The Zone (34 page)

“Yes, Ted, I’m fine, how are you?” I had been awake, reading an Army FM on improvised explosives.

“I’m sorry, I’m very tired.” He sounded half-dead, in fact.

“So what we got you wasn’t enough?”

“It very nearly was; to be technical, it covered everything. The sticking point is an extract translation of a handful of symbols. The language in that period was extremely primitive and cumbersome.”

“So what have you learned?” I wasn’t surprised he claimed to need more, but I wasn’t going to trust his judgment.

“Two things of importance in our current situation. The king or some of his subordinate leaders trapped a large number of infected in a underground area, a tomb or catacombs; this was rather interesting because it corresponds to an area recently occupied by US troops, Camp something, a letter, established in a large area of ruins and historically significant areas. Apparently a large amount of looting was conducted by contractors over the last year, with one group of Turkish road workers being reported as having opened an underground area.”

“You think they found the trapped area?”

“It fits-the record states the king had it sealed and hidden. Since the virus surfaced in Turkey, perhaps it is possible that objects recovered from the area were still contaminated. Whether a virus could exist in a viable state that long is a matter outside my expertise. And beside the point.”

“OK. Interesting, though.”

“Yes. Now, to the meat of the matter: the king created his weapon from what they called alchemy, chemistry in other words. It was a substance that slew the infected at a touch, much more effectively than rock salt. Best of all, it was a common substance or combination of substances.”

“And the substances are…”

“That is where I need the translation material. Whatever it was, they mixed it with wax or tallow and spread it on the blades of their arrows and weapons. I have the actual name of what he used, but without additional material, I cannot translate it.”

“You can’t get the information by the Net or e-mailing someone?”

“Not at the moment. FEMA moved the three people who have the best chance of knowing, and I have no idea how long it will take for them to re-contact me.  The Net is dying, more and more servers going off-line each day. I am still searching, but I doubt that avenue will help within our time frame. If we had more time I would urge caution, but the river started in New York.”

“OK, we caught a break-I may have a line on some shooters, and if they agree to help I will mount the effort tomorrow morning. Sunday morning.”

“Good. I am e-mailing you the information on the target, and the contact data for a woman in Oregon with whom I have been sharing information. Send the information you gather to both of us.”

“Sharing your byline on history?”

He paused before answering. “No. Insurance, I suppose it could be called. I am not well; to be honest, I am dying. As you know, I am…confined to a wheelchair, but more importantly, my body has suffered from a major trauma and as a result has…vulnerabilities which most people do not. Living in these conditions, with limited water…I do not have long. My ability to process data will degrade sharply when the end begins, so I must insure that the project can be completed without me. I have briefed her, so the translation will be accomplished either way.”

“Good thinking. We might do this yet.”

“Defeat the infected?”

“No, I mean get your weapon identified and in use. Odds are very good it won’t be enough. Maybe a week ago, but now?  Too late.”

“So why are you willing to go ahead with this operation?”

“I like history, particularly military history, and I am very interested in the minor events that change things. In the Civil War before Antietam a copy of Lee’s orders, wrapped around some cigars, fell out of a staff officer’s gear. A Union Sergeant picked it up for the cigars, and turned in the orders. That affected the battle, which affected the war. At Gettysburg the Fifteenth Alabama assaulted Little Round Top on the second day of the battle, and they nearly took the hill, which might have won the battle for the South-definitely would have had a major impact, anyway. The Colonel of the Fifteenth, Oates, reported that he likely would have carried the day but for the fact that he had to order the attack five minutes before a water detail returned with the regiments’ canteens-the detail, twenty-two men, ended up walking straight into the Union lines and were captured because their regiment had moved. The defense by the Twentieth Maine turned the final struggle for the hill into a close-quarters fire-fight. Oates said that his men were tired and thirsty from the march into position and ascent up the hill in July heat, while the Union troops had been waiting in the shade. Its far from impossible-the commander of the Maine troops also said the fight was an extremely close-run affair. So maybe your weapon will work. Maybe it will add the one or two percent to the combat equation that turns things in our favor. It’s a fact that I could not have pulled off today’s op if I hadn’t had the salt rounds. This operation is a long shot, but it’s the only long shot I know about. The virus will win or lose on percentage points: if at enough sites they get enough infected out of the Zones they will win. We win if we stop that. In a close-run engagement, little things can carry the day.”

“Interesting.”

“It’s basically the same reason you’re dying in a library instead of surviving in a FEMA camp, Ted: if you choose to be part of the game, you play the cards you get.”

“That is true. Good luck tomorrow, Martin.”

“Good night, Ted.” I wasn’t sure if he was trying to guilt me by saying he was dying, or telling the truth, but it didn’t matter to me either way-we were all dying. Mick and Bob had gone already, and the rest of us weren’t likely to be far behind.

I was beginning to believe that this virus or one very like it had confronted them in old Sumeria, and they had survived. Maybe they had been on to something. Maybe it could help-it certainly couldn’t hurt.

I felt better-some rest, a bit of good news, my sense of purpose renewed all added up to a small but solid boost in morale. I downloaded and printed the data Ted had sent and consulted my material. Time to plan.

The rescue board was slowing down-more teams had bought the farm or gone silent; Zedbait 005 was dead, killed in a rescue that turned to shit down near City Hall. Ergo reported that he had a close call downtown, and a few other regular posters were silent.

I discussed the central Zone situation and our operations with Ergo and Enigma, but there wasn’t a great deal of significant news to exchange. Still, it was sort of Human contact, and these days that meant something.

