The Plague Years (Book 1): Hell is Empty and All the Devils Are Here (24 page)

“He still doesn’t belong in this neighborhood!” shouted one of the men.

“Maybe so,” said Chris becoming a bit more forceful. “But it doesn’t give you leave to go shoot innocent civilians because they bother you. Lynch mobs are illegal in the state of Washington last I checked. I suggest you all either go home or join Chad’s nice little party.”

“But what are we going to do with you?” said Chris as he turned towards Charlie. “If it were six months ago, I would call the wagon and we would get you dried out, but times have changed. Nobody out there is going to help you much when their own family’s safety is jeopardized.”

“Don’t want no help,” said Charlie truculently.

  “What are you going to eat Charlie?” asked Chris. “Where are you going to live? You keep hanging around on the street, and soon, one of the infected will make a meal out of you!”

“Charlie’s too tough and stringy to be food for anybody!”

“Charlie, my best advice is to get down to the Union Gospel Mission because you can’t stay here,” said Chris sincerely. “They are still accepting people off the street but I don’t know for how long. Maybe they can help you, but these folks won’t. Better get moving.”

Chris turned away from Charlie. Matt and his friends had backed away, embarrassed. Dave and Chad were watching the would-be vigilantes as they left. Amber kept her eye on Charlie as he ambled down the road. Mary was gone but in a few moments, she appeared from the house. She had raced back to the party and made half a dozen sandwiches which she put in one of Connor’s school backpacks that he had outgrown. She caught up to Charlie and handed him the pack.

“Ask for Ruben at the Mission,” said Mary kindly. “He is a good man. There is a message in the pack for you.”

Charlie grabbed the pack and walked off with a little more purpose, headed toward the center of town.

“What was the message?” asked Chad as he walked up and put his arm around Mary.

“It’s the same thing I put in the kids lunches for school since Connor entered kindergarten,” answered Mary. “In each sandwich package I put something like ‘You are not alone’ or ‘dream big’ or ‘being scared is OK’. I have a bunch of these printed up in the kitchen, when I wrapped the sandwiches, they automatically went it. I hope it’s not too corny.”

“It’s just exactly right,” said Chad pulling his wife a little closer.

May 25
th
, Monday, 7:23 pm PDT.

The lights had come back on after a brief power outage that afternoon and Chad was feeling lucky. He opened up his cell phone and low and behold, he had a signal. He had been hoping to get a call out to Dr. Grieb since he had spoken to Amber but the signal strength was erratic. Since he had it, he was going to try. It rang twice and then Terry picked up.

“Grieb,” said Terry when he answered.

“Hi Terry, this is Chad. Say, do you remember when we tried to visit that Airman at Fort Lewis?”

“You mean the guy that … oh right,” said Terry as he caught the drift of Chad’s circuitous approach. They didn’t know if their communications were compromised, but they weren’t sure they weren’t either.

“Well I have met another … like that,” said Chad warily.

“Damn!” said Terry. “Is he still around, like available for questioning? I love to …”

“Yes, but I don’t want much attention given the way things work out,” said Chad hastily. “We have talked. I have some stuff I would like you to see symptom wise, but that will have to wait until we can visit in person. I did want to tell you though, that there is some sort of mental compulsion to submit to … something. That’s why they vanish. They are fully helping whatever it is.”

“God this awful,” said Terry. “This is useful but it opens more questions than it answers. Is there any way we could get some sort of secure comm?”

“I have spoken more than I should,” said Chad. “Work your end of the deal. If there is some way you can come over here without raising too much fuss or come up with some secure comm, I very much want to share this and pick your brain, but I will not hazard this person. Am I clear?”

“As a bell,” said Terry. “I’ll call or send smoke signals or something when, not if I get something worked out.”

“Right.” said Chad. “As long as I have battery power, I will check my cell phone for messages every morning at 6:45 am. If you need to get some information or you want to make arrangements for a meeting, tell me that way.”

“I’ll work my end,” said Terry.

“Keep this under your hat and tell no one,” said Chad. “Remember your theory? See you soon Terry.”

Chad broke the connection before he could say more and hoped he hadn’t given away too much.

May 25
th
, Monday, 7:26 pm MDT.

