Orpheus (41 page)

"Not any time soon, but I recommend that all of you relocate. If someone is ever stupid enough to come for you, I need time to react. But I laid it all out for him; I don't think it'll ever happen. Although a sick part of me hopes that fuckin' prick tries. No offense."

"You know that I won't let this go forever."

"I don't want you to, Holt, and neither will I, but I need you to be patient for a while. When the time's right, we'll napalm the whole Goddamn operation."

"I have to be honest; I like this side of you."

"You should see me at the horse track. How are things going, you know, on your end?"

He heard a sigh. "I'm almost there."

"Fingers crossed, Holt. Fingers crossed."

* * *

Cameron Holt (not Orpheus; he'd been laid to rest), walked down the street and tried to avoid getting his hopes up.

Just after he'd sent Ethan away, and just before he went to find Trager, he stood toe-to-toe with Anders.

The man slashed with the knife; Orpheus parried with the pipe.

Slash, parry, slash, parry. Orpheus suffered a few superficial cuts, but he wouldn't allow anything fatal. Not at the hands of this man.

Orpheus was patient, and Anders was anything but. He charged in, as Orpheus knew he would, and a downward strike of the pipe on his wrist succeed in both knocking the knife to the floor and rendering the hand that held it useless. Orpheus swung his weapon into the cowering man's ribs and felt a few give. He did it again, and was rewarded with a burst of blood from his mouth.

Orpheus discarded the pipe and waded in with his fists. Anders was overmatched, and tried to defend himself, but there was no defense against the rage coming for him. Orpheus doubled him over with a knee to the stomach, then knocked him to the ground with another one to Anders' face.  Orpheus pummeled him with powerful, precise fists. Anders began begging for his life, but Orpheus wasn't interested until Anders yelled out, "...your wife!"

Orpheus wrapped a hand around Anders throat and pulled him closer. "What the fuck did you just say?"

"...your wife...alive..."

Orpheus' grip released and Anders head cracked against the floor. "What do you mean? You kidnapped her?"

"Not as far as she knows...fuck, don't kill me..."

"Tell me what you mean!"

"Let me go, and I will."

Orpheus considered the offer. An image flashed in his mind: the black trucks, filled with people, heading away from the epicenter of the outbreak. Orpheus hadn't gotten a good look at its occupants, but reasoned that, if they were soldiers sent to fight, they should have been heading toward it. It could have been an evacuation, he supposed, but how had they reacted so quickly?

"No, thanks," he said, and wrapped his hands around Anders' throat.

Anders forced out, "...haven't told you where she is..."

"You already did," Orpheus said, hoping he was right. He couldn't abide the idea of Anders walking around. He would eventually look for revenge, and Orpheus would have to deal with him then. But even knowing all of the evil this man had done, Orpheus was having a hard time committing cold-blooded murder.

He pushed off, retreated a few paces, and dropped to one knee, hand resting near his ankle. Anders gasped for breath. Orpheus said, "It's not going to be that easy for you, Ricky. Get up and let's go."

Anders struggled to his knees. He raised his head, and Holt saw the look of a madman. He knew what Anders was thinking; he'd known it when he'd made the conscious decision to leave the knife well within Anders' reach.

"Don't do it," Orpheus warned. "I'm giving you a choice."

Anders made his decision and came for Orpheus, knife poised for the killing stroke.

Orpheus responded by drawing his backup weapon from his ankle holster, and sending its only round into Anders' face, just above his upper lip. It took a few steps for Anders to realize that he was finished, that he was, for a short time, the walking dead.

Ricardo Anders collapsed in a heap.

Orpheus stared at the weapon in his hand. He discarded it without a second thought, and it clattered to the floor, having fulfilled an entirely different purpose than the one he had originally planned.

He didn't need it anymore.

Anders had said, "Not as far as she knows." She hadn't known she'd been kidnapped? How was that possible?

Unless the kidnapping was the same as a rescue.

Whoever had released the infection on the island wouldn't have been able to just cover it up, even with government involvement. But if they had dozens of witnesses to verify the randomness and the spread of the outbreak? With their cover story corroborated, and with their witnesses thinking that everyone else on the island was dead, they'd be free to do what they wanted to do.

With that in mind, he made sure that everyone was good to go, then he hopped a plane to Ohio.

A few hours and a cab ride later, he found himself at the home of the former Jackie Morelli's parents.

He stepped onto the lawn and hoped.

A furry killer saw him and began to bark at him on the other side of the living room picture window. A woman, wearing familiar sweatpants and a button-down shirt that was far too large for her was drawn to the noise. She scratched him behind the ears until she saw what Casey was barking at, then she stumbled against the couch before righting herself.

"Hey, babe," Holt mouthed, slowly approaching.

She burst through the screen door without unlatching it; cheap ruined hardware hung from the frame. She was in his arms before it closed again. "I knew you weren't dead!" she cried into his neck. "I never believed it!"

"I'm here, I'm here. I'm never leaving again."

She squeezed his head between her hands and alternated between staring and kissing. "I tried to get back! They wouldn't let anyone go back!"

"I know. It's a long story." Casey jumped up and down on Holt's leg, wanting some of his master's attention. He bent over and gave the mutt a quick scratch on his back.

