Black Tide Rising - eARC (34 page)

“You just used a second century Roman statue to kill a zombie!” Chetan howled, the cry filled with pain and anger. Hans looked at the bust in his hand and shrugged, his grin disappearing. Chetan snatched the sculpture out of the Berliner’s hand and began to wipe the bits of skull and brain matter from the marble as best as he could. “Now it’s covered in gore and…and…
merde!
This is a priceless artifact! Have you no shame?”

Günter shook his head. He had been worried about Hans losing his grip on his sanity, but this proved the man was at least willing to fight for his life when it was on the line.

“I’m robbing the Louvre during the end of civilization,” Hans reminded the Frenchman as he saw Günter looking at him. “I have no shame.”

Günter patted Hans on the back, a smile slowly forming on his face. “I might have done the same.”

“
Je peux sentir ta chatte
…” Chetan muttered and looked away, angry.

“Quiet,” Günter said, his focus settling on the job once more. “This area looks to be clear of them. We will move to the next floor and get all that we came for.”

“Aw, c’mon guys,” Folsom whined through the Bluetooth. “At least go back and steal the Mona Lisa for me.”

“No, that was not part of the plan,” Günter replied. “We stick to the plan.”

“But…the
Mona Lisa?!
” Folsom continued to protest.

“No.”

“You suck, dude.” The American was peeved.

Günter did not have time reply. More zombies were waiting for them around the bend in the corridor the group had just rounded.

“Quick! Into that room!” Chetan called out. They ran into the room and looked around. It was filled with paintings that Günter did not recognize. Chetan, however, was as comfortable as one could be with a horde of zombies pursuing them. “Down that hall, then turn right!”

“Where does that lead?” Günter asked as they ran, their breath starting to come in short gasps. A painful stitch in his side began to form.

“To the other stairwell,” Chetan replied. The Frenchman, in spite of the copious amounts of wine and foul-smelling cigarettes he regularly partook, seemed to be handling the run just fine. More howls erupted further down the hall as more zombies took up pursuit. “
Merde!
Left up here!”

Günter slid a bit as they rounded the corner, Hans hot on his heels as they followed Chetan through what was rapidly becoming a maze to the Germans.

“How…much…further?” Günter asked between breaths.

“Left, then two rights, then up the stairs,” Chetan replied. The bastard was not even short of breath, Günter saw.

“This would be hilarious if not for the zombies chasing you,” Folsom commented over the Bluetooth. “You run in one room, the zombies chase you, you appear to run into another room, they chase you.”

“How are you watching this?” Chetan asked. Günter was curious as well.

“That USB drive you hooked up to their servers for me also gave me access to the security cameras, as well as their sound system,” Folsom replied. “In fact…hold up, I need to download something.”

“
Ich werde verdammt töten
,” Günter hissed. The stitch in his side was growing worse.

“What was that? That sounded kind of garbled over the comm,” Folsom said. “Ah, found it! You’re gonna love this.”

Saxophone music suddenly blared over the intercom of the Louvre, drowning out the howls of the zombies and the thundering footsteps of the men who sought to rob the museum. It was a frantic saxophone, with accompanying music. It was familiar to Günter but he could not immediately place the song. He ran into another room and suddenly it clicked. His eyes widened.

“
Benny Hill?!
” Günter fairly screamed. “This is not funny!”

“I know, right? This shit is
hilarious!
I would put this up on YouTube…well, except for the fact that we’re robbing the Louvre, I mean,” Folsom laughed. “Who doesn’t love a good Yackety Sax scene?”

“
I will mount your balls on the wall of my mega yacht!
” Günter promised.

“Somebody’s testy…get it? Testy?” The music stopped. Folsom gave a long-suffering sigh. “Germans have no sense of humor…”

“They stopped chasing us,” Chetan said and slowed to a jog. He looked around. “We’re close. There, the stairwell. This will lead us directly to the room we want.” Gathering their breath, they pressed onwards up to the second floor.

The group ducked into the smaller room near the stairwell and found their target—the crown jewels of Louis XV. The display room appeared to be empty of zombies, though Günter was quickly learning that even the slightest bit of darkness could hide one of the creatures. He pulled out a small aerosol can and began to spray the edges of the glass. The glass began to sizzle as the acid—cleverly hidden within the can—chewed through it. The other two men carefully removed the glass to expose the jewels within.

There were dozens of necklaces, earrings and pearls on display. Prominently featured was a crown covered in gems and diamonds. A scepter similarly decorated lay next to it.

