The Savage Dead (6 page)

But he did.

Pilar gaped at what she saw. The wounded man was actually getting back to his feet. His moans did not surprise her. The man must be in terrible pain. But the fact that he was on his feet, and stumbling toward the man with the gun again, shocked her. It wasn't possible.

“He only has one chance,” Ramon said. “He needs to take out the medulla oblongata, here, at the base of the brain pan.”

Pilar glanced at him.

Ramon pointed at the back of his own head, where his skull met the spine. “Right here,” he said. “What snipers call the kill spot. Hit there and all autonomic functions cease.”

Another shot.

Pilar turned back to the window. Out on the floor, the man with the gun had managed a head shot that blasted away most of the top of the other man's skull. A tattered flap of his scalp was hanging down the back of his head.

“Nope,” said Ramon. “He missed it.”

Pilar was speechless. It was impossible, completely and unbelievably impossible, but the man was still on his feet. She expected him to fall over any minute, but he didn't. He staggered forward. The man with the gun started to plead with the man to stand back.

“That won't help,” Ramon said. “Once somebody's infected, and the bacteria have had a chance to take over, the person can't be reasoned with. All they want to do is attack. Doesn't matter who, doesn't matter what. They'll even go after their own children. If our friend out there wants to get through this, he'll have to destroy the medulla oblongata.”

None of what Ramon was saying made sense. He could be that way, cryptic, but she had never felt this over her head with confusion before.

“Hmm,” he said. “Nope. He's done for. Look.”

Pilar hadn't even realized she was staring at Ramon.

“Look,” he said again, and pointed toward the floor.

She did as he commanded. The man with the ruined face had knocked the other man down. The room filled with screaming. Pilar watched it all with a blank expression on her face. What had Ramon done? That man should be dead, but he wasn't. He was missing the top of his head and his chest had a handful of metal in it, yet he was still making a meal of the man. Oh, God, he was eating him.

“He
is
dead, Pilar,” Ramon said.

“What?” For a moment, she thought she'd said something out loud, but then she reminded herself that he had always been able to do that. No one else she'd ever known, except maybe Lupe, when she was younger, could read her face as well as Ramon Medina. Whether she liked it or not, she had no secrets from him.

“You're wondering why he isn't dead. That's because he already is dead. He died before he attacked that first man.”

Pilar shook her head.

“It's true. Here, watch.”

Ramon pounded on the glass. Out on the floor, the man looked up, trying to find the source of the sound.

“Though they're dead, they still respond to sight and sound. There's no other real brain function that we know of, though. Well, except that need to move around and grab stuff. In all other ways, they're dead though. No breathing, no thirst, no nothing.”

He beat on the glass again, and this time, the man got up and crossed to them. He walked right into it. Then, to Pilar's horror, he started trying to chew his way through it, beating on it with his gore-stained palms, smearing blood all over the glass.

“He'll stay like that for hours,” Ramon said. “Once they catch the trail of something, they just keep going until something else comes along.”

Pilar stared at the man. He was ghastly. She'd seen people tortured before, dismembered, burned, scalded with acid . . . this was worse. Worse by far.

“It's the eyes, isn't it?” Ramon said.

She nodded, still staring at the man on the other side of the glass. Ramon was absolutely right. The look in this man's eyes was the same as what she'd seen staring back at her from severed heads on tables or looking up at her from inside duffel bags. Exactly the same. Distant, profoundly vacant.

“That's when you finally believe they're dead, when you look in the eyes.”

“Are you saying that man's a zombie?”

He laughed. “Yes! That's it exactly.”

“You made a zombie?” A thousand questions raced through her head. But there was only one that really mattered. “Why?”

“Pilar, you don't need me to tell you that. You've spent enough time in the United States to know them as a people. They consume. That's what they do. They always have to have the newest thing, the latest thing. Bigger and better. And they always want more. More drugs, more food, more money. America is a mouth that can never be fed enough.” Ramon laughed at that. He pointed out the window. “Just like our friend out there. Pilar, you should see those things eat on a corpse. They're like dogs. They'll eat until their bellies burst open, and then they'll keep on eating. They can never eat enough. Just like our friends north of the border.”

