ocalypse (Book 10): Drawl (Duncan's Story) (8 page)

The snakes in D.C. were doing the same thing they’d been
doing for more than two hundred years: obfuscating, dodging, misdirecting,
engaging in double-speak and, in Duncan’s already jaded opinion, when it came
to denying the very existence of the
flu
that allegedly had seen many of
that country’s citizens hauled away by hazmat-suited PLA soldiers for going on
three days now—downright lying to the American public.

Duncan was flicking madly through the channels and muttering
to himself.

Charlie drained his beer and set it down hard on the table.
After a long belch he said, “What are you looking for?”

“CNN or Fox. One of them briefly showed some video with Bethesda
in the background.”

“The hospital?”

“Yeah … I’ve done some recuperating there. Long ago. I think
I saw a pair of helicopters hovering over one of the wings.”

“Life Flight, maybe?” Charlie said. “Keep it here, though.
This is local.”

On the screen was an interior shot featuring a woman anchor dodging
gurneys and medical personnel at the ER entrance to one of Portland’s biggest
hospitals. She was trying to keep her composure in the midst of the activity
and was doing a fantastic job until an orderly parked an occupied gurney directly
behind her. On the waist-high wheeled bed, the prostrate form was covered head-to-toe
by a white sheet. The fabric was dotted here and there with crimson, a sight
that immediately drew a look of apprehension from the resilient lady.

But she got over it real quick because, with a shooing
motion at the intrusion, she turned her best side to the camera and, bathed in
stark white light, resumed her ongoing commentary.

“It wasn’t one of those sleek Dauphin Eurocopters.” Duncan
shook his head. “Nope. Those were Little Birds. The Special Ops community calls
them Flying Eggs. I’d bet the house on it.”

“I gather you would,” Charlie agreed, taking his eyes from
the TV long enough to look at the money pinned under the pistol. “So,
Bethesda’s a military hospital … right?”

“Correct. I was reading in a Stars And Stripes magazine that
it’s been under renovation for some time. Sounds like they’ll be merging it
with Walter Reed eventually.”

Charlie said, “Way over budget and with a long delayed
opening ceremony, I presume.”

Duncan picked his phone up off the table. “I’m proud of you,
Chuck. Hell, for a fella who never served your country, you sure have a firm
grasp of how she’s being destroyed.” He flipped the phone open and found the
autodial list. He skipped number 1, which was programmed to call the place he’d
just been told he would never work again. The name of a very important person
in his life was programmed as speed dial number 2. He punched the Talk button
and put the phone to his head.

“Calling Matilda?”

Duncan nodded.

“Figured you would sooner or later. She’s going to be pissed
you’re worried about her.”

Duncan said, “I’d file it under
concerned
.” His face
seemed to tighten, however. Brows knitting, he pursed his lips and ended the
call by flipping the phone’s two halves closed.

“No answer, huh? That’s not good.”

“Yep,” Duncan said. “
Now
I’m worried. You coming or
staying?”

A puzzled look on his face, Charlie said, “This thing
downtown … think it’s spread to Tilly’s neighborhood?”

“You know me, Charlie. Hope for the best—” Duncan began.

“—prepare for the worst,” finished Charlie. “I don’t think
you have reason to be alarmed. Coming down MLK after work I saw all of the
bridges going up at once.”

Duncan scooped up his Colt and the cash. The latter went in
a pocket, the former got worked into his waistband, the holster’s leather
paddle securing it firmly to his right hip. “Did they all stay up?”

“Yep.”

Duncan locked eyes with his friend. “That’s even more reason
for concern,” he stated, snatching the keys to the Dodge off the table.

“I’m not following.”

“Get my shotgun.”

Doing a double take, Charlie said, “Shotgun?”

“You haven’t taken a peek inside your coat closet since I
moved in?”

Charlie shook his head side-to-side. “No reason to. It’s
summer. Hence, no need for a coat.” He padded to the closet which was straight
ahead from the entry. Opened it up and came out with a stubby black combat
shotgun in hand, barrel aimed at the floor. “You OK to drive?”

