the light. “This is clear.”

“Because they’re drug dealers?” Curry said, shrugging. “People want to see something for their money. Who’s going to believe a drug dealer who gives them a shot of clear liquid.”

“Who’s going to believe a drug dealer, period?” Sophia said.

“I take it you’ve never gotten into illegal drugs,” Dr. Curry said.

“I’m not an idiot,” Sophia said. “Drugs can seriously screw up your life. Of course, so can the zombie apocalypse but I didn’t have any control over that. So, no, I don’t do drugs. I drink a little but my parents are okay with it in moderation. Faith doesn’t even do that. She only drinks water and fruit juice.”

“I suppose I should be impressed,” Curry said. “I’ve dabbled in drugs from time to time. Heck, I dealt when I was in grad school. If you have a biochemistry lab at your disposal, cranking out a little LSD is no problem and it’s one way to pay for grad school.”

“Seriously?” Sophia said.

“You might notice what we’re making here, miss,” Curry said, mirthlessly.

“Point.”

“One shot of zombie vaccine is going for fifty dollars on the street,” Curry said. “Which is a good price. The question being whether you’re getting vaccine or not. Or ‘good’ vaccine. Some of them even have mild drugs in them to give a feeling that something is happening. Which, even if the dealers get the right attenuation, can cause the vaccine to be nonfunctional.”

“Seriously,” Sophia said. “People who get their vaccine from a source like a drug dealer are getting what the deserve. Speaking of which, I’m done.”

“Let me do a cross check and then we’ll get it over to Dr. Simmons,” Curry said. “Quality control is the best control…”

* * *

It had been filing.

By afternoon of the next day, Faith had had enough. She’d had enough of the questions about her experiences in the tunnels. She’d had enough of the gossip. She’d found out, quickly, that her uncle’s big “secret” was anything but. The rumors were all over the place that The Bank, capital letters, was producing vaccine. And just as many rumors about how, most of them more or less dead on. She’d gotten tired of the side-long glances and the vaguely worded questions about where her uncle was gone to all day. People even referred to the “BERT” van in the sort of hushed tones reserved for nuclear secrets. And then there were the subtle questions about “how do I get the vaccine?”

And she’d had it with filing. It was boring and pointless since most of this was going to be relics of a bygone age in no time.

She’d paid attention when she’d had to turn in her stuff the first day. All of her stuff was back in the apartment. That didn’t mean there wasn’t “stuff.” The locker room had everything she’d need to go zombie hunting.

* * *

Faith stepped out of cover, aimed carefully and zapped the zombie in the back with the taser.

“Nice,” she said as the zombie dropped to the floor. She darted forward and slammed the narcotic injector into the back of its thigh, holding it as she thought the instructions indicated.

She was rewarded by the two and a half inch needle driving through her thumb and a gush of tranquilizer squirting onto her facemask.

“Shit!” she screamed, hopping around and shaking her hand. The needle steadfastly refused to exit her thumb. “Cock-suck… Fuck! Rat turds! Ow!”

She grabbed the injector and pulled it from her thumb, tossing it across the corridor.

“Well,” she said, shaking her hand. “At least it’s num…b. Mum… Oh cap… No… No…bad…”

The zombie was getting to its feet, which was the bad part. Besides being slightly stoned by the small dose of tranquilizer that had gotten into her system. And her right hand flopping uselessly.

“Very bad,” she said, drawing another taser left-handed. She couldn’t get her usual dead-on targeting since she was getting a bit of double vision. “I think he’s about…”

Which was where he was. The zombie let out a screech and dropped to the floor, spasming. Again.

“Perfect,” she said, then wondered why there was blood dripping on the zombie’s back. She looked at her hand and thought it through. There was blood. Dripping. From her thumb.

“Blood pathogen,” she said, drunkenly. “Not good.”

She pulled off the tactical glove, and the rubber glove under it, and looked at her thumb. It was swollen, bleeding and discolored.

“Is that normal if you AD yourself with an injector?” she asked the empty corridor.

The answer was another zombie howl from the south.

And the zombie was getting up. Again.

She pulled out her last taser and fired, hitting it in the groin.

“I said stay down!” she said to the hissing and whimpering zombie.

“This is soooo not good,” she said, finally injecting the zombie and then fumbling in a taser reload with one hand flopping useless. She could hear zombies heading her way by the flop-flop of their bare feet on the concrete. “I really, really need to start allowing adult supervision… And reading the directions more carefully. And eating all my vegetables… They need these in semiautomatic… With a magazine…”

She turned and fired the reloaded taser just in time to stop the zombie coming from the north. There were two more in the other direction…

* * *

“Durante,” Kaplan said, holding up the office phone. “Your girlfriend’s calling.”

“I don’t have a girlfriend,” Durante said, working on paperwork. Turned out that even in serial killing there was paperwork. Time sheets, materials… It just glossed over a lot of stuff.

“That would be the boss’s niece,” Kaplan said, grinning. “She wants to talk to you.”

“What now?” Durante said, picking up the phone.

“Line two.”

“Hey, Faith, how’s the filing going…? Uh, huh. How’d you get an injector stuck in your thumb…?”

Kaplan spun around in his chair and quirked a “Spock” eyebrow.

“And how’d you run into a zombie…? And you got the taser where…? And you ran into this zombie…? Uh, huh. Uh, huh. Okay… Okay… Sure. You just stay right there, okay? We’ll be down in a jiffy. Yeah. That would probably be best… Uh, huh. Bubye now.”

He hung up the phone and looked at the wall thoughtfully.

“Problems?”

“Roll the full tac team to level B-9, section forty-two,” Durante said, standing up carefully. “Loaded for bear. And I mean right GOD DAMNED NOW!”

Then he hit the door running…

* * *

When Tom got there it was all over but the flex-cuffing. Faith was still up on the air-handler, wrapping a bandage around her thumb and there were nine, count ’em, nine zombies, male and female, on the floor. At least two, considering the cranial damage, involved the blood splattered crowbar resting next to her.