"Ethan? Is he-"

"He's fine, he's okay. He took Rachel to see her parents. I had to make sure first." Cameron Holt pulled out a cell phone. It picked up on the third ring and he said, "Ethan? Everything okay over there? No heart attacks? Good. Whenever you're done there, pack a bag and head to the airport. Two tickets will be waiting, if Rachel's up for a trip. It's time to come home, son."

Chapter 27: Prologue?

The young security officer handed the two new employees their access badges. "Welcome to Charon Biotics International."

The blonde woman reached forward and took her badge. Her shirtsleeve pulled back a little, giving the officer a glimpse of her scrollwork tattoo underneath.

He said, "That's cool. I've always wanted to get a tattoo, but I never really found one I liked enough."

She accepted the badge and winked. "Just let me know, sugar. I know a girl whose work you'll definitely like."

He smiled and blushed a little. He fumbled with the second badge. "Um, here you go, Mr. Driscoll."

The man took the badge and clipped it to his lapel. "Please," he said, thinking of a gift, a promise fulfilled, from a friend. "My friends call me Drummer."

Chapter 28: Afterword

If you held a gun to my head, I honestly couldn't tell you with certainty the first zombie movie I ever saw, but I'm pretty sure it was the original
Night of the Living Dead.
I remember that my mother had a Betamax tape (ask your parents) double feature of that and
Reefer Madness.

High comedy. Pun intended.

I must have been around twelve years old, and it scared the crap out of me. Those shambling bastards were unnerving, for sure, but I didn't get nigh-obsessed with zombies until my mid-to-late twenties. If there's a zombie movie marathon running on SyFy, there's a good chance I'm planted in front of my TV. Zombie novels? I'm in. Same for video games. But now, when I see a zombie film or read a piece of fiction, I look at it with a more critical eye. I've learned a couple things that will come in handy during the inevitable zombocalypse: don't ever split up because you "think" an area's clear; cover your arms at all times; when barricading yourself inside a house, nail the boards on the
outside
of the door, because zombies generally don't know how to pull.

The most significant thing I learned rocked my understanding of the zombie genre. After I'd thought about it at length (I'm sure my work productivity dropped waaaay off during these times) I came to the realization that, with apologies to George Romero, the slow, shambling zombies couldn't possibly overrun the world. Or a state. Or a town. Or a moderately-sized health food store. It just ain't happening.

I initially fought the fast zombie (popularized by works like
28 Days Later
and the
Left 4 Dead
games) on the grounds that they're not real damn zombies. They never died and came back; they were just pissed-off people.

Then I started writing
Orpheus
. I came to the conclusion that, not only were the fast zombies workable, but in the right situation were even more terrifying than the slow ones. Max Brooks made a great case for their existence in
The Zombie Survival Guide
. In it, Brooks said that the zombies would retain the physical capabilities that they had in life for a short time, but that their muscles would have no way of repairing themselves because, hey, they're dead. I liked it, and incorporated it.

The Jekylls? Simple. I couldn't think of anything more horrifying than being caught somewhere in between life and zombification. Being certain that it's impossible to come up with a truly original zombie archetype, I just tried to put my own spin on them, and the rest of the book fell into place. The scene where Tim first meets a Jekyll in the library (and the resulting harrowing escape) is one of my favorites. Put these three variants together (along with the mysterious simultaneous outbreaks on the island...were you wondering about that?) and I believe I have a somewhat plausible recipe for zombie domination.

The thing about the walking dead is that, in my opinion, they should never be the stars, but they're excellent in a supporting role (I'd originally joked about an actor here, but my wife made me take it out, dammit). A zillion other people have taken the "zombies as metaphor for out-of-control consumerism, etc." angle, and that's valid. What I'm more interested in, however, is what zombies bring out of the survivors. They reveal the truth in all of the characters they interact with. The ones who rise to the occasion and take charge have always been leaders, they just never had the right opportunity. The ones who enjoy killing zombies too much...almost as if they were merely waiting for an excuse to kill the people they see every day...they've always been sociopaths. And so on.

I wanted to avoid putting the latter in the spotlight too much because, despite my occasional cynicism towards the human race, I want to believe that a true crisis brings out the best in us. And, frankly, nothing's less interesting to me than the guy who loves nothing more than gunning things down with no emotional conflicts to slow him. Bo-ring. If I'm bored writing it, you'll be bored reading it. An author can focus on believable human beings, or on larger-than-life unstoppable killing machines (which I also enjoy from time to time, by the way). Anyone who tries to do both ends up doing neither particularly well. I chose to focus upon real people in overwhelming circumstances, driven by our shared instincts: fear, love, survival, and, occasionally, revenge.

Orpheus
is the result.

So, that's that. Thanks for coming this far.

I'd love to close this by referring to you, the reader, by some heartfelt sobriquet like Stephen King does with "Constant Reader." He earned that kind of loyalty a long time ago, and I'm not even close. But stick around, because I'm sure going to try.

Dan DeWitt

May2011

RAGNAROK

Preview

The horse dropped gently onto the earth in front of the modest hut, its hoofs making shallow hoof prints and barely a sound. Its wings, their rhythmic flapping not needed for the time being, folded in on themselves, making it easier for the rider to dismount. The rider’s movements were lithe and economical, befitting the role of both warrior and guide for others of that ilk.

Only the spear and shield slung over her shoulder disturbed the night silence, and even that was too slight for any dwellers to take notice. That was at once their disadvantage and good fortune, as they would most likely be dead before they would have cause to fear her, or even notice her presence.

She needed that child.