She finally turned away from the horror show on the other side of the glass. Ramon was smiling at her, his hands in his pockets, black hair shiny in the low light from the lamp on his desk.

“Since when are you a philosopher?” she said.

“It's not philosophy to give the people what they want, Pilar. That's marketing.”

“So, what is this thing you're marketing? A virus of some sort?”

“No, better. A flesh-eating bacteria.”

“You're joking?”

“Ask him,” Ramon said, pointing at the window. “He can tell you I'm not. This bacterium is a mutated form of
Clostridium perfringens
, which is pretty common. It's used as the main ingredient in self-rising breads, for example. In fact, I'm told it's common enough as a cause of food poisoning that most people produce an antibody against it. But it can get really nasty if it gets ahold of you. Even the common variety can cause fatal infections, if left untreated. And it's what causes gas gangrene in dead bodies. You can't tell from here, but our friend in there is probably smelling pretty ripe right about now.”

“Lovely.”

“It gets better. Like I said, we've caused it to mutate. What we've got going on in there is strain of
C. perfringens
that's been genetically crossbred with
Lactobacillus rhamnosus.
”

“
Lactobacillus
? That's the stuff in yoghurt.”

“That's right. Very good.”

“I'm surprised you've heard of it, though.”

“I just read the pamphlets, Pilar.”

“So how does it work?”

“Well, apparently it has the ability to influence the neurotransmitters that regulate our physiological and psychological brain functions.”

“And that causes this?”

“We hadn't planned on that. All I wanted was something that could piggyback off of a food supply and cause as brutal a death as possible. I wanted impact.”

She looked once again at the zombie still beating on the glass. “Well, that's certainly impact.”

“It's the monster America deserves.”

“So tell me, what exactly are you planning on doing with this monstrosity you've made?”

“Oh, Pilar, you're disappointing me. You haven't figured it out yet? You brought me the perfect opportunity when you got Senator Sutton's schedule.”

She frowned at him.

“You wouldn't seriously consider releasing this thing on a city, would you?”

“No, of course not. We couldn't control what would happen in a situation like that. If it wasn't contained early enough, we might very well end with something right out of
The Walking Dead
.”

“You watch that show?”

“It's become interesting to me lately.”

She nodded.

“Besides, releasing this on one of the senator's scheduled events would probably miss her. There's no way to ensure that she'd eat from whatever food we decided to piggyback the bacteria on, which is probably going to be cold cuts or bread, something like that.”

“Then how . . . ?”

“What we needed was an enclosed environment,” Ramon said. “We needed somewhere that was isolated and completely enclosed for several days at a time. That way, we could be certain we got to her.”

She frowned at that. Where did he honestly expect to find circumstances like that?

And then it hit her.

“The cruise she's taking. You're going to release this on a cruise ship.”

“Exactly.”

It was brilliant. She could see that. She could picture it, a cruise ship gliding into the docks at Cozumel with thousands aboard. The psychological impact of that would be catastrophic, and Ramon Medina would come out on top. He'd be the king. No other cartel could touch him—they'd be too afraid to. The Americans would be the same story. They'd be too afraid he'd release his little bag of horrors on one of their cities.

“You realize they'll vilify you worse than they did Bin Laden, don't you?” she said.

“Perhaps.”

“They will. No question about it.”

“Let them. As long as they fear me, they'll have enough sense to stay away.”

She shook her head. “God, I hope you know what you're doing.”

“I do, Pilar. I know exactly what I'm doing. But I need your help.”

“Me? What can I do?”

“I need someone onboard that ship.”

She laughed out loud. “Yeah, right.”

“Pilar, I need someone on that ship to make sure the plan goes like it's supposed to. I need to know that the senator is dead.”

“But, what about . . . ?” She gestured toward the zombie on the other side of the glass.