Accepting the shotgun from his friend, Duncan replied, “I’m
good to fly … if I had to. If the FCC allowed me to. Hand me the shells. They’re
up on the shelf next to that collapsible umbrella.”

Charlie complied. Handing them over, he said, “And I didn’t
see the ammo up there because it hasn’t rained for a while either.”

“Let’s git a move on, Mister Magoo. We’ve only got a few
hours of daylight left.” Just then, as if the gods had been listening and possessed
a wicked sense of humor, the lights flickered on and off, shutting down both
the cable box and television. Which was unfortunate, because the screen went
dark just seconds prior to the form on the gurney in the ER entry hinging up
and spilling the sheet down around its bruised and bite-addled torso.

Had the power not cut off and had Duncan and Charlie
witnessed the cute little news reporter having her windpipe and carotid artery
torn from her milky white throat, their crosstown trip may have been aborted
and immediate plans to escape Portland drawn up.

Charlie’s brows shot up. He reached to the wobbly fan and
turned the switch to Off. Then he snagged his Mariners cap off the table and
pulled it on tight. “Next stop Tilly’s, I imagine.”

Duncan said nothing. He was already out the door with the
box of shells in one hand, pump shotgun in the other.

***

Jockeying the Dodge around on the parking pad had been the
easiest part of the trip so far. Getting out onto Flavel was a bitch. Finally,
after resorting to the old bull in a china shop method of entering traffic,
Duncan had the rig nosing east.

Charlie shot him a sideways look. “Tilly’s is thataway,” he
said, jabbing a thumb over his left shoulder.

“You know how much of a cluster 82nd is near the Walmart on
a Saturday?”

Charlie shrugged nonchalantly.

“Of course you wouldn’t, you bus-riding son-of-a-gun.” Duncan
checked his mirror then his blind spot and slid over to the left turn lane
where Flavel intersected 92nd Avenue. “It’s a pain in the dick on a normal day.
Now with this perfect storm of the Chinese flu threat and attacks downtown,
Vegas, and D.C.”—he glanced at the pump gun on the floor near Charlie’s feet
and went on—“82nd and all the stores up and down it is the last place I need to
be dealing with. Put some shells in that thing, won’t ya?”

Handling the shotgun gingerly, Charlie figured out on his
own how to load the shells.

“It ain’t gonna bite you. The safety on?”

There was a soft click.

“It is now.”

Downtown Portland

There was a vehicle approaching, heard but not seen, because
the female EMT whose nametag read
Palazzo
was short, even wearing lug-soled
work boots. The low growl bouncing off the multi-story buildings was
unmistakable. After serving a tour in the sandbox as an Army medic, the engine sound
of the AM General Hummer was forever imprinted in her memory. And though she couldn’t
see over the assembled crowd, walking her steely gaze from face to face and
barking, “Make a hole!” dragged their attention from the two street kids being
held down on the ground by a pair of good Samaritans.

As the human wall parted to let the squared-off slab of Kevlar
and metal nose across the sidewalk, Palazzo looked past the jostling crowd and
saw her partner applying pressure to the gauze pad taped to his own neck.
Though just a handful of minutes had passed since the construction worker
intervened in the attack, already the compress was bright red and her right-seater,
whose nametag said
Morgan,
had gone ashen white.

Based on the flash message all first responders—police,
fire, and EMTs alike—had received earlier in the day, she knew he was in
trouble. For reasons unknown, the fever associated with this new virus had burned
through him real quickly. A minute, two at most, after the kid had bitten him,
it seemed. Now he was visibly shivering. So seeing the newly arrived security
team, Palazzo went to his side, slid down the building’s pink marble exterior,
and put her arm around the big man. A comforting gesture, for sure. One that
required a measured dose of vigilance, because if the brief from the CDC in Atlanta
had any truth to it—Ken had minutes to live before the effects of the fever on
his brain started the chain reaction within him that would shut down his vital
organs and snuff the life from him. It was the second part of the memo that
troubled Palazzo most and made the vigilance necessary. Because though she had
seen enough of the infected
after
the turn to make her a believer, until
she saw it happen with her own eyes, the shred of doubt she harbored about the
whole process would continue to nag at her. Which could be a problem. Especially
when it came to labeling someone she considered as much a brother as her two
biological ones with the dreaded scarlet letter I.
Infected
. Once you
were, there was no stopping the unnamed virus from running its course.

