Z1N1: The Zombie Pandemic: 2012 Was Just the Beginning Page 10

  To Alejandro’s left, he could see Ms. Rodriguez, the school librarian, thrashing around in the fountain. Her face strangely contorted, her mouth filled with blood. She grunted and groaned as screams for help came in between gasps of air from her elderly victim that struggled to remain above water. Ms. Rodriguez viciously pounded and kicked the now limp body, ending her victim’s panicked screams for help; the final blow - a vicious bite to the throat – severing the jugular vein. Blood spewed all over the stone statue in the center of the fountain and soon red water poured over the sides of the fountain wall as the former librarian feasted on the mangled flesh of her victim.

  To his right, the young boy saw three men, men who Alejandro knew as “fair” trading partners with his father, on their knees in the opening of the alleyway between the local tavern and the barbershop. They wailed and thrashed on a middle-aged man’s broken corpse. Alejandro recognized the victim by his dark wardrobe…it was Father Juan Carlos. All three men chewed on various appendages of the Catholic priest.

  A primal scream from deep within his lungs echoed out of his mouth. Alejandro had finally been pushed over the edge; his young mind began to shut down. He could no longer process the horrific stimuli all around him. His body and mind went numb, which in the end, served him well. His scream garnered the attention of two sickly women nearby. The women moved awkwardly towards the helpless young boy. Wobbling from side to side, moaning and groaning, almost falling down with each step, the two women bumped violently into one another as they closed to within arm’s reach of the boy.

  BLAM!! BLAM!! BLAM!!

  Three large caliber gunshots rang out from behind Alejandro. The two would-be attackers fell to the ground motionless. Alejandro did not react. He squatted motionless in the same spot, his chin resting on his chest. The dark grasping fingers of unconsciousness tickled his mind; his eyes closed as he blacked out momentarily.

  “Little boy? Little boy?” A women’s voice cried out in broken Spanish. “Are you injured? Did they bite you?”

  Alejandro struggled to open his eyes straining to turn his tired head in the direction of the woman’s voice. Within moments, a woman knelt down in front of him. She put her gun into her holster and gently put her hands onto the boy’s shoulders. Tears began to flow from his eyes as he looked up at the stranger who had saved his life. He tried to speak but only his lips moved, no sounds – no words.

  “It’s OK. My name is Dr. Finch. We’re going to be fine. Just fine.”

  Dr. Finch lifted the boy to his feet. He was filthy and reeked of vomit. She pressed him against her hip and felt his body shake violently almost to the point that he would fall back to the ground if not steadied. He clasped his arms around her leg and squeezed tightly. The scientist looked around the village square; she saw total unimaginable mayhem. She easily spotted ten different attacks in various stages of assault. Whatever caused the soldiers at her quarantined site to seemingly die and come back to life…appeared to have spread to the townsfolk. Many of the local inhabitants now exhibited the same unrestrained berserker rage that she saw befall her compatriots just less than twelve hours earlier.

  “Dr. Finch, come in. Come in Dr. Finch.” A Spanish speaking male voice came over the short-wave walkie-talkie at her side. “Dr. Finch, are you there?”

  She pulled the walkie-talkie from her belt and responded in English: “Yes, Colonel Chavez. I’m here. I’ve found a small boy. He’s alive but barely. Please respond in English. No need to frighten him any further. We are making our way to the east edge of town.”

  “Damn communications are still down,” the Colonel responded in English. “I have not been able to contact headquarters nor have I been able to contact the IPPC on the frequency you gave me.”

  “Meet us behind the old tourist shop, Colonel. Dr. Finch out.”

  Dr. Finch looked down at the young boy. “We have to move,” she said in Spanish. “We are not safe here. Do you understand me?”

  Alejandro stared blankly at her but nodded that he understood her. He turned to take a step and fell to the ground; his body too exhausted to do anything. Dr. Finch picked up the boy and put him over her shoulder. She almost lost her balance due to the extra weight but she knew this was the only way. She moved as quickly as she could and hoped that none of the infected villagers would notice her attempt to escape. No such luck.