Deep in the bowels of the Cray computer located at the NSA data center at Camp Williams Utah, several keywords triggered an automatic response. The message did not go to the regular channels but rather to a small non-descript office in Maryland. An analyst there, fed in some additional parameters to a NoSQL Dynamo database that coordinated information from several data warehouses across the US. The communications for this system was a peer to peer military satellite network and was thus free of the outages that the internet and other communications channels were experiencing.

The results came out and the analyst’s eye bulged. He reached for a special phone that he only used for very special calls.

“I have another,” said the analyst into the phone, not waiting for the person on the other end to answer.

“Good, send me the information,” said a voice that Special Agent Macklin would have recognized. “We will have a team on it soon. Keep me abreast of events.”

May 26
th
, Tuesday, 3:57 am PDT

Connor Strickland couldn’t sleep. The power was out again and they had been cautioned to reduce electricity usage so he was wandering around the family room down stair in the dark. His original thought was to use the bathroom, maybe get a drink of water and go back to his own room.

He was trying to be quiet because Amy was sleeping on the couch and she hadn’t slept well at all the previous night. As Connor moved through the family room he heard quiet sobbing. He looked over at the couch and while the bed clothes were rumpled, no one was there. He followed the sound of the sobs and found Amy curled up in the corner, furthest away from the stairs, wrapped in a blanket trying unsuccessfully to cry quietly.

“Amy?” said Connor hesitantly. “Are you OK?”

“How could I be OK!” said Amy more violently than she had intended. “Crap, I am so sorry Connor. You have been so very sweet to me. I shouldn’t be like that to you.”

Connor sat down on the floor next to her.

“No worries, Amy,” said Connor, “you have had a lot on your mind. I don’t know that I could cope as well as you have.”

“I am not coping,” said Amy through a half stifled sob. “I’m hiding. I don’t want to do anything and there is so much work to do and I need to go over to my house and get some of my things, maybe there is something you guys can use and …”

“Hush, Amy, hush,” said Connor as he put his arm around her. “Uncle Dave and my Dad have locked up the place and are keeping an eye on it. Everything will be there when you are ready.”

“But what about …” started Amy and then she bit back and sob and snuffled a bit. “What about her body … I ought to do something. She shouldn’t just lie there … like that.”

“My ‘cousin’ Chris called in a favor,” said Connor. He was still uneasy with the whole new family member thing but Chris seemed alright. “The County Coroner took care of … everything. Just be for a while Amy, things will get better.”

“I hope so,” said Amy in a small voice. “I am glad you are here though. You have been so nice. Can you sit with me a while? I know you have watch in a few minutes but I don’t want to be alone right now.”

“Take all the time you need,” said Connor.

May 27
th
, Wednesday, 9:03 am EDT.

Special Agent Macklin’s last three days had not been pleasant. When he showed up at his office, his supervisor, Deputy Director Erickson had berated him at length for coming back without being recalled. He was now involved in something called information fusion. It meant trying to find patterns and connections in the security data. Most of it was done with sophisticated data mining techniques but you still needed a human to see, and bring together seemingly unraveled threads.

He suspected that the data he was going over had already been reviewed and he was shuffling paper to keep him quiet and out of the way. He didn’t know how much longer he would have a position in government and right now, he didn’t particularly care.

His special phone rang. Ever since he had arrived in Washington and reported back to his office, he had dreaded that call. It was the third day and he had hoped that they had forgotten him.

“Macklin.”

“We have a job for you to do today,” said the disembodied voice from the phone, “one that even your limited skills would find difficult to screw up.”

“What is it?” asked Macklin with trepidation.

“Tomorrow, a package will be delivered to your apartment. Take it to work and leave it in the control center in your building. Then leave immediately. We may need you again.”

“Wait, the post office has stopped delivering and I don't even think Fed Ex will come to my neighborhood anymore?”

“Cretin!” said the voice. “The delivery will be made by our drivers, though they will be dressed as postal service employees.”

“But what is in the box?” asked Macklin nervously.

“A bomb,” said the voice sarcastically. “What did you think you imbecile? That it was lunch for the hardworking communications techs?” 

“I can't take a bomb into a secure facility!”

“You can when we disable the metal scanners.”

“But I can't kill the people I have trained with, worked with, and suffered with all these years. I can't do it!”

“Listen to you. You have sold drugs for us, changed data for us, interfered with Generals for us, and attempted to kill helpless academics for us. Now you are getting moral? This is too much.”

