Dead Again (4 page)

CHAPTER SIX

Peterson edged forward with curiosity as the projector flickered, then showed an image captured by a video camera documenting a procedure. A tired-looking doctor performed open heart surgery on an elderly woman. Her ribcage was open, and the doctor reached in and put a clamp on an artery. The beeping heart rate monitor suddenly flat-lined, emitting a sound all too familiar: a long, endless beep—the stopping of a heart.

“You’re watching video from a teaching hospital in New York. We have been told this is patient Zero.” From his tone, it sounded like Moore has seen the video countless times; he paced away from the screen. “It’s amongst the first documentation we had.”

Washington stepped in. He seemed to take a perverted joy in outlining the situation.

“Marcy Grey was a ninety one year old woman who had lived a conservative life. Grinding her way through a nine-to-five job, she never got married, never had children, and had no one to mourn for her as her heart stopped on a sterile operating table at New York Central Hospital. The Doctor was making a last attempt to save her. Her old body just gave way.”

The video’s audio became louder than Washington. “We lost her, doctor,” the anesthesiologist said blandly. The doctor snapped off his surgical gloves, responding with a routine voice: “Time of death, four-thirteen. Get her down to the morgue.” The doctor turned to the nurse: “And turn that damn monitor off. The sound is driving me crazy.”

The flat-line machine went silent as the Nurse reached over and turned it off. Abruptly, she halted, looking at the patient in shock.

Heart and chest cavity still open, Marcy Grey eyes had opened. She was looking at the nurse.

“Doctor, she’s alive. She’s awake!” the nurse shouted, confused.

A muffled shock spread throughout the operating room.

“Damn machine!” the doctor yelled as he hurriedly placed his hand on the old lady’s heart, feeling for a beat. He looked into the eyes of Marcy Grey, who slowly looked back.

The anesthesiologist quickly checked the readings.

“There’s just no way!” he said with a shaking voice, “There’s no way she can be awake!”

The doctor was overcome by anxiety, too. “Her heart’s not beating!”

He slowly took his hand off her heart.

“Just stay calm, Mrs. Grey, stay calm,” the doctor said, clearly not knowing what else to say.

A guttural snarl suddenly arose from deep within her throat. Then it happened: she sat up, grabbed the doctor, and bit his forearm.

He was so shocked he couldn’t even scream. Marcy Grey gnawed, tearing a chunk of flesh out of his arm.
 

She sat up. Her chest cavity was still opened, and blood and innards spilled out. She chewed on the flesh of the doctor, who pulled away his arm in disbelief. The nurse let out a blood-curdling shriek of absolute horror.

The screen in the briefing room finally went black.

Moore faced the room. “Get the picture?”

The team was silent for a long moment.

“How does it spread?” Peterson asked.

“Through contact with infected blood,” Washington eagerly answers. “We know that if you’re bitten, within 24 hours you will be fully infected. It’s also possible that if you get their blood in your eyes or mouth, you may become infected as well. This is still an outstanding question.”

“But that’s not the burning question, Dr. Washington,” Peterson snapped back.

Dr. Washington looked at him. “Then perhaps you can enlighten us?”

“The question is…are they alive, or are they dead?”

“They are infected,” retorted Washington.

“Fucking zombies if you ask me” Cash chimed in.

“How can we cure what is not alive?” Sharon added.

Washington gave them a smug, superior smile.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he began. “We are dealing with an infection. Viral, most likely. Where there is an infection, there is at least, if not a cure for those who have already been infected, an inoculation for those who have not been. Get it?”

Peterson spoke up: “We recover the information so that an inoculation, or cure, can be created?”

“Yes, but all you worry about is recovery. We need Dr. Winthrop safe and sound.”

“What makes you think Dr. Winthrop is still alive?” asked Peterson.     

“We’re not sure, we pray,” Moore said, clearing his throat.

He flipped a switch and a series of grids appeared on a projected map. As the images shifted, a blueprint of the ice-fox building compound came into view.

“In addition to Dr. Winthrop, there is another primary target,” Moore pointed to a particular gird. “For security reasons, there is only one hard drive which contains the accumulation of all the research. There are fifty separate hard dives which contain the research in piecemeal. Fifty hard drives is out of the question. So we go for the primary—it’s referred to as ‘Darling.’

“It is located here, on sub-level four. It is the central nervous system of the complex, and this is where Darling is seated. You will possess the security codes, you will manually unlock the system, you will establish a satellite uplink and we will download the information.”