  Almost as if she was fresh meat and someone had just rung the dinner bell, the lumbering undead focused their unnatural gaze on her and the young boy. Each seemed to stop devouring their victims and tossed them to the side – like a dog that has lost interest in its play toy. By quick glance, Dr. Finch counted at least eight separate sick townsfolk moving towards the old tourist shop, blocking off her escape route. She panicked and placed the young boy on the ground next to her feet. He lay on the dusty street balled up in the fetal position. Had she been a mother herself, she would have attributed her protective nature of the boy to mother’s instinct. She unlatched the strap on her holster keeping her gun in its place. She only had three shots left. The addled townsfolk formed a semi-circle around her and the boy.

  BRRAPPT!! BRRAPPT!! BRRAPPT!!

  The sound of machine gun fire and squealing tires from behind her brought a smile to her face. She knew that Colonel Chavez had entered the fray. She saw the jeep come to a sliding sideways stop about ten meters from her. More gunfire erupted from the driver’s side seat. She dropped to the ground, covering her head and providing shelter for the boy. Bodies began to drop all around her. She looked up after a few moments and there stood Colonel Chavez extending his hand towards her.

  As the Colonel lifted the boy into the back seat he asked: “How was that for an entrance?”

  Dr. Finch slid into the passenger side and strapped on her seatbelt. She looked into the back seat to make sure the boy was secure. She covered him with a blanket. The trio sped off out of the center of town towards a nearby hill that overlooked the town. The Colonel pulled the jeep off to the side of the rocky road and exited the vehicle.

  “Well this spot will have to do,” the Colonel said in disgust as he kicked the driver’s side tire.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Well, my good doctor, it appears that my erratic driving has busted two of our tires.” Colonel Chavez paced back and forth as he surveyed the area. “There,” he said as he pointed east, “there is a building we can make camp in and figure out what to do next.”

  Dr. Finch spent the next two hours trying to contact IPPC officials. During the same time, Colonel Chavez attempted to contact his base and even tried to contact one of his sources in the government. Neither was successful. It appeared as if all communication had been permanently severed.

  Chapter 10

  March 17, 2013: Sunday, 9:30 AM – Stockholm, Sweden – IPPC Emergency Call Center…

  Rick Simmons, the call shift supervisor, made his way down to the first row of the call center. He had already had a busy day and it was only an hour-and-a-half into his shift. Communication issues from around the world seemed to be the topic of conversation. The call center’s main responsibilities were neutered if they couldn’t maintain contact with their member nations. Multiple failed transmissions, both sending and receiving, had kept him very engaged this morning.

  “What’s going on?” Rick inquired as he made his way to the lower level of the floor.

  “Sir,” Operator-One explained, “we seem to have lost contact with our specialist team in Colombia. They missed their scheduled status report this morning.”

  “Did they call in and get interrupted?” Rick asked.

  “No, sir. They missed the call altogether.”

  “Did you try to contact them?”

  “Yes, sir – I’ve tried multiple times. I know the procedures.”

  “Sorry…didn’t mean to imply you were not doing your job,” Rick apologized. “It’s going to be a long week. Keep me updated.”

  “Yes, sir,” Operator-One replied.

  Rick hi
d the fact that his previous tone with the call center operator had deeper implications. He had been in love with Christina Finch all through college. He had followed her around the campus like a puppy in love, but she never returned his affection. After they both graduated, he even followed her to the jobs they currently had with the IPPC. He never considered himself a stalker…but often thought to himself over the past few years that Christina took the international jobs to be far away from him…

  Rick walked up a small set of stairs to his office, which was perched on a slightly raised platform in the back of the spacious room. The positioning of the office allowed the shift supervisor to oversee the entire floor, like a shepherd watching over his flock. He called Pamela and informed her of the plethora of issues plaguing operations so early in the morning.