Palazzo cast her gaze to the men holding the street kids at
bay. Both of them bore marks from the initial takedown. There was a roadmap of
scratches on the construction worker’s arms. Another man who intervened lost
the tip of his finger, whether it was on the ground or had become lunch for one
of the attackers, she hadn’t a clue.

Even before the Humvee had stopped moving, a pair of soldiers
wearing the newer Multi-Cam fatigues and carrying stubby black rifles leaped
from the rear doors and rushed forward with plastic flex-cuffs at the ready. On
the heels of the first two soldiers, a compact man wearing fatigues in the same
camouflage pattern, only his bearing captain’s bars stitched in black, hopped
from the passenger seat. At once the African American captain had the crowd under
control with his booming voice and intimidating body language. After moving the
odd assortment of passersby back and telling them to stay put until his men
could take witness statements, he looped around front of the rig and was met by
his driver, a rock-solid sergeant, who was gazing down the ramp feeding into
the garage.

Nodding his Kevlar helmet in the direction of the incredibly
tall man filling up a good portion of the exit ramp floor to ceiling, the
sergeant said, “Fight’s left that one. He hasn’t moved from that position since
I’ve been watching.”

“Stop right there,” bellowed the captain whose nametape read
Castle
.

The tall man made no reply. His arms hung limply at his
sides. His shoes made scuffing noises as his legs moved in a slow front-to-back
shuffle, but he was going nowhere, and for some reason his head was reared back
as if he was about to belt out a war cry or howl at a nonexistent moon.

Reacting to the recurrent movements, the sergeant shouldered
a stubby rifle and aimed it at the tall redhead.

As another Humvee pulled onto the sidewalk next to the
ambulance whose light bar was still flashing orange and red, the captain waved
the soldiers over and then looked at his driver. “Remember,” he said to
everyone in earshot, “you’ve got to stop aiming for center mass. Unlearn that
shit! Head shots only from here on out. And somebody cut that poor bastard down
if he’s still alive.”

Nods went all around. In unison a couple of the soldiers
said, “Copy that.”

The last part of the lead man’s speech caught Palazzo’s
attention. Rising from her dying partner’s side, she called out, “He’s one of
them now. It’s just that his hair is twisted up in the sprinkler head. Figured
it best to just leave him there and stay clear.”

Having to see it for himself, the captain drew his Beretta
semiautomatic from its drop-thigh holster, clomped down the ramp in his combat
boots, and took up station a yard and a half in front of the odd sight.

“Got yourself in a pickle, did you? he said, clucking his
tongue. “Not once, but twice judging by the feed bag those other two made out
of your neck. I feel kind of sorry for you, fella. At work and minding your own
business. And this unforeseen turn of events falls in your lap.”

Aroused by the nearness of the voice, the thing that used to
be Don Bowen stretched its arms to full extension and with pale probing fingers
brushed the angled stack of extra magazines secured in horizontal pouches on
the front of the captain’s uniform.

Eyes locked on the immobilized creature, Captain Castle
called out, “Corporal Gearhart, get Hitman Actual on the horn and let her know containment
at grid two has failed. I recommend moving the perimeter one klick north, west
and south. See what she says
first
. I don’t want to step on anyone’s
toes here.” He stood there staring at the pallid human shell, ignoring the
steady
scritch, scritch, scritch
of the thing’s nails dragging against his
nylon chest rig. He looked up at the infected’s stretched-out neck. Ignored the
gaping wound exposing muscle and veins and such and instead fixated on the bobbing
of its Adam’s apple as the thing moaned and arched its back in a failed attempt
to gain purchase on the meat it knew was so close.