“Rumors are, sir, that satellite communication has become unreliable,” Armstrong chimed in, sounding concerned. “Non-existent in some places.”

“You are correct, Sergeant,” Moore said, apparently approving of Armstrong’s insight. “Then we move to plan B.”

“Which is?” Peterson asked.

“Rough and tumble. You bring the packages back manually, and find a way to get your asses back here.”

“Back where, sir?” inquired Angelo.

“Back home, son, where your ass is seated now.”

Moore changed the image. “It is important to know that though there are many scientists, if any are still alive, their recovery is not part the mission. Your mission is to recover Darling and Dr. Winthrop only.”

The projection changed, flashing a picture of a white-bearded man: his hair was tasseled, unkempt and his glasses were crooked. He looked like a mad academic, the type of man who spent all his time thinking and neglected everything else.

“This is Dr. Winthrop. He invented the ice-fox project.”

The images changed in a slideshow, revealing a series of men and woman, apparently important scientists at the lab.

“We are not to help the scientist, General?” Ishmael asked, sounding puzzled.

Moore hesitated. “No,” he finally said, almost ashamed.

Peterson looked at the faces of the scientists as they flashed by on the screen.

Disposable assets
, he thought
. Just like us.

The screen went blank.

“The hard drive, or black box if you will, will give us answers as to what is happening. Its recovery may equal the survival of hundreds of thousands of people.”

Washington stepped up. “At this pace more likely millions and millions of people.”

Peterson looked at Moore quizzically, “it sounds like double deuce Sir.”

“It is,” responded Moore, “If you can’t save one, save the other. Ideally, however, we need both packages intact if we are to have a shot at a cure.”

“Last reports said the infection has reached over 41 nations; this is now a global pandemic.” Washington sounded proud to be able to relay such information, as if any form of knowledge made him special, even if it was horrible.

The team murmured, and Peterson spoke up, confused. “Just four hours ago it was limited to 15 states.”

Moore stepped up, figuring now was the right to lay some more news on them.

“Doctor Washington is a scientist with the ARPA.”

Washington stood there proudly, staring the team down, clearly proud of himself. If looks could talk, he would be calling the team white trash.

“Washington was one of the first scientists assigned to this project. He knows his way around the compound. He knows the location of the hard drive. He has the security codes. He will be accompanying you as an on-site adviser.”

Washington suddenly looked at Moore, shocked.

“General, I’m sorry, but we never discussed my joining the group. I’m a scientist, not a soldier, for god-sake. It’s not safe out there.”

“Tough shit,” Moore snapped back. “You’ll accompany them, whether you like it or not.”

Washington’s face turned pale. Finally, he was speechless.

Peterson saw the obvious shift in Washington’s demeanor; he was wringing his hands with anxiety, and lowered his fearful eyes to the ground.

With satisfaction, Peterson smiled to himself.

The son-of-a-bitch didn’t know.

Moore concluded: “Team, you have clearance to achieve this mission by use of all means necessary. Civil and humanitarian Law which existed 48 hours ago no longer exists. Now,
you
are the law. Anything or anybody gets in your way you have the authority to do as you must to succeed in this mission.”  

Shit.
Peterson thought.
There are truly only two ways out of this mission. Not just for me, but maybe for the world at large.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Night had fallen and spot lights illuminated the helipad and the surrounding area. Peterson and his team moved with urgency as they loaded the waiting Black Hawk’s belly, hurrying up and down the ramp with equipment. They were carrying enough high-tech gadgetry and weaponry to start and win their own war; as they walked up the ramp, side by side, into the night, they looked like a wall of sheer force.

Peterson wanted to get this bird loaded and in the air ASAP. He had an uneasy feeling in his gut—it was one of the rare times in his life when he felt unsure of himself. There were too many unknowns, too many variables, from his team members to the satellites to their destination. He felt the mission was haphazardly planned, and the sooner they were in the air, he hoped, the better he would feel.

Holding a clipboard, he went down an inventory checklist, trying to confirm everything. But something caught his eye, and he turned.

Sharon was standing there, off to the side, staring at him, and probably had been for some time. She looked slightly embarrassed.

“Never thought I’d see you again,” she said, hesitantly.

Peterson wasn’t sure how to respond. He wanted to say so much to her, but this just wasn’t the time, or place.

“I’m sorry Sharon, I—”

“Don’t.” Sharon spared him. “Just happy to see you in one piece.”

