SURVIVORS OF THE DEAD: FROM THE ASHES (8 page)

Taking advantage of the momentary distraction, Harry pulled the Glock and put a round into the zombie’s face point
blank, which blew most of the head from its shoulders, and unfortunately taking the ASP with.

“Asshole
! I really liked that stick! ” Harry said, looking back at the headless body as he continued to jog to the station which was now just a few yards in front of him.

Central Station
was a bulky four- story over lobby building, very linear, fortress-like and blockish, with a façade mostly of concrete. Built in the 1960’s, the style of the building was referred to as Brutalist, or Modernist, architecture. This style came about for government buildings, low-rent housing and shopping centers in order to create functional structures at a low cost.

Critics of this style
of architecture found it unappealing due to its cold appearance, projecting an image of totalitarianism, as well as the association of the buildings with urban decay due to façades usually weathering poorly. This certainly described the visual appearance of Central Station. Being one of the oldest district stations in the City, and closest to the Bay and the consistent sea air, it needed constant maintenance on its façade to repair cracks.

There
were four entrances into the station: a garage level and the main entrance on the Vallejo Street side, and a garage and prisoner entrance on the Emery Lane side, which was just a narrow alleyway on the east side of the building. Harry saw immediately that the Vallejo garage roll door was down, so he assumed the main entrance would be secured. He continued to jog around the building onto Emery Lane. He hoped that he could somehow gain entrance on that side.

As he got closer to the doors which
were toward the end of the building, he slowed to a walk, scanning the area for any threats. Emery was a very narrow alley so there was only police vehicle parking allowed, and at the moment he only saw two radio cars alongside the building. One of them looked very clean, as if it had been recently detailed. The other, however, looked as if it had just been driven down Main Street in Hell. It was covered in what appeared to be drying blood, along with bits and pieces of flesh and hair. The left side windows were all completely broken out, and as he passed the front he saw both headlights were gone. Both the front and rear ends were severely damaged, but what really caught Harry’s attention was the arm protruding from between the front push bar and the grill. He could only imagine what had happened to this car.

13

Continuing past the cars, he cautiously approached the prisoner entrance and pulled on the door, which was normally electrically locked and could only be opened from inside the station. To his surprise, the door easily pulled open. Apparently the backup generator for the building was down; even though the electricity in this part of the City had been out for several days, this door should not have been unsecured. He entered, closing the door quietly, then turned the inside manual lock to secure it.

The area
in which he stood now was like a sally port in a jail. There was the exterior door, which he had just locked, and then another door directly in front of him which allowed entry into the booking area. This sally port controlled access to the station proper. Harry approached the second door and also found it unlocked. He began to think the building had been abandoned, because this door also had a manual lock that obviously had not been used.

W
hen he entered the booking area, he was surprised to find the emergency lighting on, which meant the generator was in fact operational; otherwise, he would have walked into pitch blackness. The feeling of not being alone in this building instantly hit Harry. He immediately drew his Glock, crouched down, and listened.

Satisfied
that there were no imminent threats, Harry moved toward the hallway with his weapon locked forward and looking down the sights. The direction he looked was where the weapon was pointed. Entering the hallway, where doors on either side led to various offices, conference rooms, and storage rooms, he slowly and quietly walked to the end, then turned to his right.

This took him to
another short hallway, with only one door at the end, and he immediately walked up to that door and put an ear against it. He couldn’t hear anything from the other side, so he grasped the doorknob and turned it; once again, to his surprise and dismay, he found it unlocked. This door led into the station armory, and finding it unlocked was not a good sign.

As he entered
the brightly lit room, he saw empty racks where weapons should have been. There were still several shotguns, but what brought an immediate smile to Harry’s face were the three Colt AR-15A3 tactical rifles in the furthest rack at the rear of the room. That was his reason for coming to the station. This was the heavy firepower he was looking for, although without ammunition for the ARs they were just pieces of aluminum alloy and synthetic materials.

Turning to his right
, he walked up to the large steel reinforced door of the ammo locker. This was actually a medium-sized room that contained the live ammunition, less-than-lethal rounds for the shotguns, a few riot shields, and other pieces of equipment. What he needed to find was the 5.56 mm ammo for the ARs. He quickly discovered that the door was locked.

Okay, I knew it wouldn’t be that easy, so now I
…
Harry didn’t get to finish that thought as a shout from directly behind him interrupted it.

“FREEZE, POLICE! SHOW ME HANDS!
DO IT NOW!” This command appeared to come from someone very young. The shaky male voice cracked a bit, like a kid just going through puberty. It was obvious whoever Squeaky Voice might be, he was at the armory door, and he was scared.

“I’m a police officer
,” Harry replied, beginning to turn. “My ID is in my pocket, so if you’ll allow me …”

“I SAID
DON’T FUCKING MOVE AND SHOW ME YOUR HANDS GODDAMN IT OR YOU’RE DONE!” Squeaky Voice said.

Harry had raised his hands immediately with the first command, but this second
command actually made him laugh. “Are you serious? Who says ‘
or you’re done’
for Christ-sake!” Harry said to the person behind him. He knew this was a dangerous situation, but he couldn’t control the outburst. He realized it probably hadn’t helped.

“
Listen,” Harry continued in a calm voice as he tried to defuse the situation. “As you can see, my weapon is holstered, and if you will allow me to remove my ID from my right rear pocket we can step this all down a bit.”

“NO YOU LISTEN!
I GAVE YOU A LAWFUL ORDER AND I EXPECT YOU TO COMPLY!” Squeaky Voice was beginning to piss Harry off.