  March 18, 2013: Monday, 08:14 AM – Boise, Idaho – Illumination Pharmaceuticals outside the main entry area of the research facility…

  Michael looked down from Karl’s office window; he could see US Special Forces arriving at the Boise facility. In the military convoy, he counted two armored personnel carriers, three jeeps, two motorcycles and two non-military supply trucks. The vehicles came to a simultaneous stop about two-hundred yards from the front door of the facility. In an orderly single file fashion, ten soldiers exited each of the troop transport vehicles; they stood at attention waiting for orders from their superior officer. Michael counted about forty military personnel down below.

  Michael didn’t know his military ranks, but as soon as the foot soldiers began saluting a balding, older gentleman, “ol’ Mikey” knew who was running the show. The soldiers were apparently directed to remove eight saw-horse shaped barricades from the supply trucks. Then the soldiers formed a line from the back of one truck to the west side of the entry lane. They began unloading sandbags, passing each bag from one to another with the final solider placing the bags flanking the road. Michael lost count of the number of sandbags after he had counted approximately two hundred. The soldiers began setting up the rest of their gear around the main entrance of the facility.

  “They’re here, Mr. Timmons,” Michael said as he turned towards Karl’s desk.

  “Yeah, I figured they’d be fairly prompt. The last communication that I received put their arrival time here around eight fifteen.” Karl leaned back in his comfortable chair, clasping his hands around the back of his head. Secretly, Karl resented the fact that Donovan had once again usurped his power. Now Karl feared that he would be subjected to some dumbass, loud-mouthed jarhead ordering him around for the next who-knows-how-many months…

  “Are you going to go down there and see if they need any help? I think that bald guy is in charge. He seems to be giving all of the orders down there.”

  “No, Michael – I have a business to run,” Karl snidely remarked. “Plus, I’m waiting for the IPPC group to show up. My direct orders from Donovan were to assist them in any way possible. I was also instructed not to interfere with the military operation…”

  Michael sensed his boss’s frustration and he quickly turned to look out the window, once again marveling at the precision below. Within the fifteen minutes that he had been standing idle at the window, the small platoon had isolated the main entrance. Each side of the road was flanked by large barricades. Sandbags were piled up at least waist high, restricting access to the building.

  “Don’t you have some work to do, Michael?”

  “Yeah, boss - sorry about that,” Michael said as he hastily exited the room. He knew Karl was in a pissed off mood and Michael figured the safe bet was to get out of Karl’s office as quickly as possible.

  Karl stood up and walked over to the window and scrutinized the activity below. He never liked the military. He felt, and rightfully so, that the “Corp” had stolen his father from him. Karl never really got to know his father. His dad wasn’t killed by snipers in ‘Nam, wasn’t killed by landmines in Iraq, hell – his father died of lung cancer fifteen years ago in a retirement home on the outskirts of Philly from asbestos poisoning.

  The thing that pissed Karl off the most was that his father devoted his entire life to the military instead of spending time with his family; his father was all too happy to volunteer for extra tours of duty or stepping up to lead the next super secret mission. Karl wholeheartedly resented that man. Since his father died, with no real resolution between the two, Karl tended to project his deep, inner anger onto the military…and it wasn’t necessarily just the armed forces. That anger was usually directed at any authority figure.

  As Karl stood at the window contemplating his father’s past transgressions and failures, a loud knock echoed throughout his office. Startled, Karl turned towards the door. A small entourage of lightly armed officers entered the room followed by the bald guy. Karl gritted his teeth and tried to prepare himself for some well-rehearsed military bravado.

  “You must be Karl,” the balding man said, reaching his hand out to shake Karl’s. “I’m Lieutenant Dwight Samson.” Karl grudgingly shook the man’s outstretched hand. A slight battle for superiority lingered in the handshake as both men tried to “tactfully” out squeeze the other.

  “Now, to me,” the lieutenant continued after breaking off the handshake, “you look like a man used to running the show.” Lt. Samson lit up a large, sweet smelling cigar, clinching it between his teeth. Karl felt as if the military man was staring through him, as if he wasn’t even there.