Another howl echoed from somewhere in the Louvre. Günter nervously looked around but spotted nothing. He motioned at the other two.

“Quickly,” he said, his breathing finally back to normal. “We do not have much time.”

“The crown looks very expensive,” Hans said, his voice filled with awe and wonder. Chetan snorted in disgust.

“Covered in fake jewels,” he said. “Louis XV was a cheap bastard. He was forced to wear this cheap imitation because he used the real jewels to pay off his debts.”

“What a shame,” Hans shook his head. Günter knew from past experience that his friend was trying to focus on the task at hand. It helped block out the carnage that they had wrought on the zombies in the loading dock.

Hans picked up a gorgeous necklace decorated with green gemstones. “What about this one? Is it a fake?”

“Those are real,” Chetan confirmed. “They weren’t on the list because they were supposed to be cleaned this week and taken off display. Since
le fin du monde
has decided to occur…” he shrugged. “We would be fools to leave these behind.”

“Good,” Hans smiled and tossed the necklace into the silk bag.

“Not like that!” Chetan fairly howled. “Do you know how long it will take to untangle that now? You are a savage! Günter, why did we bring this
débile
along?”

Günter felt a headache replace the pain in his ribs. Perhaps he could get away with one murder in his lifetime? Other than a zombie, in any case.

They cleared out the rest of the jewels, including the ones that were not originally on their list. Günter knew that they would make them wealthier, even if the end of the world might interrupt their flow of cash from their Russian benefactor. Still, they were almost priceless, and they could be used as barter should there be more zombies blocking their way to the Caymans.

“Chetan, we need to find a different way out,” Günter suggested. “Folsom, is there any way you can pick us up somewhere other than the loading dock?”

“Maybe,” the American answered in a hesitant voice. “I might have an idea…”

“If we continue down this corridor we will see more display rooms,” Chetan replied immediately. “The only exit that way is the north stairwell. That can take us to the first floor, and then further down into the mall.”

“I thought we were going to avoid the Mall?” Hans asked as they hurried down the hall, away from the zombies who might be pursuing them.

“That was before I was reminded of the Starbucks,” Chetan answered in an anxious tone. “Somebody thought it was a good idea to put that in. I wish to burn it down.”

The Frenchman was a purist, Hans knew. He would always find something to be unhappy about, whether it be the differing brush strokes between eighteenth-century Dutch painting masters or if the Louvre allowed a Starbucks. It would never be a mystery to Hans why Chetan was perpetually single.

The trio encountered a few more of the scattered dead as they raced through the building but no actual zombies. The dead appeared to be half-eaten, which Günter knew would give him nightmares for years to come. Their last bit of trouble met them at the door to the Mall—or rather, outside of it. The street outside was packed with the undead.

“Where are you, Folsom?” Günter growled as the zombies outside began to howl in earnest. They could not see any sign of regular people.

Headlights appeared in the midst of the crowd of zombies. Günter blinked for a moment, trying to get his eyes to adjust at the increasing brightness before he realized that the SUV was headed right for him. He dove to the side as the SVU came plowing through the glass doors like a metal juggernaut. Folsom slammed on the brakes as he reached their position, causing the vehicle to slide around perfectly in front of them. Günter picked himself up off the floor and along with the others, hastily climbed inside.

The zombies swarmed the SUV. Chetan kicked one in the face just before it could get inside.

“See?” Folsom said as Chetan fell onto the back seat, gasping for breath. Günter slammed the door on one of the zombie’s hands, breaking it. Hans climbed over the front seat to get into the back where the others were. The American accelerated and the SUV began rolling out of the Louvre and down the packed streets, dragging the zombie alongside. More crashed into the grill and fender but they did not stop the determined driver. Another bump and the zombie which had been stuck fell away, leaving its hand as a parting gift. “And you guys made fun of me for playing so much Grand Theft Auto.”

“Get us out of here!” Hans demanded loudly.

“I’m trying!” Folsom shouted back at him. “Zombies! I can’t go too fast or they’ll bust the car up more. It’s barely hanging on as it is! I think I broke something important when I crashed through those doors.”

“I thought you said you could drive?” Günter snapped, his temper finally at a boiling point. He began to quote the American, heavy Southern accent and all. “‘I roll dirty on GTA and I drive the same.’”

“Screw you,” Folsom grunted but shifted into another gear. He flipped the four wheel drive button and the SUV lurched as it activated. He floored it, plowing through the sea of zombies. Disgusting bits flew up and got stuck on the windshield wipers. Their dark blue SUV began to look decidedly reddish. “Next time, I’ll just leave you in the middle of the damn zombie apocalypse, you ungrateful Kraut!”

