Jonathan Maberry - Patient Zero

“Get up,” Church said to them. His voice wasn’t bitter or harsh, merely quiet. Sometimes quiet is worse, and I watched the faces of each man as they climbed to their feet. Jolly Green Giant and Sergeant Rock showed no trace of animosity on their faces, and the latter even looked amused. Joker’s face was cautious, guarded. Scarface looked equal parts deeply embarrassed and angry. Apeman stared hot death at me as he stood up; he rubbed his chest and gave me a sniper’s squint.

My hands were shaking, but adrenaline will do that. Plus the image of Rudy with a gun to his head wouldn’t leave my mind.

“I want to see Rudy,” I said. “Now.”

Church shook his head “No. There are other things you need to do first.”

“He’d better be okay—”

He smiled. “Dr. Sanchez is currently eating his way through an entire catering platter and probably psychoanalyzing Sergeant Dietrich’s rather complicated childhood. He’s fine and he can wait.”

No one said anything. “Okay,” I said, surprised at how calm my voice sounded. “So now what do we do?”

“Major Courtland will bring you up to speed. The entire staff will meet in the main hall in thirty minutes.” He paused and then held out his hand. “Welcome aboard, Mr. Ledger.”

“I don’t mean to offend you two,” I said, taking his hand, “but you’re both total assholes.” I gave his hand my best squeeze and damn if the son of a bitch didn’t match me pound for pound.

“I’ll cry about that later,” Church said.

We let go of each other and I folded my arms. “If I’m going to be team leader, where’s the actual team?”

“You just kicked the effing hell out of them,” Courtland said.

I turned and looked at the five men. Oh crap.

I’ve worked with street thugs, murderers, and the worst kind of lowlifes for years and have knocked in their heads, shot them, Tasered them, and sent them to prison for life, but none of them ever gave me the kinds of looks I was getting from my “team.” If they’d had a tree limb and a rope I’d be swinging in the wind.

I thought I heard Church give a quiet chuckle as he turned and left.

Maybe this was the moment where I was supposed to make some kind of speech, but before I could say anything Courtland beat me to it.

“Get cleaned up,” she snapped. “Ledger… come with me.” She started for the door.

I started to follow her but sensed movement and turned to see Apeman coming toward me. His face was purple with rage, hands balled into white-knuckled fists.

“You suckered me, asshole, and first chance I get I’m going to wipe the floor up with you.”

“No,” I said, “you’re not.” And I punched him in the throat.

I stepped out of the way as he fell.

The room was dead silent and I deliberately turned my back on the other four as I said to Courtland, “I hope to hell you have a medic here, ’cause he’s going to need one.”

Sebastian Gault / The Hotel Ishtar, Baghdad / Five days ago

“LINE?”

“Clear,” said the Fighter.

“What have you to report, my friend?” Gault was chin deep in a tub of soapy water, the Goldberg Variations playing quietly on the CD player. The young woman in the other room was asleep—knowing this call was coming in, Toys had slipped something into her drink before escorting her to Gault’s room. She’d sleep for four more hours and wake up without feeling any adverse effects. It was useful being a chemist and having an assistant without a conscience.

El Mujahid said, “Everything in place.”

“Jolly good. Once you complete the first stage my lads in the Red Cross will make sure the correct transfers take place. With any luck you should be on a hospital ship heading out of the Gulf by midnight.”

“Sebastian…?” said El Mujahid.

“Yes?”

“I’m putting a lot of trust in you. I expect you to hold up your end of things.”

“My hand to Allah,” Gault said as he used his toes to turn on the hot water tap, “you can certainly trust me. Everything will go smoothly.”

There was a short silence at the other end of the line, and then the Fighter said, “Tell my wife I love her.”

Gault smiled up at the ceiling. “Of course I will, my old friend. Go with God.”

He clicked off and tossed the phone onto the closed lid of the toilet. He was laughing when he did it.

Baltimore, Maryland / Tuesday, June 30; 2:46 P.M.

AFTER MAJOR COURTLAND called in the medical team she joined me in the hallway and I could tell she was reevaluating me. Her eyes roved over my face like a scanner and I could almost hear the relays click in her head. Across the hall was a men’s room and I started toward it but she stopped me with a touch on my arm.

“Ledger… what made you think Mr. Church wanted you to do that?”

I shrugged. “He said time was short.”

“That’s not the same thing as telling you to go in there and start kicking everyone’s ass.”

“You have a problem with it?”

She smiled again, a nice smile. It transformed her from a cobra to something a hell of a lot more appealing: an actual human being. “Not at all. As much as I hate to say it I’m rather impressed.”

“‘Hate to say it’?” I echoed.

“You are a very hard person to like, Mr. Ledger.”

“Call me Joe. And no, I’m not. Lots of people like me.”

She didn’t comment on that. “Let me put it another way… you’re a very hard man to trust. Especially in an operation of this kind.”

“Grace—may I call you Grace?”

“You may call me Major Courtland.”

“Okay, Major Courtland,” I said, “it isn’t my goal in life to get you to trust me. You jokers pulled me into this. I didn’t submit a résumé. I’m not military. So if you have issues about trust or anything else up to and including liking me, then, seriously, please go and screw yourself. Major.”

She blinked once.

“I did not and do not want my life tied up in cloak-and-dagger bullshit, dead guys, or pissing contests with either the testosterone crowd in there or some prissy-assed Earl Grey–drinking, scone-munching major who isn’t even my freaking boss. I don’t know you and I don’t give a rat’s ass if you trust me.”

“Mr. Ledger—”

“I have to take a piss.” I headed down the hall to the bathroom.

I USED THE toilet and then washed my face first with hot water and then cold, dabbed it dry with a fistful of paper towels, and then leaned on the edge of the sink, staring at my face in the mirror. My skin was flushed and my eyes had the jumpy look you usually see in junkies. My hair stuck out in all directions.

“Well,” I said to my reflection, “aren’t you a picture?”

I didn’t have a comb so I used wet fingers to plaster down my hair, and as I stood there the full weight and enormity of what was going on hit me like a freight train. I bowed over the sink, tasting bile, ready to throw up… but my trembling stomach held. I raised my head again and looked into my eyes and saw fear in there, the naked realization of what all this meant.

There were more of them out there. More walkers. And I was being asked to step up and be… what? Some kind of Captain Heroism who would lead the boys in the Red, White, and Blue to victory? What was I getting myself into? This wasn’t task force duty, this wasn’t even SWAT-team level. I’d never even smelled anything this big before and now I was expected to train and lead a black ops team? How frigging insane was this? Why were they asking me? I’m just a cop. Where are the guys who actually do this for a living? How come none of them were here? Where’s James Bond and Jack Bauer? Why me, of all people?