“O
kay Slick, a little lesson here. If you are going to order a suspect to ‘comply’, have a fucking idea what compliance you are seeking! You ordered me to ‘
freeze
’ – done. You ordered me to ‘
show you my hands
’ – done. NOW WHAT THE FUCK DO WE DO NEXT?” Harry finally shouted the last in frustration as he remained facing the door with his hands up at shoulder level.

“I DON’T KNOW WHO YOU ARE BUT THIS IS A POLICE STATION!
HOW THE FUCK DID YOU GET INTO A POLICE STATION AND INTO A SECURED WEAPONS ARMORY?” Squeaky continued, still shouting.

Harry’s angst was growing by the second with this bullshit. “I have identified myself as a police officer, so that should answer both of
your questions, and since you are seriously beginning to piss me off, I think this little chat is over!”

Just as he finished
speaking, Squeaky racked a shell into what was obviously a shotgun. Harry’s sphincter constricted so tightly at that sound he thought he would only be able to shit rabbit pellets for a month. That is, if he didn’t get his head blown off first by this twit. He was certain this guy would shoot any moment and he needed to respond quickly.

Just as
Harry was deciding if he could pull his weapon and dive for cover, a second voice joined the conversation. A slow, deliberate, commanding voice that you would always remember once heard; a unique deep bass of a voice.

“Yeah, that old man
isn’t a real cop anymore. He had to retire because of his advanced age and because the department wouldn’t allow him afternoon naps. I also heard working interfered with his evening programming of Wheel of Fortune and Jeopardy. Oh, he plays at it on the weekends, but that doesn’t really count, does it,
old man
?” That last bit was directed at Harry.

“
But I’d make a suggestion here, Rook. I’d probably lower that Rem you are holding on that
old man
before he takes it away from you and shoves it so far up your ass that your tonsils become the barrel sight. While you’re at it, you might want to keep your damn voice down!” Deep Voice said this time directly at Squeaky.

But
Harry knew that voice. Dropping his head slightly and experiencing relief so profound he almost sobbed, he said, “Yeah, well, you’d better remember that due to my advanced age, sudden shock could cause me to have a heart attack. I sure as hell don’t want your ugly mug giving me mouth to mouth!”

Turning
, Harry watched his friend Derrick Washington, wearing the black jumpsuit with the muted-color sleeve patches and sewn-on cloth star that identified him as a SWAT officer, enter the room and approach, closing the short distance between them. Harry grasped Derrick’s outstretched hand, pulling him in for a quick one-armed hug.

“Jesus Derry
, it’s really damn good to see you, man,” he said with no small amount of emotion.

14

The first time he had met Derrick Washington was when a group of new rookies had been assigned FTOs, Derrick being assigned to Harry. It was not often that Harry was at eye level with someone, but this mountain of a man not only could look him straight in the eyes, he could probably bench press him with little effort. This huge African American guy who approached him on that first day of assignment stood 6’5”, and was 240 pounds of solid muscle. With his smoothly shaven head, at first glance he reminded Harry very much of a younger version of the actor Ving Rhames, and that deep bass voice only confirmed the impression.

Derrick Washington was a natural
as a police officer, and every FTO he rotated through during his first several weeks in the department, including Harry, gave him the highest of reviews. He was a natural on the streets and developed a good reputation within the neighborhoods he worked. He had a firm knowledge of police procedures almost from the first day, as if he had been working the streets for years. His size also beguiled a hidden talent that more than once had surprised a few folks who thought they could outrun this hulk of a man. Derrick was fast!

Harry had witnessed several foot chases in which a suspect would suddenly bolt like a bat out of hell with Derrick hot on their heels, surely thinking that they were home free, only to be suddenly tackled and taken down.
Harry had to chuckle at times seeing the expressions of pure astonishment on a suspect’s face, as they tried to figure how this huge man had caught them.

Derrick was one the most intelligent
and qualified people Harry had ever met; he was also a genuinely nice guy with a heart as huge as one of his biceps – at first glance, those biceps seemingly the size of a normal average man’s thigh. He completed a Masters in criminology, had graduated top of his academy class, and had recently enrolled in Golden Gate University’s law program. Derrick had always talked about becoming an attorney but maintained that any lawyer, whether defense or prosecution, should spend time as a street cop to understand all levels of the judicial process.

Derrick Washington had been accepted into the SWA
T program five years prior, becoming a sniper who could put a round downrange with awesome accuracy, although most of the squad wanted him to remain on the breaching team. “Hell, we don’t even need the Stinger Ram with Derry since he just busts doors open with a fist,” his team had jokingly agreed when he was offered the sniper position, one of the most essential positions in this highly specialized police unit. Although the center of many jokes about his size, Derrick was highly respected by the squad when it came to doing the job. Each member felt a sense of safety knowing Derrick had their backs.

Looking past Derrick, Harry said, “
Who’s the kid?” referring to the young man that could easily pass for eighteen years old, but since he was in a full police uniform, albeit torn in several places, he had to have been at least twenty-one.

“This is
Officer Frank Lewis. April 1st was his very first day on the streets with an FTO, and he had just gone 10-8 when the calls began about the zombies. Or whatever the hell these things are. He’s been through some shit, Harry, but he’s alright,” Derrick replied.

“Frank, I would like to introduce you to a very good friend of mine,” Derrick said, turning slightly toward the rookie who was still holding the Remington Model 870P shotgun, but now had it pointed toward the floor and slightly to the left. “This is Harold Lancaster. One of the best cops this city ever had, and the guy who taught me a great deal when I was a rook like you.”