Outbreak (Book 1): Emerald City (16 page)

LUKE

Luke sat with Matt on the last step at the bottom of the concrete stairs and smoked a cigarette. They watched as at least half a dozen zombies crushed their mutilated faces up against the window in the door to Officer Park’s basement apartment. “I’m pretty sure I recognize every one of those guys in there,” Matt said. “We all worked different jobs together. They must have come here to hole up thinking they would outlast the apocalypse.”

Just takes one being infected
, Luke thought.
Locked in together like that, it would have probably been a matter of hours
. He figured they must have all gotten sick at the same time and woke up one morning as zombies. “How does it make you feel that your parole officer didn’t call and invite you to the party?” Luke asked. “That he left you out here to die.”

Matt paused for a second. “Yeah,” he said. “That’s kind of messed up, isn’t it.” He spit on the floor. “Guess it worked out in my favor though.”

Luke nodded. “They stink,” he said. There was a small gap under the door and he could smell the zombies rotting flesh.

“Yeah, they do. Whole city’s starting to smell like that,” Matt said.

"All the more reason to get the hell out of town,” Luke said. “So, how are we going to get them out so we can get in?"

“Hell if I know,” Matt said. “That door opens inward.”

Luke held up his shotgun. “We could just start shooting,” he suggested.

“I don’t know,” Matt said. “That’s a reinforced door.” He rubbed his temples like he was thinking hard and it hurt his head. “Plus it would make an awful lot of noise. Maybe we could rig a trap so when they came up the stairs, they set off an explosive and blow themselves to shit.”

“Sounds like something Ted would like,” Luke said.

“Huh?”

“Nothing,” Luke continued. “There might be a few problems with that plan. That doesn’t help us get the door open, we don’t have any explosives, and the noise would just bring more zombies.”

“Shit. That’s true.” They paused in thought for a minute and watched the zombies through the glass. The zombies smeared blood and filth as they pawed and slapped the glass trying to get at the two of them. It gave Luke a sick feeling in his stomach. “Nasty,” he said.

“Yes they are.”

“How long before they get bored and walk away from the door?” Luke asked.

Matt looked over at Luke. “Do I look like some kind of zombie scientist?” he asked. “How the hell would I know. Probably forever.”

Luke shook his head.
Guy’s temper can turn on a dime,
he thought. They needed to do something to get the keys the zombified Officer Park most likely had in his pocket, but Luke was at a loss. “Is there a back door?” he asked.

“No,” Matt said and paused, thinking. “Not even basement windows. I wish we had a couple grenades or something.”

Luke thought about pointing out that grenades would make more noise than the shotgun, but Matt’s mood was already sour, so Luke didn’t want to push it. He lit a new cigarette, sucked in a breath and then exhaled. He watched the plumb of smoke in the air and had an idea. “How about we smoke them out?” he suggested.

“What? Like the wild west? They look like Indians in there to you?”

“Hey, I’m just thinking out loud,” Luke said.

“Shit,” Matt said. “Ok. Talk to me. What are you thinking?”

Luke decided that was about as much of an apology as Matt gave. “I don’t know. Light a fire, make a smoke screen.”

“And then what?”

“I don't know,” Luke said. “I haven’t gotten that far.”

Matt stared thoughtfully at the zombies on the other side of the glass. “I got it,” he said.

“What?” Luke asked.

Matt stood up and stepped up to the glass. His face was only inches from what had once been Officer Park. “We pour gasoline on the floor, let it leak under the door and we use it to light them up.”

Nasty
, Luke thought.
But feasible. Assuming we don’t burn down the whole damn building.
“I like it,” he said.

“Ha!” Matt laughed. “Our own private ZBQ. It’s perfect. Then all we have to do is wait for the fire to die down and go in and pick up the keys,” he said. “Let’s go get some gasoline.”

They left the zombies pawing at the glass and went upstairs into the garage and looked around for something to start a fire with. Matt pointed toward one corner of the building. “Over there,” he said. “I saw a couple fifty gallon drums. Let’s see if there is anything in them.”

Luke went over and knocked on one of the barrels. It was full of fuel. “Score,” he said and tilted the barrel onto its edge to begin to roll it over to the stairs. It was heavy as hell but together they aligned it at the top. “I don’t know if we are going to be able to carry this down,” Luke said.