  “I’m going to be honest with you - this is still your show. I’m just here to keep this place safe. My men will make a few adjustments inside the building to protect your employees and your assets. However, for the most part, we will stay out of your way. Kindly stay the hell out of ours.” With that, the lieutenant and his entourage exited the office.

  “Asshole,” Karl said softly as he briskly rubbed his aching hand.

  March 18, 2013: Monday, 11:22 PM – Rochester, New York – Secondary production site of Illumination Pharmaceuticals outside the main entrance…

  “Yes, that’s fine, officer,” Theo said as he signed off on some paperwork presented to him by the soldier.

  “Thank you, sir,” First Sergeant Tolliver replied as he ensured that all the documentation was in correct order. “Captain Massey will return shortly to detail his plans for the next few months. He apologized in advance for his tardiness but took a squad with him to survey the surrounding area.”

  “No problem at all,” Theo said. “I look forward to meeting with him.”

  First Sergeant Tolliver nodded and rejoined the rest of the platoon to finish securing the border around the secondary research facility. The soldiers had been working for a bit more than an hour to erect barricades and sandbags around the front of the building. The soldiers built a small guard tower with a manual gated arm. Most of the fabricated tower reminded Theo of giant Lincoln Logs. There was no bolting, drilling or other method to secure the walls together. The soldiers followed a basic plan and attached each section of the wall by connecting the slotted out portions of each piece, one on top of the next.

  “Look at him down there,” Craig said as he looked out the lab window to the ground below.

  “Craig, it’s too early to start with that crap.”

  “Come on, Julie – you know Theo’s ego is about level with this third floor window.” Craig reached up with both hands trying to touch the top edge of the window. “If he stands out there any longer pretending to be in charge, his head might explode.”

  Julie stood up from her desk and walked over to the window. She playfully punched Craig in the shoulder. “Can’t you two just get along? He’s really not that bad of a guy. I think you’re just being stubborn.”

  Craig rubbed his arm. “I don’t know which hurts worse, you punching me or the fact that you think he’s ‘not really that bad of a guy’.”

  “Oh someone is calling him,” Craig said as he watched Theo flip open his cell phone.

  “Get to work, dummy. I’m not doing all the work today.”<
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  “Please. You know I’m the lynchpin holding this operation together.” Craig grudgingly left the window and sat down at his computer. This desk was a bit tidier than the one back in Idaho, but that wasn’t really saying much. Craig tapped on a few keys while staring at the picture of his wife on the corner of his desk. He really missed her but the bright spot was that she would be in Rochester in a little over two weeks.

  March 18, 2013: Monday, 9:45 AM – Boise, Idaho – Illumination Pharmaceuticals, office of Karl Timmons…

  “That sounds better than what I had to put up with here, Theo,” Karl said into the speaker phone. “This dumbass lieutenant here was running around like a bulldog in heat pissing all over his new territory.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that, sir,” Theo replied. “By the way, I tried to contact you last Thursday with a status report update, but all the lines seemed to be down. Couldn’t get any bars on the cell phone and it seemed like every office phone I tried I got a busy signal.”

  “No worries, Theo. I got your email update on Friday morning. I was reading the paper and there have been other reports of sporadic communication problems. Most experts blame the solar flares from the beginning of the year.”

  “So far, the crew here at the Rochester facility has been putting in a lot of overtime to meet the demands for the vaccine. We’re a little behind for last week, but a few of the group have volunteered to put in some extra hours.”

  “Very good, Theo – keep me informed.”

  March 19, 2013: Tuesday, 11:30 AM – Rochester, New York – Secondary production facility…

  A group of IPPC officials had arrived earlier in the day. Theo did a convincing impersonation of someone in charge as he showed the group around the production facility. A thorough inspection took about two hours of Theo’s time, but he was glad to be involved in the “decision making” portion of the process. What better way to make a name for himself? Around lunchtime, the leader of the IPPC Special Task force pulled Theo aside to a small conference room and closed the door.