Afterwards I wrote a long e-mail to my ex, laying out what we were trying to do and had done already. I meant to try to offer some comfort for our boy because I knew it would be ripping her hard, but the words just wouldn’t come to me. So many were dying, some I felt I knew, like Mick, some I sort of knew, like Bob, and some who I had never laid eyes on, like the fellow posters on our rescue board.

I wrote the usual stuff, but it had the depth of a sympathy card. I doubted it would mean much, but I sent it anyway. Odds are if she ever got it, it would just piss her off, but that was something, anyway.

The leader of Steel Hamster Entropy answered to Strad, the sort of nickname that has a history. He was a stocky guy, maybe six one but looking shorter because of his build. He had short hair but for a single braided pony trail the diameter of a pencil hanging down his back, and the same silent, brooding look John Belushi had when he was sober. Strad had fewer demons than the actor, and wasn’t much of a talker-Danny did the talking for the group. He and Strad were of an age (just over thirty) and long-time friends, the kind of guys who played six-man football on the same high school gridiron back in the day and made poor music with great enthusiasm since.

Danny looked bookish, with wire-rimmed glasses and features both intelligent and humorous, his reddish hair gone nearly bald on top and worn cropped close, but he had been a Ranger-school artilleryman in the day, and remembered a lot. He looked slight standing next to Strad, but he was solid and a bit taller than average, a talker and face-man, quick to adapt.

Pete was whipcord thin and average in looks, standing like he had spent time wearing a back brace, a quiet unassuming guy a couple years younger than Strad with intelligent eyes and a diffident manner that looked like there was some intensity bottled up underneath.  He was paired up with Chuck who was maybe twenty-one, a bit shaggy, taller than Strad, and if we weren’t in Texas I would have marked him as a surfer, a happy-go-lucky guy with plenty of piss and vinegar even after a lot of infected-killing.

Those four were the survivors of Atomic Hamster which had had nine members at one time or another; they had pulled nearly two hundred people out of the Zone and dusted many an infected along the way. Strad had gotten his wife and kids out, and Chuck had his bride of less than a year safe as well. Strad and Danny worked assembly lines, Pete managed a tech store, and Chuck was a tech for a radio station now permanently off the air-ordinary guys doing extraordinary things.

Steel Buddha Boogaloo had two survivors out of ten still with the colors, both guys with the look of men who had hang-glided over the Abyss. Phillip was about six three, an ex-VMI grad nearing thirty with the easy-going nature a lot of big guys have, a commercial artist with a conservative haircut and slightly rebellious goatee.

Doc Kato was a moniker assigned by his comrades, but he wore it with good humor; Kato was about five feet of Japanese exchange student who could pass for a twelve year old girl, with what my dad would have called Iwo Jima sniper glasses and shoulder-length hair. He was three years pre-med, hence his prefix to the nickname, although he was packing as much firepower as his skinny frame could manage.

As a group they looked solid, survivors, what remained after the fire had burned away the lesser men and the unlucky. I had called Strad at zero seven hundred Sunday, and after an extended conversation we had met in a Denny’s parking lot for a face-to-face. They had arrived in a school bus that had been fitted out the same way Mick had fixed up ours; the belt of dents it wore attested to the service they had seen.

We sized each other up as introductions were made, our three on one side, their six on the other. They dressed in jeans and tee shirts with ammunition carried in a manner and method chosen by the wearer; all wore at least one sidearm, and carried a long gun. There was no attempt at standardization of weapons or caliber, although all were semi-automatic. Pete had a katana that wasn’t the usual pot-metal wall-hanger, Doc Kato was packing a two-foot blade that looked like a cross between a bush knife and a machete, and Strad had a light axe, just slightly longer than a hatchet.

They weren’t unfriendly, but they weren’t impressed by us or anyone else-the mark of the real infantry who had gone where the blood flowed too often to ever again be impressed by clean boots or regulations. Jake and Key eyed them coolly right back-like me, they saw uniformity as an indicator of professionalism and preparation. In all, we were like two groups of dogs sizing each other up.

“So this is about some super weapon?’ Doc Kato broke the silence, pushing his glasses up with his thumb. His English was accent-less and American in cadence-later I learned he had spent several years on Oahu.

“In theory. You guys heard about rock salt?” They had. “This dead king the doc has studied came up with the idea; he also reported the river-mass march attacks long before they were mounted, that sort of thing. Supposedly he saved his part of Sumeria with something they mixed with wax and coated onto their weapons; this stuff was common enough to issue to his whole army, and drops the infected in their tracks.”

“We don’t actually use blades,” Chuck grinned. He grinned and laughed a lot I was to learn, and despite the fact that he was a very nice young man and brave comrade it was a habit that soon made me want to kill him. “Pete’s the only one who has actually used a blade, and that really didn’t count.”

“Died, didn’t he?”

“He was tangled up in wire.” Chuck shrugged good-naturedly. “So unless wax sticks to bullets after they’re fired it’s a waste.”

“Maybe it can be sealed into hollow-points,” I shook my head. “Maybe it’s the root of a plant that you only find in the Middle East. The op would only take an hour or so, so where’s the harm? It might actually work.”

“Mighta-shoulda-coulda,” Danny said, albeit without any heat.

“The rock salt worked,” Strad said with certainty. “You have a plan?” 

The plan was the problem, or more specifically, the target conditions were. It was four stories tall with a basement, very modern with too much glass on a layout that was supposed to be compelling or uplifting or whatever, meaning nothing was square or regular, and the target room was on floor three. The building was smack in the middle of campus, and absolutely lousy with infected. Getting in without a fight would be a challenge-getting out was going to be really bad.

“The key to this entire cluster is creating sufficient chaos; done correctly the insert team should be able to get into the building and close to the target before being detected.” I tapped the map laid across the warm asphalt of the parking lot.

“And then what?” Phillip asked.