“How much you figure this son of a bitch weighs?” Matt asked.

“Hell if I know,” Luke replied. “A few hundred pounds, easy.”

“Shit,” Matt said. “How about we just roll it down?”

Luke thought on that for a moment. “If we lose it, I bet it will go straight through that door.”

“Yeah,” Matt agreed. “Probably not the best plan.”

Luke looked down the stairs and into the gloom. He could just make out the zombies watching them through the glass.
Going to cook you, you nasty bastards
, he thought.

“Let’s get this done,” Matt said and stood on one side of the barrel.

“Yep,” Luke agreed and took the other side. Together they dropped the drum down one step.

“Good Lord,” Matt said. “How many steps are there?”

“You don’t want to know,” Luke joked and then realized they had a problem. “Hold up,” he said. “If we get this down there, and then pour gas under the door, how are we going to get the barrel back up?”

Matt looked at Luke, clearly not understanding. “This barrel has something like fifty gallons of gas in it,” Luke continued. “If that all explodes, this whole building will go up.”

“To hell with that,” Matt said. “So, what do we do?”

Luke paused for a second.
Damn, we are stupid
, he thought. “Help me get this back up,” he said, and together they lifted and pushed the drum back up the one step.

“So?” Matt asked and put his hands on his lower back.

“One second,” Luke said and went to look around the garage. It was growing dark and it was hard to see. He needed a container, something small to pour gas from the barrel into. That way they could dump a couple gallons of gas under the door, and not deal with the whole barrel. While he searched, he nearly tripped over a handcart that was obviously meant for moving the barrels. He wanted to slap himself.
Could have used that ten minutes ago,
he thought and made a mental note of where it was in case they needed it later. He kept looking around and found a two gallon plastic jug of weed killer. He dumped the contents out onto the floor and as the last drop spilled out, he wondered if the weed killer was more flammable than the gasoline. He decided he was better off not even knowing. He had made enough stupid mistakes in the last hour as it was.

With the empty jug in hand, he went back to Matt who was waiting impatiently by the barrel. “Took you long enough,” he said.

Kiss my ass
, Luke thought, but kept his mouth shut. “Sorry, hard to find shit in the dark,” he said. “Help me out.” They twisted off the seal on the pour spout of the barrel and then tipped the thing to try and get gas into the jug. Fuel went everywhere but eventually the container was full enough. Together they took the jug down the stairs and Matt supervised as Luke poured the fuel onto the floor and under the door. The zombies either didn’t notice or didn’t care. When the jug was empty, Luke looked at Matt. “What do you think?” he asked. “One more?”

“Shit no,” Matt said. “We have so much gasoline everywhere we’ll be lucky to get out of this without being BBQ ourselves.” Luke had to agree. Their great plan was proving to be a pain in the ass and now he realized they had a new problem.

“How are we going to light this?” Luke asked.

“Jesus!” Matt said running a hand down his face. “Hell if I know? Why can’t we just use your lighter?”

“It’s not the kind that will stay lit and I sure as hell am not going to kneel down in the puddle of gas and light it. We need something we can light and throw down there,” he said.

“Okay … what about one of your cigarettes?” Matt asked.

Luke sighed. “That only works in the movies,” he replied.

“You’re shitting me,” Matt said.

“Nope,” Luke said. “Had a pyro friend back home, played with gasoline and flammables all the time. He proved it to me. Even made a video of it.”

“Probably not the best idea,” Matt said.

“That’s true. I’m sure he’s dead now anyway. Let’s look around.”

“This is a stupid problem to have,” Matt said as he started fumbling through the shelves of car parts. “Jesus it’s dark in here.”

Luke looked for something to light on fire that would stay lit when he threw it down the stairs. Then he saw the tow truck. “Hey!” he called out to Matt. “Where would they put road flares in the truck?” Matt snapped his fingers and went to the vehicle. He opened the driver’s side door and pushed the seat forward. He took out a box and opened it to reveal a caution sign and three flares. “Perfect,” Luke said and took one of the flares. The two of them walked back over to the top of the stairs and looked down at the door.

“Do it,” Matt encouraged. He was grinning like a teenage kid about to do something bad. Luke knew how he felt. He popped the end of the flare and it hissed to life. Not knowing how a flare worked, if it would go out soon or if it would ignite the gasoline at all, he tossed it down the stairs.