“You'll have all the information you'll need to stay safe.”

“Her cruise is in two weeks. You expect me to master everything there is to know about this bacteria of yours in two weeks?”

“I didn't send you to Harvard for nothing.”

She didn't know what to say to that. Pilar stared at the zombie and tried to fathom what was going on behind those dead eyes. The ghost of her own reflection stared back at her, much as it had done from the airplane's window, and she found herself happy, for now at least, for the walls she'd built up over the years.

“Pilar?” he said. “Please do this for me. I wouldn't trust anybody else.”

Damn him, she thought. The bastard had to make it personal. He really knew how to get to her. She'd never been able to tell him no.

She closed her eyes.

“Fine,” she said. “I guess I'm your girl.”

C
H
A
PTER
4

From the street, only two members of Juan Perez's team were plainly visible. At least to the untrained eye. That was good; that was exactly the way he wanted it. Exactly like Senator Sutton wanted it, too. She'd been very clear on that point. She knew Juan took his orders from the White House, and that she didn't have any choice in taking the protection his team provided, but she nonetheless made sure they knew how she felt about it. She didn't want to feel like she was living in a compound. And she would not give the cartels the satisfaction of knowing that they had driven her behind walls or that she was living in fear. As far as she was concerned, every moment she spent in the public eye was a slap in the face to the cartels, and she intended to get the most out of it.

It hadn't been difficult to meet her demands. The layout of her street and the surrounding businesses made it a snap, even for a small team like his. Her building was midway down Woodley Place, and there were discreet parking lots at the two large cross streets of Woodley Road and Calvert to the north and south, respectively. Every car turning onto the street (and it was a quiet street, so there hadn't been many) in the week since the attempt on her life at the Washington Hilton, could be checked and run through the NCIC databases without the driver ever seeing the agents who ran their plates. Additionally, the Secret Service had been able to lease an apartment directly across the street from the senator's building, and the Bank of America behind her had been kind enough to let them use a third-story office that covered the roof of the senator's building. The office had the added benefit of commanding a long view down the service alley that led behind the senator's apartment, which cut down on the number of posts he'd have to man and helped him stay under budget. Also, there was an Indian curry house down on Calvert that Juan had grown quite fond of, and a yoghurt shop up at Woodley Road that Tess liked. All in all, Juan was pleased with the setup. Nobody was getting in here without bringing down an immediate response, and his agents didn't have to work in crappy conditions to make sure that happened.

Satisfied, he went inside and met Paul Godwin, who, as usual, was on his cell phone.

“Okay,” Paul said. From his stiff, attentive posture, Juan figured he was talking with the senator. “No, he just walked in. Are you ready for us? Okay.”

He hung up the phone and he and Juan shook hands.

“Thanks for coming on such short notice.”

“Not a problem,” Juan said.

He nodded at the sling holding Juan's left arm. “How's the arm? Does that hurt?”

“It's all right,” Juan said.

“I've never known anybody who got shot before.”

“I don't recommend it.”

Godwin forced a laugh, but Juan could tell how uncomfortable he was. “Sounds like good advice. Listen, that reminds me. She's been pleased with how well your team has done keeping a low profile. Considering how everything's been going after the shooting, you guys have really done a great job. We're concerned, you know, with her image. With the press being what it is, it doesn't pay to be a bad neighbor.”

“I imagine not. Is that what she wants to talk to me about?”

“Not exactly. Here, come with me.”

Paul gave a quiet courtesy knock on a white door that led into the rest of the apartment, waited a moment, and then opened the door and ushered Juan into a spacious sitting room. The floor was hardwood, the white wood-paneled walls adorned with paintings of Senator Sutton's ranch near Val Verde Springs, Texas. This sitting room was where Senator Sutton did most of her press conferences, and the room had been on the news enough recently that, upon stepping into it, Juan felt like he was entering a place he knew well, despite having never been, like the set of a favorite sitcom.