“Look, this isn’t entirely my fault you know!” shouted Macklin. “You told me those designer drugs would make full penetration much easier, then boom, this thing was on us way sooner than we planned!”

“The drugs were supposed to be in place for three or four years,” said the voice on the phone. “The few cases of the plague that would have occurred would have been attributed to consumptive drug use and lulled the population and the medical community into a false sense of security and prepared the subcultures of the world for a very rapid infection. But, as we have explained before, the accident in the lab forced us to rush the plan; you need to do as you are told!”

“Well fuck you!” said Macklin. “I quit. I know enough about you and your shadowy organization to take you down so leave me alone!”

“Very well, let me tell you what will happen,” said the voice on the phone. “If that bomb does not go off tomorrow in the communications center, when it has been set to do so, a file will appear on Deputy Director Erickson's computer as a pop up. It will contain all the evidence needed to put you in jail for a long, long time. Erickson hates you. Even as busy as he is, he will take glee in having you arrested and left to rot while the infected take over the jails. Don't fail us. Our memory is long and we don't allow for second chances.”

With that, the phone went dead. Just then, on the computer he was working on, a pop up appeared. It was a simple window with one word, 'Remember!” Macklin knew that he really never had a choice. He would deliver the package.

“Damn, why did I ever take their money in the first place,” shouted Macklin as he pounded the desk. Only the silence answered.

May 27
th
, Wednesday PDT.

Chris was walking around the perimeter that now encompassed David's and Chad's houses and yards. There was razor wire strung around the place fastened to four by four posts. Both houses had ladders in the back and sniper's positions on the roof. As this was primarily residential neighborhood, there were few tall buildings and the roof of Chad's split level house was as tall as anything in the area. They had reinforced the fence with plywood and a few sandbags but time and available dirt precluded the use of many more, besides, Mary, being concerned for the long term had planted a very significant vegetable garden and preempted any further digging. It would keep kids and indigents out, but against something like he saw at the high school break out, it would not last more than a few minutes.

He would like to do more but he was still working a twelve hour patrol shift; in fact, he had to head out at noon for his next shift and was in uniform with his side arm and the AR-15 he had taken to carrying. He wasn't rushing the moment though, because Amber was walking with him, companionably holding his hand. They weren't saying much, just being together.

“Should I call them at the Sheriff’s office?” asked Amber after a time.  “With the hours you are working, I bet they need me.”

“There is this little matter of you being missing and presumed dead,” said Chris gently. “Besides, the fact that all of those in remission vanish has me worried. When you are here, there are armed people I trust covering your back. It makes me feel better. Besides, you are not a hundred percent yet.”

That was true, even though she would deny it. Her health had improved greatly, but she tired easily and her feet in particular were susceptible to bruising and cuts.

The quiet moment was broken by the sound of several unmuffled motorcycle engines coming down the street. The distinctive 'pototah potatah' sound identified them as Harleys and the lack of mufflers indicated that the riders probably followed the biker ethos.

Warning bells went off in Chris's head. Chad had said on several occasions that those societal subgroups that avoided the law enforcement and medical assistance were most at risk for infection. A motorcycle gang would fit that definition to a ‘T’. This could be serious.

“Amber, go tell everyone to arm up,” said Chris, suddenly alert. “Get Dave or Chad on one of the roofs as quick as they can. I might need the help.”

Some people would have argued, but Amber assessed the tactical situation instantly and realized whatever they did would have to happen fast. She took off at a limping run. Chris ran almost as fast to the gate and through it out into the front yard. There he slowed down to a comfortable, confident pace.

Just coming to a halt in from of the house were six men on Harley Choppers. Two of them had women riding on the back of their cycles. All of them were armed.

“299 – Kennewick,” said Chris ostentatiously into his radio. “I have a potential confrontation here with an infected biker gang, start aid and additional units.”

“299, all units are out,” said a female voice that he didn’t recognize. “We will get something your way as soon as we can. Be careful.”

“Thanks for the sour persimmons, cousin,” said Chris under his breath.

The guy on the lead was a large man, tall and obese. His hair was greasy, gray, and stringy as it tumbled down over his massive shoulders. He wore riding leathers and a jean vest. His arms were bare and showed both muscle and fat. He made no attempt to hide the lesions and bites that covered most of his exposed skin which confirmed Chris’s guess that this man was infected. The rest of the group also showed similar marks of the disease.

