John Ringo - Under a Graveyard Sky

“Looks like you’re going to make it,” Dr. Curry said, examining Faith’s chart.

“Don’t sound so enthused,” Faith said. She was sipping ice water and balefully considering what Dr. Simmons had prescribed for her first meal in two days: jello and chicken broth. “As far as I’ve been able to figure out, the only good thing about New York is, supposedly, the food. This is not what I’ve been promised.”

“You need to let your body get used to food again,” Simmons said.

“The emesis was a suprising response,” Dr. Curry said. “And as the resident mad scientist, while I personally didn’t want you to go fully into abnormal neural condition, the opportunity to study it would have been useful.”

“I love you too, Doc.”

“What is it about ‘mad scientist’ you don’t understand?”

Faith picked up the bowl of broth, took a sip and set it down.

“God, I’m weak,” she said, her hands shaking. “That’s just weakness, right?”

“Should just be low blood sugar,” Dr. Simmons said. “You’ve still got a high antibody count but your fever seems to have broken and your white blood cell count is dropping. As Dr. Curry said, looks like you’re going to make it.”

“And we’ve now got really good data on the progress of the disease,” Curry burbled, happily.

“Bully for you,” Faith said. “I know I’m tired. I’m channeling Da.”

“Anything we can do for you?” Dr. Simmons asked.

“As soon as I’m better enough somebody owes me one good meal in this stupid stinking town,” Faith said, sipping the broth again. “That’s all I hear is how great the food in New York is. And so far all I’ve had is take-out Chinese and…soup.”

“One good meal,” Dr. Curry said. “I’ll make sure that goes on the agenda.”

* * *

“Well, this has been too much fun,” Tom said. “Stacey…”

“She made it, Tom.” Stacey looked nearly as washed out as Faith. “And I guess the good news is that the vaccine works.”

“And she’s about as resistant as anyone could be,” Tom said. “I’ve always known she was tough… She’s saying she wants one decent meal in New York. How do you feel about that?”

“Going out to dinner in zombie infested New York?” Stacey said, grimacing. “Have a hard time saying no. But it’s not something I’m real thrilled about. She’ll need a day or so to rest up.”

“Agreed,” Tom said. “Steve should join us. I’ll scrounge up some security I can trust to put on your boat. I’ll send Kaplan and a backup. He’s scheduled for the primary extract, anyway. And I’ll find a restaurant that’s still open. Most of the really good ones are closed. I’ll find one. Oh, I traded some favors. Your certification as licensed contractors has been cleared. So you can carry, heavy, in New York City.”

“Does that include Sophia and Faith?” Stacey asked.

“I’ve got an ID printer,” Tom said, drily. “And some very flexible software. At this point I doubt anyone will check.”

* * *

“Do you have anyone who can take you to the hospital, ma’am?” Patterno asked as Young draped a sheet over her husband’s body.

The man had been in his seventies and yet had thrown off two taser hits. Some of them did that. Some of them dropped and some of them just kept coming. The new ROE was clear: If a 10–64 Hotel didn’t stop with the tasers, deadly force was authorized.

The department, with concurrence of the state and local authorities, had had to do it. Not only was it already the de facto rule of engagement, based upon how many shooting had been officer involved over the last few weeks, they’d lost too many officers to the Plague. And more than half of those had gone zombie themselves. The “squad” room meeting was starting to look like the “team” room meeting. Many more of them went down and it would be no meeting at all.

The wife had a bite on her arm and another on her shoulder. They’d hit both with antiseptic for all the good it would do. They were probably looking at another zombie in a few hours.

“A friend is on the way over…” the woman said, shakily.

“We’ll stay here until they get here,” Patterno said. “The Coroner’s office team will need to have access to your home. Can I get a verbal confirmation on that? Is it okay if the coroner’s team handles the management of your husband’s remains?”

“Yes,” the woman said, shaking her head. “Yes, I suppose they have to… Why did you have to shoot him?” she said angrily. “He was just sick ! He…”

The woman suddenly lunged at Patterno, howling. Joe instinctively threw up his hand to fend her off. Unfortunately, he’d taken off his tactical gloves after dealing with her husband.

The woman’s teeth sank into the web of muscle and skin between his thumb and forefinger, ripping out a chunk. She lunged at him again, chewing.

At the first howl, Young had ripped out his taser and as Patterno rolled backwards off the sofa the taser round hit the woman in the side. She fell onto the floral print, blood splattered sofa, spasming.

“Shit, shit, shit, shit…” Patterno said as Young slapped a tranquilizer into the woman’s thigh muscles. The zombie started to stand up and he tapped her, hard, on the back of the head with his baton. She might be dead or not. He wasn’t really caring at the moment.

“How bad?” Young asked.

“Bad.” Patterno had his hand clamped on the wound but it was still streaming blood.

“Let it bleed,” Young said. “Maybe it will get some of it out.”

“Shit, she turned fast,” Patterno said.

“Really fast,” Young replied. He opened the med kit back up and as Patterno held out his hand started pouring betadine over the wound and then roughly bandaging it. He pulled out an antibody kit from the medical bag and did a quick bloodtest on the tranquilized subject.

“What’s it read?” Patterno asked, cradling his arm. They both knew she’d zombied but it was still possible she’d just had a really bad freak-out.

“Positive,” Young said, unhappily.

“Call for pickup,” Patterno said. “Then back to the station. Sentara Hospital is overloaded. And there’s not much they can do for me that one of the paramedics can’t. Hell, there’s not much they can do, period.”

“Unit four-six-four,” Young said into his microphone. “One Sixty-Four Hotel Kilo India Alpha. One Sixty-Four Hotel Tango. One officer possible infected, bite. Ten-nineteen for medical…”

“Good news,” Joe said, holding up his hand. “You get to do the paperwork.”

* * *

“I don’t want to go to the Warehouse,” Joe said as they were driving back to the station. He had his hand elevated and was staring at it.

“The warehouse makes Dachau look like Disneyland,” Young said.

“Billy’s…not going to be able to handle that,” Joe said. “You know that, right?”

“Yeah,” Young said. There was a zombie running down the street. Ten-year-old or so boy. A clothed woman was running after him. She was already bitten. Just another zombie in the making.

“We should have started at shoot-to-kill,” Joe said, watching the scene unfold. The woman was waving at the cop car as it passed, trying to get help. She’d be pissed off. Maybe she’d complain. Maybe somebody would hear it. Then she’d turn and the complaint would be sort of moot.

“You’ve got a spare, right?” Young asked. The Department required that you turn in your issue firearm as you were going off-duty. Since it was legal to carry for officers off-duty, most had at least one spare.

“Yeah,” Joe said. “I’d say stop so I could shoot both of them. But then they’d lock me up. And then I’d go to the Warehouse. And either starve to death or get eaten when it all goes down. Or, worse, get free and be one of them. I don’t want to be one of them.”