“Just get us to the Le Havre,” Günter ordered, his voice back to normal. “You have the route mapped?”

“As best as I could,” Folsom nodded, the momentary anger gone as quickly as it came. He turned the SUV down another crowded street. “Haussman gets us to the Normandy route fastest I think. It’s the most direct route.”

“The boat will wait for us until noon tomorrow,” Günter consulted his phone. Service was still up and running, though his reception bars were low. “We have nine hours to make the two hundred kilometer drive.”

“Piece of cake,” Folsom said as he plowed through another zombie. “What’s the worst—”

“Shut up! Don’t you say it!” Chetan cried out.

Günter sighed. It was the end of the world and this was the best that he could come up with. He rubbed his forehead. Sand. Women. Warm weather. The fact that everyone in the SUV was now a billionaire. He could handle this. He could deal with their peculiarities. He had done it for the past nine months, since the plan took shape. He could live with this for just a little while longer.

“The Bahamas will be nice,” he predicted, trying to cheer himself up. For a newly-minted billionaire, he was very unhappy. “Good food. Swimming. Warm waters. Naked women. None of this zombie nonsense, no doubt.”

“No doubt,” Hans agreed.

They drove on, uninterrupted save for the occasional bump in the road from where a zombie fell beneath their tires, a wave of zombies behind in hot pursuit.

The Meaning of Freedom

John Ringo

“Hmmm…that’s odd.”

Doctor Rizwana Shelley had never been entirely comfortable with running the main vaccine production facility in the post-Fall world. While she had, reluctantly, come to the conclusion that making vaccine from human spinal cords was a necessity, it was always an
unpleasant
necessity.

As others had been found who could manage the production, she had segued smoothly back to research. As much as could be done under the current circumstances. Which was why she had been handed this particular conundrum.

One of the Gurkhas tasked with acquiring “materials” had turned up something odd. The primary infected threat were the alphas, the insane, violent, sub-sentients that the H7D3 virus had left of humanity. As such, they were the main primates “collected” for the attenuated vaccine. The Gurkhas collected their spinal cords as they cleared portions of the suburbs surrounding London. Metro London itself was still too rife.

One of the spinal cords, however, had been found to be uninfected. Normal spinal cords were white or yellowish. The H7D3 virus infesting the spinal cord and brains of infected was a distinct crimson.

“I hate to ask this,” Doctor Shelley said, holding up the spine in a ziplock bag. “But are you sure that all you collected were from
infected
?”

The words were in fluent Ghorkali. Doctor Shelley had not spoken Ghorkali prior to the Fall so it was her twenty-eighth language. She agreed in general with other linguists that after about the eighth most of the rest got easier.

“They were all naked,” Captain Surigar replied. “All acting as if they were infected. None called out to us in any way, Doctor. We are Gurkhas. We would not clear a human.”

The Gurkhas made it a point of pride to never kill a non-combatant. Infected were combatants even if they used teeth and hands to do the fighting.

“Let me do some work on it,” Doctor Shelley said. “And if you find any more that are clear, try to recover the bodies as well, please.”

“Yes, Doctor,” Captain Surigar said. “Is it…fading?”

“That is the interesting question.”

* * *

“We have found another, Doctor.”

Rizwana had managed to set up something of a complete laboratory from the wreckage of civilization. The King had been insistent on the subject. Britain was barely in the beginnings of recovering from a devastating plague. Having their top microbiologist fully equipped was right up there with ammunition for the Gurkhas.

Examination of the first spine had yielded little in the way of information. The person it came from was a slight woman of Middle Eastern descent. Which could have described Doctor Shelley. One point she’d determined was that it was not from her own missing, presumably dead or infected, daughter. No close genetic link. Based on mitochondrial DNA markers she was probably from the Syrian region but that was at best a guess. She’d been pregnant at some time. She was malnourished. That was about it. There wasn’t much you could really tell about the woman’s life from a spinal cord. There were markers for H7D3 anti-bodies which meant the collected had been exposed but no trace of the virus.

“And where did this come from?” Doctor Shelley asked, looking at another spine in a bag. “Do we know?”

“Private Bahadur was clearing a house and shot him,” Captain Surigar said. “He did not attack. The Private believes he was hiding and may be what the Americans term a ‘beta.’”

