Pavlov's Dogs (15 page)

Kelly’s head dropped again.

“I’m sure Jorge is fine,” Ken said, looking away. “He’s too stubborn to die. And that’s something you should know about him. Are you listening to me?”

Faintly, she nodded her head.

“Good. Jorge was—
is
one stubborn son of a bitch, and if he didn’t want to do something, he didn’t do it. Do you see what I’m saying here?”

Kelly sniffed.

Ken reached out and touched her shoulder. “What I’m saying is, Jorge had a choice. And he chose to give you his seat. It wasn’t anybody’s fault.” A hint of a grin crept onto his face. “If you’re looking to blame somebody, you should probably blame me. I was driving, right?”

The girl looked up at him. “Thank you,” she said.

He watched her walk away. He hadn’t lied to her, but he hadn’t told her everything. She blamed herself, and so had he, at least at first. Not anymore, of course, but it wouldn’t do Kelly any harm if he kept that to himself.

Ken resumed his pacing on the roof. Dunne and Landis did a shift change, and the afternoon came and went, the sun tracing a very slow arc through the sky.

After several long hours of watching people talk about nothing—once they’d ascertained the safety and wellbeing of their loved ones—Ken finally was next in line to use the radio. He snatched the set from Landis.

“Jorge,” he said into the microphone. “I’m looking for a guy named Jorge, he’s about—”

“
He’s here,”
the radio operator said.
“Been here at my shoulder, annoying the piss out of me.”

A beaming smile split Ken’s face. “That would be him.”

’

Jorge elbowed Winchester through the fence. “Is that him?”

“Stop that,” Winchester said. “And yes. Here you go.”

Snatching the headset from the radioman, Jorge put it on and sat in a folding chair. “Ken! Holy shit, dude, I’m so happy.”

“
Me, too, buddy. Have you heard anything about Marie or the kids?”

Jorge blew out a breath. “Man, let me tell you. Marie is all messed up. The kids were in Mexico with her mom when everything went down. Marie hasn’t heard anything from them since. Oh, and she got a new man—”

“
Oh, shit. Sorry.”

“
No te preocupes
. It didn’t last. One of these
cabrones
threw him to the dead, man. You believe that shit?”

“
What?”

“Yeah. One of the Dogs just
threw
him to the dead; he’d been bitten. That was the story they fed us anyway.”

“
I can’t... and the rest of them were
fine
with this?”

Jorge shifted in his seat. “No. They’ve disciplined him, but no one knows what that means. None of
us
, at any rate. Hey, so you did good, huh? There’s a bunch of you guys.”

“
We did all right. We got pretty lucky, finding a way into this place. There was some food and a bunch of first aid stations.”

“
Andale
. Good job, holmes.”

“
You made it too, man. Good job too.”

The conversation trailed off for a second.

Then Ken said,
“Jorge, listen—”

“Ken, I—”

They both stopped when they realized the other had something to say.

Sitting next to Jorge, Winchester cleared his throat and shifted in his chair, clearly uncomfortable to be privy to the conversation, and to the awkward silence in between.

“
Go ahead,”
Ken said.
“Over.”

Jorge shook his head. “No, you first, bro, um...”

“
Jorge, I just—”

“Over.”

“
What? What’s over?”

“Oop, sorry. Just saying
over
.”

“
Well, I just wanted to say that before all this happened, you know that things for me were...”

“Yeah, I know, Ken. Over.”

“
And I just, I wanted to tell you... what I mean to say is—what the hell?!”

Jorge almost barked out a laugh. But then he realized by the tone of Ken’s voice that he was serious. “Hey, I was kind of expecting an apology here, bro.”

“
Shit, Jorge, no—I wasn’t... Hey, can you hold for just a—Jesus, what the hell is
that?”

The headset emitted a burst of static, and Jorge winced and brushed it off his head. Immediately, he put it back on.

“Ken? Ken?!”

JORGE’S EYES BUGGED OUT in horror as the sounds of screams and gunfire come over the radio. “Ken!” He slapped the earpiece of the headset.

Curious, Winchester flipped a switch, and the cacophony of moans and automatic fire jumped out of some speakers on his console. His eyes widened, and he grabbed for the walkie-talkie on his belt. “Q-Comms to Radio, come in.”

“
Go ahead.”

The other survivors, who had been milling around and chatting about their talks, turned to look.

Smaller pops went off, followed again by the staccato gunfire of the Dogs’ submachine guns. A voice—Jorge knew it was Ken’s—yelled out “
Oh, Jesus—
”

Static poured from the speakers, and Winchester slapped the console. The needle, once floating in the green, now rested at zero. Winchester tapped the gauge with his forefinger, and the needle jumped, but then settled again at zero.

“Alert the director. There’s an issue on the mainland. Over.”

“
Wilco.”

Jorge hit the fence. “What the hell?”

Winchester shook his head. “I don’t know. I’m sorry.” He pulled the radio headset from Jorge’s hands and reeled it in. As he wrapped the cord, he looked up at the crowd. “I’m so sorry. The connection has been lost.”

“What do you mean, lost?” Jorge yelled. The other survivors began to gather behind him against the fence. “You’re the go-to radio guy, right? Get it back!”

Retreating from the barrier, Winchester shook his head. “It doesn’t work that way. They’re not transmitting. They’re—” He broke off, looking away from the crowd. “I’m going back to the comms shack. Maybe I’ll get something there.” He took off at a jog, leaving the distraught crowd behind him.