Senator Sutton rose to greet him. She was wearing a red pantsuit over a black blouse, and when she shook his hand, it was with the firm, self-assured grip of a woman accustomed to holding court.

“Won't you have a seat, Agent Perez?” She gestured to one of the white high-backed chairs opposite the corner of the couch where she always sat during press conferences. “We have coffee or tea. Soft drinks, if you prefer.”

“I'll get it, ma'am,” said Paul. To Juan, he said, “Black coffee, two sugars, right?”

“Uh, okay. Sure. Two sugars.” Juan was lost as to how Paul knew his tastes in coffee until he remembered they had been at the table together for a while that night at the Washington Hilton. The man had spent so much time on his cell phone that night Juan hadn't thought he'd been paying attention. Clearly, he'd misjudged him.

Sutton already had a cup of tea on the coffee table in front of her, and she sipped it, waiting for Paul to come back with Juan's coffee. Juan glanced up at the paintings on the wall.

“Your ranch looks like a nice place,” he said.

“Thank you. Wayne and I like it, too. You're from Del Rio, aren't you, Agent Perez?”

“Yes, ma'am.” But he didn't elaborate. The house where he grew up looked quite a bit different from her ranch, and she seemed to sense that in his silence, for she didn't press for more details. They may have hailed from the same part of Texas, but they were still from different worlds.

Paul came back with his coffee, served in a fragile porcelain cup on a saucer that reminded Juan of a little girl's tea set. But when he drank it, his eyebrows went up.

Christ, he thought. The rich drink good coffee.

“I'm going on vacation,” Sutton said.

The comment caught Juan off guard. “Oh?”

“Yes, a cruise, actually. To Cozumel.”

Juan coughed on his coffee and had to put it down on the table between them. “Oh,” he said. “Mexico. Really?”

Sutton glanced at Paul and chuckled. Paul was on his cell phone again. He didn't look up, but he chuckled, too, and Juan had the feeling he was the odd man out on a joke.

“I was going to ask your opinion of that,” Sutton said, “but I can see that isn't necessary. You don't approve.”

“Well, ma'am, I guess you're entitled to a vacation, just like anybody else.”

“That's not exactly what I'm driving at, Agent Perez. I want your opinion.”

“My professional opinion, you mean?”

“Of course. It's not every day I'm put under the watchful eye of a presidential security detail.”

“Well, in that case, I think a cruise is going to be a logistical nightmare for my team. And two weeks is gonna be pretty tight when it comes to setting up cabin arrangements, and we'll have to contact the—”

Sutton held up a hand. “Agent Perez, let me stop you there. I don't want the Secret Service treatment on this. This is going to be a casual affair. My husband, and I, and of course, Mr. Godwin, if I can get him off his phone long enough to enjoy some Caribbean scenery.”

He looked at Paul, who was still focused on his phone. No help there.

To Sutton, he said, “Ma'am, I think you lost me.”

“Agent Perez, I know an awful lot about you, despite your sealed Army record. You spent five years in Delta Force. I read the action report for the silver star you won in Zacatecas.” She suddenly smiled at him. “Don't frown like that, Agent Perez. I know that information is classified. I have clearance.”

He nodded.

“I also know you were recruited by the CIA's Special Operations Group. Not many people get an invitation like that, but you turned them down. Why?”

Juan didn't hesitate. “I'm a soldier, ma'am. Not a spy.”

“Yes, but you left the Army. Why? Why walk away from what I understand to be the most coveted spot in the Army?”

Images of his wrecked first marriage surfaced, along with a lot of guilt and regret, but he didn't let it show on his face. He sipped his coffee and said, “Deploying for months at a time isn't good for a marriage,” he said. “I left to try to save mine.”

“Ah,” she said. “Well, fair enough. My point is I know that you've spent more time fighting the cartels than just about anybody else out there. You know them, and I respect that. I haven't fought them the way you have, but I've engaged them in my own way, and I've come to think of you as something of a kindred spirit in that regard. We both have the same enemy, and we both mean to stamp him out forever. So it's your professional opinion as an enemy of the cartels that I want to hear. Knowing them the way you do, how do you think they'd react to an American senator vacationing right under their noses?”