With a
WHOOSH
the gasoline ignited and a ball of smoke roared up the stairway. Luke and Matt both dove to the floor of the shop and rolled for cover. Laughing, they crawled over to look down the stairway. Through the smoke they could just see through the glass. Inside the apartment was a raging inferno. The zombies were twisting and contorting themselves in death spasms. What was once Officer Park threw himself against the door. Luke did not know if zombies felt pain, but from the way Officer Park was freaking the hell out, Luke guessed they did. It looked like it hurt and it hurt a lot.

Matt slapped Luke on the back. “Nice work man,” he said. “Now all we have to do is --“

Sprinklers throughout the garage came bursting on followed by a ringing fire alarm that began to shrill. Matt and Luke stared at each other.
Oh, shit,
Luke thought. He picked up Matt’s sledge hammer and ran around in the sprinkling rain looking for the source of the alarm. He found it hanging and ringing from one of the cinderblock walls.
Goddamn thing must be battery powered,
he thought. Not wanting to waste time looking for a switch, Luke hammered it straight off of the wall. It would not stop ringing, so he stood over it and pounded the living shit out of it with Matt’s hammer until it finally shut off.

Matt came over and stood next to Luke. “Son of a bitch,” Matt said and looked up as the sprinklers stopped running and the two of them stood dripping wet in the middle of the garage. Luke grinned. He could not believe the shit he was doing. Back before the outbreak, he worked in an office and made spreadsheets on a computer all day.

CLARK

Clark sat in the cafeteria and contemplated making what would probably be the biggest mistake of his life. It was late and the cafeteria was mostly empty. He was passing the time by talking with a very young soldier named Private Conley. Conley had just gotten off guard duty and was in a chatty mood. The soldier was upset he had missed all of the “action” earlier. Clark thought about explaining to the kid the “action” felt to him like hell on Earth, but in the end, he didn’t see the point. Instead, he just let the guy talk. Besides, Clark was exhausted. He had endured some long days in medical school, but nothing compared to the day he had just survived.

Private Conley spoke nonstop between shoveling down mouthfuls of ice cream. He had transitioned from complaining about missing the early fighting to explaining about the base itself. The soldier said it was built on Mercer Island because it was near the center of Seattle and once the apocalypse began, the military looked for locations with natural defenses. Mercer Island was identified as the most defensible place in the city because lurkers could only reach it by bridge. “Mostly residential originally,” Conley said with a full mouth. “But pretty much everybody here died so the military leveled the houses, cleared out all of the leftover lurkers and turned one of the parks into an air strip. There was a junior college here and we converted it into a military base.” Clark agreed with the military's choice. Having a place with a cafeteria, lots of rooms for sleeping, and easy road access was convenient. “Me, I like the site because the place has a kick ass weight room. I hit that place every day, even with lurkers right outside the fences,” Conley continued.
To each their own
, Clark thought and stood up. It was time to go find General Dodge and make his big mistake.

“Nice chatting with you, Conley,” Clark said. “I need to go see the general.”

“You know the way?” Conley asked.

“Yes, I do. Thanks,” Clark replied and found his way to the general’s office. Luckily, the man was there. Clark hadn’t been sure if he would be after the mess in the parking lot earlier. He imagined there was a lot to get straightened out. Clark knocked and was let in.

“General Dodge,” he said. “I would like you to write up orders for Rocha to take me to the hospital.”

“You sure about that?” Dodge asked.

Clark had no idea how Rocha would feel about the orders, but Rocha did tell him that word had to come from his superiors. Going straight up the chain of command to General Dodge had seemed the fastest route. “Of course,” Clark replied.

“Okay,” the general said. “But Rocha is short a partner and after today’s cluster in the parking lot, I don’t have anyone to send with him. You’ll need to go with Rocha to watch his back.” Clark frowned at the announcement. He was not truly surprised, but he did not like the idea of going into the field. Still, he needed the paperwork on the patient and if the only way he was going to get it was to go himself, then that is what he would do.

“I will admit," Clark said. "I’m very much okay with waiting for you to find Rocha another partner and have them go get what I need.”

Dodge laughed and leaned back in his chair. “Fat chance,” he said. “We’re losing this war, you know. Pretty soon I’m going to be sending out the cooks on missions. It’s up to you. Sit down and write up what you need and I’ll sign it. But, listen up. I’m also leaving the final decision to Rocha. If he isn’t comfortable putting his life in your hands, then the orders will be null and void. Got it?”