“Hey!” Jorge yelled. “Come back here.
Come
back!
”

’

Donovan stood outside Command, knocking on the thick metal door. He eyed the retinal scanner and scowled. One more detail to remember. He felt jittery, as if his insides were vibrating like plucked harp strings. Alpha McLoughlin and the rest of the Dogs were off to the mainland, and there wouldn’t be a better time.

“
Yes?
” Crispin said over the intercom.

Turning to smile at the speaker, even though there was no camera, Donovan said, “Director! I was wondering if you wouldn’t mind my company during the rescue mission today. I’m still working through the Dogs’ kinesthetics, and I think seeing more of them in motion in the field would—”

The door clicked and popped open an inch.

“Thank you,” Donovan said, closing the door behind him. “I know the Dogs won’t be on the mainland for a little while yet, but... what is that?”

The radio crackled as Donovan asked the question.

“
Director, Radio, come in.”

Donovan drew up next to Crispin, who was biting the first knuckle on his right fist and staring at the touchscreen in front of him. Donovan looked at the labels on the two video feeds currently featured:
Dunne
and
Landis
.

On both screens, rifle barrels pointed out from a first-person perspective, spitting fire as they swept back and forth.

Crispin picked up the radio. “I’m seeing it. Thank you. Keep this channel clear.”

“Is this another training scenario?” Donovan asked.

“They’re under
attack
,” Crispin said. “They’re under attack, and I don’t understand
how
. From the initial reports, the North Regional building was fortified.” He slapped the console. “How did the zombies get in?”

Onscreen, the dead staggered through the roof access and into the Dogs’ line of fire. They came in all shapes, all sizes. An extremely fat woman waddled in a floral-print muumuu, holding her gargantuan arms out in front of her, dragging dark coils on the ground between her feet. Dunne sprayed her, and bullet holes stitched her from massive belly to flabby shoulder. Another line appeared from chin to forehead. She fell in slow motion, almost majestically, holes spilling out curds of fatty tissue; and then she lay still as other undead predators stepped all over her, pressing out more bloody curds.

“Where are they now?” Donovan asked. “Is that the roof?”

“Yes. They were up there to get a better radio signal.”

Donovan’s eyes widened. “The zombies made it to the
roof?”

Crispin shook his head. “That should have been impossible. But there it is. Jesus Lord, most of those people aren’t even armed. If the Dogs don’t dam that doorway, they’re all done for.” He slapped the console again. “Come on, Dunne, pull it together!”

Snapping his fingers, Crispin pulled the keyboard from under the console and started typing, fingers dancing on the keys. “Yah-hah! I know what they need. Situation’s a little too real, so... adjust endorphins, serotonin levels, all right. Spike
this
, dial back the adrenaline...” He looked back up at the screen. “How’s that, you magnificent bastards?”

The screen showed the change through the Dogs’ eyes. Dunne finished one magazine and the first-person view shifted down as he swapped it out and switched his gun to single-shot. Then the whole picture lurched and went lower. At first, Donovan thought the Dog had gone down, but the picture leveled quickly.

“Attaboy,” Crispin said. “He took a knee. Controlled shots. One at a time.” He picked up his microphone and set a switch to GROUP A.

“Master to Alpha. Upon arrival on the mainland, proceed
directly
to North Regional. Dunne and Landis need you there.”

In Landis’s peripheral vision, Donovan caught a glimpse of a large man with a correspondingly large revolver, calmly shooting at the undead.

Landis shifted his tactics to match Dunne’s, and the picture stopped jumping as much. The dead were still coming, as quickly as they piled up on either side of the doorway.

“It’s like the Hydra,” Crispin said, chewing one of his nails.

Donovan clucked as he watched the dead amass against the small band of humans on the roof.

Survivors? Not anymore.

He watched as the big guy reloaded his revolver, and then the man stepped back, out of Landis’s field of vision.

The neurotech surveyed the scene from both Dogs’ perspectives. Clearly the Alpha Dog’s rescue force would be too late to help anybody. Just as well. Donovan had been wondering how they would be able to accommodate the next group of survivors, and now it looked as if all that fretting was for nothing.

He patted Crispin’s shoulder.

“Excuse me, Doctor. I think I... left the kettle on.”

Crispin waved his hand, totally engrossed in the unfolding carnage onscreen. He reached for his keyboard and began typing again.

Donovan walked to the secure entrance and looked around the room. He stared for a moment back at Crispin, banging away at the keyboard.

Fool
, he thought.
So close to being great, shackled by the chains of your own limited perceptions. Oh well. All the better for me.

He slapped the door release, and the door opened on Theta Kaiser. Donovan stepped back and bowed, waving the shirtless Dog inside. The Theta laughed once and stepped into the room.

Dr. Crispin, hearing this, turned from the control panel. His eyes fell immediately on Kaiser. “What the hell are you doing, Donovan? The Dogs aren’t allowed in here, that one in particu—”

Baring his sharp, sharp teeth, Kaiser growled deep in his chest and advanced on the project director.

“
HEY,”
JORGE SAID over the radio,
“I was kind of expecting an apology here, bro.”

Ken grimaced, plugging his ear so he could hear over the racket coming from the stairwell. “Shit, Jorge, no—I wasn’t... Hey, can you hold for just a—” He glanced at the stairwell access and almost dropped the mic. “Jesus, what the hell is
that
?!”

Landis turned at Ken’s exclamation and leapt out of his seat, bringing the bullpup P90 to bear. The rooftop access door hung open, and a walking corpse stood there. It reached out and moaned, and Landis fired a burst of full-auto, scything the zombie in half.

Dunne dropped his water bottle and leveled his submachine gun as more zombies came out onto the rooftop. Together, the Dogs rained lead into the growing horde, and before long, both guns clicked empty.