“Hey cop!” said the first biker. “You here for the doughnuts?”

“I live here actually,” said Chris portraying a confidence he didn’t really feel. “Can I help you folks?”

“There was a big party here yesterday with wine a lots of food right?”

“We had a small get together for the neighbors,” confirmed Chris, his hand resting on his gun.

“We want our share!” said one of the girls on the bike.

“The party is over,” said Chris as he stalled until he was sure he had backup on top of the house. “The leftovers got divided up between the neighbors. There is nothing left I am afraid.”

“You don’t get it, do ya fucktard,” said the first rider who Chris realized was the leader. “We are here to get food, wine, and bitches. Bring ‘em out or we rip this place apart!”

“Why don’t you folks go on home all nice and peaceful,” said Chris. He heard someone scrambling up the ladder and began to relax a little. Someone had his back. “I have just called this into dispatch. In a few minutes, there will be more cops here than you can count.”

“What ya gotta be a fuckin' prick for? What a fuckin' pussy,” said the big biker with a laugh. “Shit is going down all over town and there ain’t another cop within a mile of here. Back off cop, or you will be first one I kill!”

“I can’t let that happen,” said Chris quietly.

"Like you can stop me,” said the big biker with a snort. “When I'm done with you, I think I'm gonna fuck your ol’ lady later."

What happened next surprised them both. One of the bikers in the back of the crowd began to draw his pistol grip shotgun from the scabbard across his back. Chris spotted the motion and dove for the ground. The shotgun never cleared leather.

There was the crack of a high powered rifle and the biker’s head exploded from the impact of a .338 Lapua round fired from Remington model 700 XCR. Dave quickly worked the action of the big rifle and scanned for his next target.

Meanwhile, Chad, on the roof of his house opened fire with his AR-15. The leader of the biker gang was staring at the wreck of a human who moments before had been a member of his gang. Chad took advantage of the leader’s temporary immobility and targeted him figuring that taking out the leader might break the morale of the rest. He was able to fire three times. All three impacted the biker’s chest and shoulder.  For a split second he swayed back on the seat of his motorcycle and shook it off and glared at Chad, but that was all he had. Shotgun fire erupted from the living room and spare bedroom as both Connor and Mary began to fire at the leader who was the closest target. His motorcycle’s gas tank along with his legs and lower abdomen were penetrated in multiple locations and the fuel gushed down across the legs of the biker as well as the hot muffler. The heat vaporized the gasoline and provided the ignition source. The motorcycle and the biker burst into flames. He rolled off the bike, the lower half of his body engulfed in flames.  Any normal human would be screaming in pain but all the biker did was grit his teeth. Then he stood up and began a shambling run towards Chris, who had already deployed his AR15, while cursing his choice of weapons, belatedly realizing that his shotgun might incapacitate the biker quicker.

He began to fire quickly at the knees of his attacker, hoping to bring him down. He fired two times, both rounds lodging in the biker’s left knee which buckled. The biker fell heavily, landing not more than eight feet from the muzzle of Chris’s rifle. The sights lined up with the bridge of the biker’s nose. Chris fired three times as fast as he could. All three rounds hit in a group between the bikers eyes, killing him instantly.

Simultaneously, Amber, firing Dave’s Benelli, and Heather, with her 30-30, opened up on the rest of the gang from Dave’s living room. Their fire took the bikers from the flank.  On receiving fire from two vectors, the remaining bikers realized that they were in a crossfire and fired up their bikes and took off in a cloud of smoke and flying gravel. At the end of the block, the last biker spun his bike to face Chris and the rest.

“You mother fuckers!” screamed the biker with blood streaming from several wounds. “We will be back! You hear me, WE WILL BE BACK!”

The stop gave Dave the necessary calm spot to draw a bead on that last biker. The VX-3 Leupold variable zoom scope brought him into to startling clarity. Dave gently stroked the trigger and the big round hit the biker right in the sniper’s triangle, taking him off the motorcycle.

“Chris, are you OK?” shouted Chad before that last shot had stopped echoing.

Chris was looking at the ruined face of the smoldering man he had just shot. How could he be ‘OK’?

“Yeah, I’m good,” said Chris as he got up then he thought for a moment and then shouted. “Everybody stay inside! They might mean they are coming back right now!”