“Hmmm…”

That posed a conundrum. There were only two ways to find out if someone was actually infected with H7D3. Symptoms, notably the violent insanity and nakedness characteristic of alphas and a brain autopsy. You could test for antibodies but as proven with Subject A that was no proof of presence of the virus. She hated what she was about to say, but the world was a very unpleasant place.

“Discuss this with your higher command first,” she said. “But I need you to collect some betas for…analysis. Two dead, two live will do. You’ll need to refrigerate the dead ones. I’ll find someone to do the autopsy. Don’t strip the spines. I’ll need them whole. And we’ll need to set up a confinement facility for the live ones…”

* * *

Steven John Smith, Secretary of War of the United States (SecWar), rubbed his face and wondered if he was
ever
going to get a break from zammies.

“They’re clean?” President Rebecca Staba said.

“Entirely,” Doctor Dobson said over the video conference.

They were barely starting to get East Coast cities reduced to about orange using a variety of Subedey systems. Their initial plan to use mostly radiological killers wasn’t a bust but it was only part of the program. In places they’d found stored toxic chemicals in partially cleared areas and moved those forward to supplement. A recent trend had been to pack containers with ammonium nitrate fuel oil explosives, put lights and speakers on top, drop by helicopter well away from potential survival shelters, let sit for a few days then blow the IED. That usually took out a few thousand at a time especially if the chopper got a feeding frenzy going by machine gunning a few infected.

Approximately thirty million to go and Atlanta and the CDC were sort of, well,
inland
. They were getting there. Slowly. In the meantime, video was the way to go.

“We, well,
Emory
, managed to get a few individuals clear of the virus before the Fall,” Dobson said. “Massive doses of rare and difficult to manufacture anti-virals did it in a couple of cases. Not all. And what you got back for your trouble were…vegetables. No higher brain activity. Just…”

“So that’s what happened with betas?” Steve said. “They got the disease then…threw it off?”

“It’s the most likely scenario,” Dobson said. “The human immunes system is a complex engine. Just because you’ve got a disease doesn’t mean you keep it. And the H7 virus was never really structurally robust. Could have just…fallen apart. The main thing to keep in mind is that from the point of view of H7 they’re a non-threat. Now, they tend to carry other diseases, but…Not H7.”

“What about the lack of clothing?” Steve said then shook his head. “Stupid question. They would have gotten the formication at the beginning, thrown off their clothes then later thrown off the H7. So still en nue.”

“Yes,” Doctor Dobson said. “But not a threat.”

“That’s good to hear,” Steve said.

“And it creates a real issue,” President Staba said.

“Why?” Dobson said.

“What you just pointed out, Doctor, is that there are approximately two million additional
human
survivors who are a non-threat but also incapable of caring for themselves,” the POTUS said in exasperation.

“Killing all the alphas is a horrible and bloody necessity. We can’t get anything done, rescue the remaining sentient survivors, with them in the way. I am not my predecessor but, by the same token, some human charity toward the
betas
now seems…more or less a moral
requirement
. They are American citizens who truly are simply victims of a horrible plague. And we don’t have unlimited resources.”

“Please don’t ask the Army to help,” Steve said. “We’ve got enough on our plate.”

“I foresee a cabinet meeting,” the President said, shaking her head. “What fun.”

* * *

“There’s not much we can do,” Steve said. “There are two problems, tactical, sociological if you prefer, and logistical.”

The Cabinet of the United States Federal Government was a far more informal group than it had been before the Fall. Among other things it was significantly reduced; most of the positions were gone. All that remained, currently, were State, War, Interior and Treasury. Most of the other positions were either unfilled or had been regrouped. Transportation, Housing and Agriculture, for example, were all filed under “Interior.”

The President’s Mansion, still called the “White House,” was a “McMansion” in Alexandria, Florida, across the river from Jacksonville proper and near the Mayport Naval Air Station. They were meeting in the “Florida Room” which looked out over the pool and the St. John’s River. It wasn’t the largest room in the house but it was a small group.

“The tactical problem is that betas look upon sentients as just a different kind of alpha,” Steve continued. “Thus they avoid us. They even tend to avoid each other. Even if we
want
to help them, we’d have to literally hunt them down. The logistical problem is that we’d have to feed, house and clothe up to three million crazy people. Betas might even run as high as our sentient surviving population. I don’t think it’s
doable
Madame President.”

“We haven’t really determined what ‘it’ is, yet,” President Staba said. “I’m not even saying something must be done. Just that it is worth discussing.”