He leaned forward and took another sip of his coffee while considering his answer.

“I still think it's a bad idea,” he said at last. “Why play games like that with your safety?”

“This is most assuredly not a game, Agent Perez. You need to understand that I am very serious about what I'm doing.” She paused there, staring him directly in the eye. Finally, she said, “What I intend to do is make a statement the cartels will never forget. Not only am I going to ruin them financially, but I am going to rub their noses in it by drinking piña coladas in their backyard.”

Juan nearly laughed. And he would have, right in her face, if what she was suggesting wasn't so offensive. The woman's sense of entitlement was shocking.

“You don't approve,” she said.

Paul laughed without looking up from his phone. “I told you.”

Juan didn't trust himself to speak, so he simply shook his head.

“Why?” Sutton said. “I want to know. I thought you, more than anyone, would understand why this is so important.”

Go easy, he told himself. The ground can slip away from here if you're not careful.

“You're making a statement,” he said. “I get that.”

“But . . . ?”

“I've seen what happens when politicians make statements. I saw it in Zacatecas and I saw it Ciudad Juarez. When politicians make statements, innocent people end up getting killed.”

“Killed?” she said. She looked genuinely shocked. “You're referring to that woman who was shot at the Washington Hilton last week. That was not my fault.”

“No,” he said. “Her death was not your fault. I'm not blaming you.”

“Then what are you saying?”

“I'm trying to make the point that cruise ships carry families, senator. People take their kids on cruises. It's fine if you want to thumb your nose at the cartel in their own backyard, as you say, but are you prepared for the collateral damage that might bring with it? What happens if some cartel assassin opens fire on you while you're in a crowd? Could you really justify the importance of making a statement in a situation like that?”

She didn't answer right away, and as Juan sat there waiting for her response, he was certain he had gone too far. Agents, they taught at the academy, were meant to be seen and not heard. There were no politics when you were on the job, and those agents who spoke their mind usually found themselves looking for a new job.

But she surprised him with her response. “You made an odd career choice for a man who hates politicians, Agent Perez.”

“I don't hate politicians, ma'am.”

She held up a hand. “It's okay,” she said. “I get it. I must say though, I didn't expect you to be as opposed to this as you so obviously are.”

He smiled. He was tempted to remind her that he'd been raised on the poor side of Del Rio, and that things often looked different when seen from the bottom up, but he didn't take the bait. He'd made his point, and anything more than that would turn her against him. Instead, he pressed his advantage.

“Well, you're obviously committed to this. Can I at least make a suggestion about the kind of protection we put in place for this trip?”

“I told you, Agent Perez, I don't want the Secret Service treatment on this.”

“I know. But I think there's a middle road that will work for both of us.”

“Oh?”

“You said this trip is just you, your husband, and Mr. Godwin here?”

“That's right.”

“Then may I suggest that Mr. Godwin bring his fiancée?”

Paul Godwin looked up from his phone for the first time since they'd all sat down together. He looked utterly perplexed.

But Senator Sutton was way ahead of him. “You're thinking of Agent Compton, aren't you?”

“I am,” said Juan.

“Oh, I like her,” said Sutton. “Paul, what do you think?”

Godwin nearly jumped out of his chair. “Absolutely,” he said. “You bet. That'd be, uh . . . yeah, I like that idea. A lot, actually.”

Juan smiled. Godwin didn't have much of a poker face. The man was clearly thinking how nice it'd be to share a cabin with Tess Compton, maybe even getting lucky after a couple of fuzzy navels up on the sundeck.

Yeah, good luck there, buddy, Juan thought. Put a toe out of line with Tess Compton and she'll break you into little pieces.

“So, it's settled then?” said Sutton.

Still smiling, Juan turned his attention back to the senator. “Yes ma'am,” he said. “I'll tell Agent Compton she's headed to Cozumel. I'm sure that'll make her day.”