Peterson could see Sharon looking at the crucifix around his neck. It was the one she’d given him, years ago. Peterson reflexively reached down and fingered it nervously. They shared a look of passion, and regret, and then she moved on, loading her stack of machine guns.

“The shit is really going to hit the fan, gentlemen, isn’t it?”

Peterson turned and saw Doctor Washington’s standing there. He looked nervous. He was clearly trying to appease him now, and the entire team, with a friendly and kind tone. He was suddenly trying to make friends. Boy, he had changed his tune fast: all his arrogance and intellectual superiority was suddenly gone.

Peterson responded with a smile, victorious. “It already has, Doctor Washington.”

Armstrong shouted orders to the team: “Get moving, people! Every day in the military is parade! Every meal a feast!”

The team scurried, loading equipment as fast as they could.

“What do they call you guys, anyway?” Washington asked. “I mean, the General never told me your official name. You’re clearly not the Seals or Delta force. What branch are you with?”

Peterson wasn’t about to enlighten him. The people who needed to know, knew, and the people who didn’t, never would. Everybody knew they had no official name, unlike Delta force or the Navy Seals. Peterson’s shadow force was more highly classified, originating from intelligence operations. Each member of the team was selected for a very special reason—their psychological profile. Their minds were the most resilient. Under the most pressure, under the most painful, demanding circumstances, their minds bend instead of break.

There was a catch, however. These types of psychological profiles, Peterson knew first hand, had a pattern. There were also mental weaknesses. To endure pain in the present, they usually had endured pain in the past—namely their childhood or teenage years. Leaving each member a bit flawed. It took a great deal of time to train these types of people to follow orders, and they typically had their own idea of the law. They tended to be, on the most subconscious level, drawn to violence. Not that they liked hurting others, or being destructive. It was more like an undercurrent: they were born from violence, and can never seem to let it go.

Peterson stared coldly back at Washington, silent. “Get moving, Doctor.”

Washington, rebuked, hurried off to the chopper.

His clipboard finished, Peterson surveyed their surroundings, feeling on edge: he looked out and saw the silhouette of a tree line which surrounded the bunker, tall, old oak trees shielding it from the peering eyes of the outside world. The chopper was in on the landing pad, and dozens of regular army soldiers stood guard while they loaded, all around the perimeter, moving restlessly. They were in the middle of nowhere, so Peterson didn’t know what he was worrying about. But something was gnawing at him. Some sixth sense was drawing his eye to the tree line.

As Peterson looked even closer, he could have sworn he noticed some subtle movement in the woods. He looked more closely, and there suddenly was movement: a silhouette of an infected man lumbered out of the woods and then into the glaze of a spot light, stumbling onto the field. The man, who walked like he was drunk, wore a torn up pin-striped dress suit, and had a grossly disfigured face. The flesh on his left shoulder was gone, leaving bone and muscle exposed. His skin was the color of a long-dead corpse: deep pale.

It’s not just as though they look like corpses, however, something happens to their faces.
Most of all, Peterson was taken aback by the feral and ravenous eyes of the creature. The eyes were sunken deep into their sockets and possessed a look, not of a dead person, but of a wild animal. Just like the little girl from before.

Behind this infected man, branches snapped, and a crowd of infected, slow in the movements, broke through the tree line. They walked in a mechanical manner, rigor mortis creating rigidness within them, stiffening their joints. They were slow. They wobbled without balance, placing one foot in front of the other, slowly gaining ground.

Guttural moans suddenly filled the air.

Peterson couldn’t make sense of it. It had never struck him as possible that the infected could make it so deep into the woods. The fact that the infection had arrived at this location, so far from the neighboring towns, came as a great surprise. It sent a chill down his spine. The infection had already traveled so far, and so fast. Squinting, he saw more and more of them stumble out of the forest.

Shit, there must be a fifty of them.

He also realized that he was, for now, the only one who had noticed it.

“PERIMETER BREACHED!” he screamed.

The regular army soldiers around the helipad, and near the tree line, seem confused. The spot lights were only able to illuminate some of the area, leaving dark patches. Peterson watched one of the soldiers, who was standing nearest to the incoming zombies, finally look out and see what was coming. Although he had a machine gun strapped over his shoulder, he didn’t move, frozen in fear. He wasted too much time and now the first infected man was only feet in front of him. The soldier reached up and grabbed the neck of the infected man, holding his head backward as its mouth opened and snapped shut, trying to bite him. The soldier’s hand slipped, and the infected sunk his teeth into his shoulder. The soldier shrieked.