“Got it,” Clark said.

“Good,” the General continued. “Feel free to use my desk.”

Clark typed up a memo on the general’s vintage manual typewriter. He wrote that he needed Rocha to arrange for transportation, escort him to the hospital, and to show him where he had found the patient the first time. Rocha was then to protect him so that he could collect evidence and then bring him back to the base. Just as he finished, the lights went out. “General?” he asked.

“Don’t worry about it,” Dodge said. “Happens more than it should. Probably just something wrong with the generators.” Clark heard Dodge rooting around and then a flashlight came on. “Let me see what you have here.”

Clark unspooled the paper out of the typewriter and set it on the desk. Dodge read it and made a notation at the end that the mission was Priority Charlie. “What does that mean?” Clark asked after he read the addition. “Is that a big deal?”

Dodge signed the paper and handed it back to Clark. “It just identifies the priority of your mission. If you are in the field and a Priority Alpha or Bravo comes over the wire, you will be reassigned.”
Reassigned?
Clark thought.
Why don’t I like the sound of that?
He was pretty sure he did not want to go into the hospital in the first place, much less be reassigned in the middle of the mission.

“Does that happen a lot?” he asked.

“Almost never,” Dodge said.

“Well that's good,” Clark said and pointed at Dodge’s flashlight. “Mind if I use this to go find Rocha?”

“Not at all,” Dodge said, handing it to him. “I have a spare. You know where you are going?”

“No idea.”

“Special Ops guys moved into the dorm beside the cafeteria. You can’t miss it.”

Finding the building was easy enough, but there were no room numbers and nothing was labeled, so Clark knocked on the first door and was directed to the end of the hall. Clark went to the door where Rocha lived and knocked. “It’s open!” he heard Rocha call out and Clark opened the door. Rocha had a kerosene camping lantern burning on a nightstand and was sitting next to a massive amount of military equipment laid out on his bunk in all stages of assembly. Rocha was cleaning something with a rag that looked to have been soaked in grease. There were rope, knives, two curved machetes, food, canteens, bullets, and …
grenades?
Clark thought. All he could do was stand in the doorway and stare.

“Are those real?” Clark asked as he pointed at the explosives.

“Damn straight,” Rocha replied in a tone that was far too casual in Clark’s opinion. “Come in, have a seat. Don’t worry about the grenades. It’s the C-4 that would really blow this place to shit.”

Clark felt his mouth drop open. He did not want to sit down. He wanted to run screaming down the hallway. The idea of being blown up scared the shit out of him. Closing his mouth, he watched Rocha set down the part he had been cleaning. He had everything laid out in neat little rows on a towel. He wiped his hands on a different towel and looked expectantly at Clark. “So,” he said. “What's the scoop?”

“I wanted to talk to you more about the guy you brought in,” Clark said. “The one who was resistant to the infection.”

“Ok,” Rocha said and picked up another piece of metal and began to wipe it down.

Clark decided he would sit down after all and stepped into the room and took a chair. The whole room was small, but Clark still pushed the chair as far away from the explosives as possible. He caught Rocha half smiling, but ignored it. Military guys might be comfortable around explosives which could level buildings, but it did not mean he had to be.

“So, uh,” Clark said. “It’s been confirmed. The guy was definitely bitten and was for sure carrying the virus.”

Rocha leaned back on his bunk. “Wow,” he said. “That’s good, right? That means guys like you can study him and then develop a cure.”

Clark rubbed his face with both hands. It had been a long day. “That’s the plan,” he said. “But we don’t really know why he was resistant. The only thing unusual about the guy is that he had a certain blood type.”

“Ok,” Rocha said. “So, what’s special about his blood?”

“It’s called B-negative. It’s rare. So rare that there isn’t any in stock to work with. I talked to the general and he’s been having Command radio everyone on the grid to see if they have any they can spare. They also sent out one of those choppers with leaflets asking civilians to come in to donate blood.”

“I’ve seen those leaflets. Those really supposed to work?”

“I have no idea. I can’t really imagine there are any survivors out there who would be willing to come out of hiding right now.”

“Kind of grim,” Rocha said. “So, why not just ask the guy what’s different about his situation?”