There was a commotion on the street, but Castle didn’t pay
it any attention. Instead he beckoned a pair of soldiers down the ramp.

“You two make a quick sweep of this garage then seal it up.”

The men nodded and hustled off, M4 rifles held at the high
ready and sweeping the area in front of them.

“And men,” Castle called after them. He tapped two fingers
to his helmet, creating a hollow thunk each time. “Head shots only.”

After nodding in understanding, the men turned back and
disappeared around the corner, into the gloom.

A minute later Gearhart popped his head out of the lead
Humvee and called down, “Message received, Captain. Hitman says we should push
the perimeter two klicks out from the river to grids six on all three sides.”

“Copy that.” Castle turned towards his men. “Listen up,” he
bellowed. “Start processing the witnesses.” He motioned his driver over.
Whispered in his ear and sent him away to fulfill a task.

“And someone please cut this one down and get it and the
rest of whatever those things are up to Pill Hill ASAP. The pointy heads want
as many
live
specimens as they can get their hands on.”

“I don’t think he’s
alive
,” said Palazzo, who had
formed up behind the captain.

“Figure of speech, Ma’am. Shoulda said
fresh
.”

Palazzo screwed up her face. Choking up with emotion, she
said, “My partner, Morgan, just died. You better take him too … before he turns
into one of them.”

There was a hissing of air brakes as a Tri-Met bus being
driven by a soldier pulled abreast of the entrance, blocking in the three
vehicles, two EMTs, six soldiers and all of the civilians—minus two who had
unknowingly become infected and wandered off before Palazzo’s security element
rolled up.

Seeing this, and ignoring the cacophony of pleas to be let
go coming from the civilians, the captain said to Palazzo, “I’m afraid we’re
going to have to commandeer your ambulance. Whoever you work for will be
reimbursed for lost revenue, wear and tear and any damages incurred.”

She said nothing to that as the captain began barking the orders
over the rising babble that started the process of twenty-one civilians being
loaded onto the city bus, Palazzo, still holding her tongue, among them. Morgan,
however, was still propped against the building and had just started the turn.

Blissfully unaware of the excruciating pain the big man was
experiencing, Palazzo walked six rows in and planted her butt on a hard plastic
seat by the window on the driver’s side of the bus. It was a calculated move
that spared her the displeasure of seeing her longtime partner become something
she was still in denial could even exist.

As the bus pulled away from the curb seconds later, Palazzo
saw one of the soldiers drawing down the metal gates to seal off the garage.
Then, as the rear of the bus swung around and came even with the ambulance, she
caught a good glimpse of the two street kids in their black anarchist’s get-ups,
her doomed partner in his newly bloodied uniform, and the incredibly tall parking
attendant. All were laid out on the red brick sidewalk. All were trussed with
flex-cuffs and wore hoods that concealed their faces. All were struggling mightily
and lunging with their hooded heads at the soldiers, who were picking them up
and stacking them one at a time on the ambulance floor at the feet of the pair
of injured good Samaritans.

A protest was forming on Palazzo’s lips, but one look around
at the pissed-off individuals all shanghaied and heading God knows where just
like her made clear that any complaint out of her mouth would fall on deaf
ears.

The ambulance was no longer hers. Her partner was dead, or
as close as it got for the infected. And pissing her off more than losing her
ride, Captain Castle didn’t have the courtesy to answer her question and tell
her where she was being taken. She did, however, hear him say three words to
the driver. And those words—
Lima, Hotel, Sierra
—all spoken in a hushed
monotone meant nothing at all to her.

So she closed her eyes and ran the whole scenario of how
Kenny got bit through her head, coming to the same comforting conclusion as
before: Short of drawing on the street kid and shooting him dead with a gun she
didn’t even have, there was nothing she could have done to change the outcome.