Jonathan Maberry - Patient Zero

Church said nothing for maybe five seconds. “Do you think I’m unaware of these things, Doctor?”

“I don’t know what you’re aware of, Mr. Church. You keep your emotions under check better than anyone I’ve ever met. But no matter how tough you are, and I imagine you are one very tough hombre, you are still human. Inside you might be seething with rage, and if God is kind I hope he never puts me in your path when you’re enraged. You and Joe are a lot alike in that. Controlled most of the time, but there is a point where control goes all to hell and what is left is pure, lethal rage. That’s all well and good if you find yourself—God forbid—in a room full of walkers; but I would not like to think that the man directing the subtleties of an operation of this kind is going on rage and looking for payback. The problem is that with you I can’t tell how close to a loss of control you are. You aren’t a robot, so you have to be suppressing your emotions. Just remember that suppressing emotions is not the same thing as actually removing emotions from your physiological makeup. If you’re as smart a man as I think you are then you’ll consider what I’ve said. You have to recognize distracting emotions and make very, very sure that they don’t affect the decisions you make, and the time frame in which those decisions are made.”

Rudy took a small half-step back. It was as if he diminished in size from a giant to an ordinary man in that subtle move. He switched off his perceptual X-ray, withdrew his own energy from the moment, and left a gap for Church to fill. How Church filled that gap would make all the difference, and I wished I could be inside Rudy’s head to see how he was measuring the moment.

Church was silent for maybe fifteen seconds. I held my breath. Then Church gave one of his fractional smiles and a short nod. “I’ll take it under advisement.”

Rudy studied him and he must have found something in the stone mask that was Church’s face, because he nodded in return. “Fair enough.”

“Hey, guys,” I said, “I hate to break up this Dr. Phil moment but I kind have to go fight some zombies.”

Rudy said something very foul in Spanish and Church turned away to assess the teams, though I think he really did it to hide a smile.

The DMS Warehouse, Baltimore / Tuesday, July 1; 1:16 A.M.

WE PILED INTO the helicopter, a SH-60 Seahawk fitted out with every kind of gunpod and missile launcher in the catalog. Once we were in and the door closed, we huddled down and switched to helmet mikes so everyone could hear above the rotor noise. Church joined us. He put an open pack of small high-protein cereal bars on one corner of the map. Combat version of cookies, I thought. Guy was a freak.

When we’d boarded I pushed Rudy into a corner. “Sit tight, watch and listen,” I said. He nodded, looking scared. He was going only as far as the staging area, but I wanted him next to Church throughout.

The Seahawk’s big T700-GE-701C engines roared and the bird lifted off and headed southeast at one hundred and fifty knots, with three other helos—two of them bearing Alpha Team and the other with support staff—in close formation.

“Here’s the bottom line,” I began once everyone was settled down around the map. “Someone bypassed the security and opened the door to Room Twelve. As a result we have ten casualties: six medical staff, our prisoner, and three soldiers, plus one other soldier who has been bitten and infected by the walkers. That means that pretty soon he’ll be dead, too.”

Bunny and Top said nothing; they’d been there. Ollie ran a shaking hand through his hair. Skip looked ten years old and terrified.

“Who did it?” Skip asked.

“Unknown at this time.”

“This was an accident, right?” Ollie said.

I let silence answer that.

“Oh man,” he said. He looked down at the stock of his MP5.

Skip was a half-step slower. “Wait… you mean this wasn’t an accident? Someone did this on purpose?”

“Are we talking a spy here,” Ollie asked, “or a terrorist infiltrator?”

“We have to look at both options,” Church said, and when Ollie started to say something he added, “And until further notice this discussion is over.”

My guys all looked at me, and despite what Church just said I wanted to put my own stamp on things. “Right now we don’t know who did this or how many infiltrators we have, so until further notice everyone—and I do mean everyone—is a suspect. You don’t like it, too bad. I’m not asking for comments right now, but hear me on this: I will find out who did this and when I do that person is going to live forever in a world of hurt. If anyone knows or learns anything connected with this I want to hear about it. Come to me in private, talk to me one to one. I’m offering a white flag for contact but it expires in twenty-four hours, after which I’m going to be witch-hunting under a black flag. I want to know that you hear and understand.”

“Hooah,” growled Top.

Bunny nodded. “Loud and clear, boss.”

“Yes, sir,” said Skip.

Ollie bared his teeth. “We find whoever tried to rat-fuck us, you hold him and I’ll cut his balls off.”

The tension in the air was thick as quicksand. I handed out intelligence briefs. “Read through the materials. You have fifteen minutes.”

“Questions?” I asked when they all put the intel reports down.

Bunny cleared his throat. “Boss, not to be a pain in the ass, but all I’ve been reading here is ‘we don’t know this’ and ‘we don’t know that.’ I mean… what do we know?”

“What do you want to know?”

“Well,” Bunny said to Church, “for a start who are the hostiles? Saying ‘terrorist’ kinda tells me dick. Sir.”

“I’ll tell you what I told Captain Ledger,” Church said. “The cell taken down by the task force represents a broad range of terrorist and extremist groups.” He turned and looked at Bunny, who was making a face. “Go on, Sergeant,” he encouraged, “ask it.”

“How does that make sense? I mean, sure we all call it the ‘international terrorist community’ but it’s not like they all get together for bowling night. It’s not a club, right? But we’re supposed to believe that these guys are, what, a terrorist coffee klatch?”

There were some chuckles and even Church managed a small smile. Probably fake, but still there.

“You find that to be unlikely? You’re an NCO with eight years in and you think Homeland is wrong in the way it interpreted the task force intelligence?”

He stared at Bunny and Bunny gave it right back to him. “Yes, sir, I think it’s bullshit.”

Church gave that smile again. “Of course you do, Sergeant, otherwise you wouldn’t be here.” He let that sink in for a moment. “And if any of you ever accept info without thinking it through and raising reasonable questions you’ll be out of here so fast you’ll get motion sick.”

“Then…” Bunny hadn’t expected that kind of comeback and it derailed him for a moment.

“Tell me what we should infer, Sergeant,” Church prompted. “Because the intel, as far as details go, is correct. Those men were from different groups. We’ve verified that. Homeland thinks this means the terrorist community is uniting to form a front against America. What do you think of that?”

Bunny cut a look at me, and I nodded. I liked that Bunny was following the same logic I’d explored with Church. “Well,” he said, grabbing on to a leather strap as the chopper banked into a climbing turn, “we got a lot of ears and eyes out there. CIA got spooks out the ying-yang. Every branch of the service has their MI guys wiretapping the shit out of the whole Middle East. If the extremists were forming some kind of ‘axis of evil,’” and here he paused for a laugh, and got it, “then there’s no way we wouldn’t have heard at least something about it. All this time and we don’t hear a peep? No fucking way.”