“Unfortunately, we can’t,” Clark said. “He passed away.”

“Shit. Was it something we did wrong?”

“No. No, there was serious head trauma. From what I read, it was a miracle he lived as long as he did and he was lucky just to make the trip in from this hospital.”

“That sucks,” Rocha said. He slid off his bunk, stood up, and stretched. He was in a t-shirt and sweats and while Clark did not consider himself much of an athlete, he always thought of himself as “in shape”. But, compared to Rocha, he was a proverbial ninety-eight pound weakling. The soldier was a huge mass of muscle with a neck that looked to be the same size around as Clark’s thigh.

“So, if it’s not too personal, what happened at the hospital?” Clark asked.

“We ran into a cell,” he said.

“Like a terrorist cell?”

“Same idea. That’s just what someone started calling the clusters of lurkers.”

“I read about clusters,” Clark said. “Oddly enough, it was one of the main factors which lead to the global outbreak. At the beginning of the apocalypse, before the infection was widespread, masses of people would come together and hide. They would hoard food and barricade themselves in. Then one person would come down with the infection. Either they had it before they went into hiding or they would eat contaminated food. The disease has an unusually long germination period and once it finds a host, it spreads quickly. There are reports of entire cities being wiped out in forty eight hours.”

“I’ve seen it,” Rocha said. “I’ve been assigned to clear out office buildings, churches, schools, prisons, a football stadium … everywhere people were used to coming together. Once they were all infected, those who did not die became lurkers but were no longer smart enough to tear down their own barricade and would do nothing but stand around. Think about it. A mob of lurkers clustered together in the dark. First eating the dead but then growing hungrier and hungrier. Whenever possible, we would be assigned to come in before the lurkers figured out how to get out. I’ve slaughtered entire cell clusters with explosives, fire, flooding, or the good old standby, one shot one kill.”

They both sat in silence for a minute. The idea of so much death was overwhelming. Finally Rocha shook his head, popped the joints in his neck and changed the subject. “They ever figure out where ground zero was?” he asked.

“Yes,” Clark said. This information was in a classified report among Clark’s documents back on the ship. He shouldn’t talk about it, but given the state of the world, Clark did not see any reason not to declassify the information.
Who the hell would Rocha tell anyway?
he wondered. “It all started with the wrong person in the wrong place at the wrong time. Some lab guy at a pharmaceutical company got infected with the virus while he was working on it. He went home feeling sick, passed it to his wife, who happened to work at a popular food counter at Los Angeles International Airport. She served food to thousands of passengers, pilots, and flight attendants, many of whom were on international flights. These people in turn passed the disease around the world. After that, it was all over.”

“Unbelievable.”

Clark nodded. "Tell me about it,” he said and held up the paperwork in his hand. “Anyway, I got you new orders.”

“I kind of figured that was why you were here,” Rocha said. “Let me see.” Clark handed him the paper. “Back to the hospital?” Rocha asked as he glanced over the memo.

“Yes. I need to collect whatever documentation they have on the patient.”

“You need to collect?” Rocha asked. Clark was afraid Rocha would put that together. He knew what he needed to say, but he could not physically open his mouth to say it. He could only stare at Rocha. “Really?” Rocha asked. “You’re going on this mission?” Clark could only nod. “Don’t worry about it,” Rocha said. “The place has already been cleared. Should be a piece of cake. Plus, you will only have one job.”

“Ok,” Clark replied. “What’s that?”

“I’m going to be worried about everything in front of us, plus what we encounter to the left and the right. I need it to be your job to make sure that no one, human or otherwise, sneaks up behind us.”

“Behind us,” Clark said. “Got it.”

“Good,” Rocha continued. “As we clear the hospital, every couple of steps, take a look back to make sure it’s safe.”

No problem.
“Ok,” Clark said. “I can do that.”

“Most importantly, don’t get separated from me,” Rocha said.

Clark had no intention of leaving Rocha’s side. They would be stuck like glue. “I won’t. Anything else?“ Clark asked.

“Not that I can think of, but shit always comes up.”

“Like what?”

“Who knows,” Rocha said. “Adapt and go. It’s what we do. When do we leave?”

Adapt and go …
Clark suddenly had second thoughts about making this trip but he knew it was too late to turn back now. “First chopper in the morning,” he said.