“299, multiple units dispatched,” said the radio that Chris had forgotten about.

“Too little, Too late”
thought Chris as he loaded a fresh magazine into his AR15.

May 28
th
, Thursday, 7:34am EDT.

There was a knock on the door of Macklin’s condo. He opened it almost immediately as he had been up most of the night, unable to sleep. There was no one in sight. The only telltale clue was the sound of an engine disappearing in the distance. Looking down, he saw on his door step a scuffed, leather briefcase, not unlike the one he carried to work most days. He picked up the case and walked out to the curb. The parking lot at his complex had changed in the last two weeks. Before, most of the parking slots had been filled with BMWs or Audis. Those units with attached garages had been locked with even more expensive cars. Now, many of the garage doors were open or broken into. Most were empty. Many of the remaining cars in the lot, including Macklin’s own Audi A4, had been stripped. Most departmental employees now rode in an armored bus that would be by in the next few minutes.

Many of the windows were broken or boarded up and the population of the complex was perhaps ten percent of what it was at the beginning of the month. Garbage collection had not happened for a week and it was beginning to smell. Macklin wondered how long he could continue to live there.

His reverie was interrupted by the arrival of the bus. It had started out as a blue Air Force bus from Andrews Air Force Base. Racks had been welded on and sand bags had been stuffed in the gap between the rack and the sidewall of the bus. All of the windows were reinforced with chicken wire and the roof was covered with a heavy woven screen held a few inches off its surface.

As he boarded the bus, he had to stoop over because there was now a layer of sandbags on the floor. Someone was clearly concerned about IED’s. It apparently wasn’t just the infected that they were being defended against. In his absence, that had been several attempts to assassinate various government officials. The result was that the bus was severely underpowered and could barely make the top of several hills that were part of the route and a commute that would have taken just twenty-five minutes in his Audi, took close to ninety.

As Macklin stepped off the bus he was in a cold sweat. His mysterious contact had not told him when the bomb he was carrying was supposed to go off but had told him to leave the building immediately once he had planted the bomb. He was literally unsure if each step he took would be his last.

At the entrance to his building there was a standard security kiosk, including a metal detector. In spite of himself, he balked a little at crossing the threshold but no one noticed and he got the green light and a bored acknowledgement from the uniformed security guard that he could pass.

Once inside the building, he walked directly to the comm center. The room had a keypad with an entry code. Macklin typed in the four numbers that opened the door and went over to the message center where classified messages deemed too sensitive were printed and stored. He went to the window where the communications dispatcher sat and set down his briefcase as far forward as he could so it would be out of the view of the clerk and security guard.

“Macklin, H. T.,” said the Homeland Security Special Agent flashing his ID. “Erickson said I had some documents down here.”

The clerk read down his log.

“Sorry sir. I don’t have anything for you or Deputy Director Erickson.”

“Damn him!” said Macklin pointing a finger at the clerk, “running me around like an errand boy. Look you, call me the moment anything with my name comes in. Is that clear?”

Before the clerk could answer, Macklin stomped off, the briefcase up against the wall of the comm center window. It was the best he could do. He hoped it was enough for the man who owned his soul. He had a fleeting moment of guilt for the clerk he had just spoken to, but then was on to how to get out of the building without signing out. As he crossed the main lobby of the building, He had the bad luck to run into Deputy Director Erickson.

“Macklin, where are you going?” said Erickson grumpily. “Don’t we have a meeting in fifteen minutes?”

“Coffee sir,” said Macklin as that was the first thing that popped into his head.

“I have news flash for you Einstein,” said Erickson sarcastically. “All the coffee shops in DC have been shut down for days now due to health care regulations that you OK’d.”

“As it happens, I am ahead of schedule,” continued Erickson, “let’s go up to the conference room and you can brief me on the recent remission cases.”

Macklin looked panic stricken for a split second and then resignedly began to follow Erickson. They headed back upstairs and walked by the comm center and continued down the hall to the second floor conference room. As they entered the door, they heard the sharp crack as the nine kilos of Semtex contained in his briefcase exploded. Erickson was an intelligence analyst with twenty-three year experience, mostly in the field. He took in the image of Macklin’s stricken look and lame excuse to leave the building and knew that Macklin had a hand in the blast. He turned quickly and faced Macklin.