Gunfire and shouts erupted. The perimeter soldier’s opened fire and let the bullets fly. A torrential downpour of bullets and the crackling of machine gun fire exploded, filling the air.

Peterson spun and saw, from all sides of the perimeter, infected were coming out of the woods, and closing in.

The perimeter forces had finally noticed this too. Spinning in all directions, they were uncertain what to do. People started shouting orders which overlapped and contradicted one another.

Peterson knew that his team, trained to a razor’s edge, was waiting for orders from him before entering into combat. He could sense all of their eyes on him. Do we enter the fray, or do we load up and take off?

Peterson stepped out from the loading platform. He looked slowly around, three hundred and sixty degrees, taking in the situation. Steady and cool, he raised his hand high above his head, and made a fist.

“Shadow team,” Peterson ordered in a calm, confident voice. “Do your thing.”

His team burst into action, dropping their loading supplies and taking up positions. Like the well-oiled machine they were, they fanned out in a wide circle, covering strategic fields of fire.

As Peterson watched Angelo set up his high-powered RKG sniper rifle, he remembered Angelo’s story.
 
Since Angelo was a child, he’s been shooting rifles. In high school he was introduced to firearms during his attendance at the local police club. The officers took him to a fire range, put at 22 caliber rifle in his hands and told him to shoot the target. The first shot he took hit the bull’s-eye. Everybody applauded.

Nothing else in his life brought him the attention and approval which he so desperately needed. Since his first shot, he was hooked, and went to the firing range as often as possible. He would shoot all different types of weapons, anything he could get his hands on.  As time went by, he developed a very strange habit. Before he pulled the trigger for the first time, he would take his right thumb and tap it three times in the side of the rifle. Soon he became superstitious. It was good luck.

Peterson watched as Angelo slowly steadied his rifle and tapped his thumb three times.
He chose his target, adjusted his site, and fired. He hit an infected between the eyes from a hundred yards away.

“Fucking cannibals,” Cash cried out. He opened fire with his CAR 15, spraying a group of infected. It was a good thing his muscles were larger than his childlike mind, as his torrent of bullets cut down an entire line of zombies.

Cash ran out of ammunition, and on cue, Tag ran forward and laid down cover fire. Flames lick from his assault rifle. Ishmael then ran past Tag, took a knee, and joined in the duck shoot. They were experts, killing machines, creating a wall of fire, chopping down the zombies like trees in a forest.

The perimeter guard were not as nearly well disciplined. They were firing in every direction, ad-hoc, and several bullets ricocheted off the tarmac, next to the chopper. Peterson was pissed. The damn bullets almost hit him, and almost hit the bird.

“Fucking son of a bitch rookies,” Cash exclaimed, through clenched teeth.

A volley of more bullets ricochet around him, sparking off the tarmac.

“We are not going to get off the ground at this rate!” yelled Johnny-Boy, eyes wide, fear in his voice.

“Stop being a pussy,” hissed Sharon. “We can handle it easy.”

She pulled out her
Glock
9mm sidearm out of its holster, leveled and fired, placing a single shot between the eyes of a forty something, heavy-set female. The walking corpse collapsed like a sandbag.

“There are too many of them!” Johnny-Boy yelled.

Peterson, busy firing his 9mm
Glock
, stepped forward in his collected and calm manner. He understood what Johnny-Boy was experiencing. Seeing these creatures on TV was one thing. Seeing them in person was something totally different.

“Get hold of yourself, Private,” he reprimanded. “This is just a small taste of things.”

Johnny-Boy was hesitant, “Sir, I just can’t believe what I’m seeing.”

“I grant you permission to leave.” Peterson said, his tone of voice dropping a few decibels. He refused to accept a weak-link in his team, and his words carried gravity.

Armstrong appeared and joined in on the exchange. He leaned in close to Johnny-Boy, “but if you stay with us, Johnny boy, and you flinch in the line of fire, I will execute you on the spot.”  

Spooky, off to the side, was clearly amused by Armstrong’s disposition.

Peterson knew that Spooky once had a favorite commander who used to put bullets through the heads of fellow soldiers who lost their backbones. It became no big deal to him. Spooky, Peterson knew, came to accept that anybody who pussies out on a mission—deserves no less.

Johnny-Boy’s eyes widened.

“Do you want out?” Armstrong asked.

“No sir,” he wasted no time in responding.