“Are they trainable?” Carlton Ryan asked. The Secretary of the Treasury was a former VP of Goldman Sachs who’d been picked up rather early in Wolf Squadron’s history. He’d spent most of his time as a civilian boat captain until the reestablishment of the US government. “To at least mostly take care of themselves? Get dressed, use the bathroom instead of shrubbery?”

“Unknown,” Steve said, shrugging. “I know from Faith’s reports that they tend to collect stuff and use shelter. But that’s about it.”

“Who do we have that can set up a research facility?” President Staba said. “It seems that what we need first is information. Then we can start to look at the problem. As if we haven’t enough.”

“I’m not sure if it’s in my bailiwick or not,” Steve said, temporizing. “I don’t really see it as a military ‘thing.’”

“Wasn’t pointing at you, Steve,” President Staba said, smiling. “Sounds like a job for…Interior?”

“Gah,” Olivia Alvarado said. She’d gotten the job courtesy of being a former bureaucrat in the Florida Department of Agriculture. Since Interior was mostly concerned with getting roads and agriculture back up and running she had sufficient credentials and knowledge for the job. The “Congress,” which mostly met in Texas given it was the only state officially back up and running, had approved her at long distance. “I was afraid it would fall on my department. Sorry to point it out, but I need budget for it. And don’t ask me how much. No clue as yet.”

“Try to keep it down,” President Staba said.

“I’ll take the job of capture,” Steve said. “Just tell me when you need them. Plenty to be found.”

* * *

“And the answer is: betas are trainable,” Secretary Alvarado said, happily, as the subject came up at the next cabinet meeting. “I’d like to introduce Mister Abraham Powers. He worked in a home for the mentally challenged before the Plague and runs the Beta Analysis Program. Mister Powers?”

“Betas are trainable,” Powers said. He was a big man with a rumbly voice, bushy beard and bright blue eyes. “Compared to my previous experience with the mentally challenged, they’re fairly similar to Down’s Syndrome. They even tend to be docile once they become assured they are not in a threatening situation. That may, however, be selection. From the reports we got from the Marine teams detailed to capture them some were more hostile and were simply left to their own devices. So we tended to get the most docile.

“After fairly minor training they respond to most verbal commands and may even retain some memory of language. They’ll frequently respond to
untrained
verbal commands and even…normal social niceties. One of our earliest subjects retained understanding of some dressing rituals, she only needed to be shown how to put on a dress once and when faced with buttons figured them out on her own. Others will tend to sit on a chair rather than on the floor. We’ve trained a few of the more advanced to use forks and spoons, although they tend to be clumsy with them. At this point we have a total of ten subjects and of those six have learned basic social rituals including how to bathe themselves, make beds, etcetera.

“They don’t tend to interact badly socially but there are issues. Males tend to react…very much as males in the presence of females. When there is a point of contention they don’t have linguistic skills to work them out so they tend to get physical fairly quickly. That being said, they do…communicate. But it is mostly at the grunt and body language level. In terms of IQ, they run from around sixty to eighty. Which puts them in the severe to profound intellectual disability categories. I would like to give a practical demonstration. I brought along one of our more advanced subjects if you’d like to meet her.”

“Is there any threat?” Steve asked. “No offense. I’ve been around betas before but we’re talking about the cabinet and a plague.”

“Katherine is not a threat,” Powers said. “Epidemiologically or physically. She is extremely beta but still comparatively bright. And has no trace of H7. If we weren’t in this environment you’d assume she was just…normally mentally challenged.”

“Service?” President Staba said.

“We already have analyzed the threat, Madame President,” Agent Phillips said. “I agree with Mister Powers that she does not represent a significant threat. And if she presents threat she can be taken down fast enough.”

“I’m fine with it,” the President said. “How’s she respond to new people.”

“Well,” Powers said. “Or I wouldn’t have brought her ma’am. But probably best not to get too…aggressive if you don’t mind. She tends to try to run and hide if people get aggressive.”

“Bring her in.”

* * *

Subject Katherine was probably in her twenties, about five six, had red hair, blue eyes and…

“Okay,” President Staba said, softly. “For some reason I hadn’t expected her to be
pretty
.”

“And pregnant,” Steve noted.

The beta was distinctly round in the tummy.

“She arrived that way, Captain,” Powers said in a soft, rumbling tone. “Katherine, these are friends. Friends?”

Katherine hooted and ducked her head, avoiding eye contact, as he led her to one of the open chairs.

“Can you sit, Katherine?” Powers said.

The beta carefully took her chair, continuing to avoid eye contact.

“Okay,” the President said. “This really brings my point about the human catastrophe home. Steve, we can’t just let these people die. They’re people.”