The Rising Dead (5 page)

“Fuck!”

A wild look flashed across Satoshi's sallow face. He opened his ragged, bloody mouth and leaned forward toward Graham, who renewed his efforts to kick him over and free himself. It was too late! Satoshi locked his jaw on Graham's right shoulder. Graham could feel the teeth starting to penetrate his skin. He'd been bitten and it hurt like hell! Graham let out a loud roar of pain and misery like a death cry. Satoshi pulled away from him. White foam covered his mouth like a rabid dog.

“Get off me!” Graham spit the words out at him.

A woman screamed at the top of her lungs.

“Let him go,” said a deep, steady voice from somewhere above them. Graham craned his head around to see two members of the security team, Ramirez and Torres advancing on them guns drawn.

“Nice and slow,” Torres warned.

It happened so fast Graham almost couldn't believe his eyes. One second Satoshi was pinning him down and the next he had sprang up and latched himself by the mouth to the side of Torres's neck. Torres let out a terrified cry as Satoshi tore open his throat with a savage bite. A torrent of bright red blood pumped out of the side of the open wound as Torres fell over onto Graham, his body twitching in shock. Graham could hear screaming somewhere off in the distance. Ramirez was backing away talking into a walkie. Satoshi's lips curled back into a bloody sneer. It was the last thing Graham remembered seeing before a cold darkness pulled him under.

CHAPTER FOUR

Gunner leaned back in his cheap office chair and took a swig of lukewarm coffee from his camouflage green Army thermos, washing down the remains of a dry bologna-on-white-bread sandwich. The small black and white television he'd brought in and set on the desk belched out endless images of the burning tanker, first drifting along idly like a ghost ship, then later cracking in half and sinking. It reminded him of the 9/11 footage in a strange way, how they showed the impossible image over and over of the building just disintegrating into itself and no one even questioned it.

“It's nonsense,” he muttered to himself as the newscaster recited some practiced version of the truth to his audience. “That fire would have burned out on it's own and the ship would still be drifting like a fat turd in the toilet bowl. They sunk it. Plain and simple. Bastards don't even have the decency to tell the rest of us why.”

A chirp from his police scanner caught his attention and he froze dead still, like a forest animal trying to avoid becoming a hungry predators lunch.

“Officer requesting assistance on the fourteen hundred block of Paradise,” the dispatcher droned. “Suspect drunk and combative. Additional officers in route.”

“Copy that,” a static distorted male voice replied. The scanner went dead again. Gunner let out a long sigh and shook his head. He reached over and shut it off. It was quiet today, too quiet for the start of convention season. Usually by now Vegas was awash with the kind of trash that flew in from every known city in America and immediately forget their fucking manners. It amazed him how the moral rules of the universe just didn't seem to matter to people once they got to town. What was it about the desert, he wondered, that made people forget their sense of common decency? Grown men forgot they were married, forgot they had sisters, hell even forgot they had a mother once. One whiff of desert air and they were like howling degenerates out to screw anyone and anything they could get their paws on. It made him sick.

What was worse was that the city seemed to condone almost any kind of reprehensible behavior an out of towner could dream up. So long as the guest stayed in one of the overpriced casinos on the strip and had a return ticket home, they could puke and fornicate in the streets and not expect even a citation.

Vegas PD had other concerns. Gunner understood that. Between the influx of lawless bikers and the gangs teaming up despite previous rivalries, it was a wonder the city didn't burn to the ground, prostitutes and all. The cops were simply overwhelmed by a tidal wave of pimps, pedophiles, scam artists, thugs, extortionists, and murderers. Every week his helpful scanner let him know that another six to ten homicide cases were being added to the unsolved pile. More and more they featured runaway girls turned to hooking for drug money with no one looking out for them and no one to miss them when they were gone. Out of control girls that ended up on the wrong side of an angry ex-con turned pimp or wound up being the final party favor for a wealthy and untouchable high roller. Compared to these crimes being drunk in public was no more offensive than jay walking.

The police were simply overwhelmed and burned out. The average new cop lasted less than three years before moving out of State. He didn't blame them. He blamed the media. He blamed the mayor. He blamed the goddamn President. All of them turned a blind eye to the problem, to the pleas for more help. What did they expect would happen?

Someone had to step in and do something. Someone had to expose the corruption that just kept getting swept up under the rug. Gunner had even considered applying when he first got out of the military, before his common sense kicked in. He'd barely made it out of armed services in one piece, thanks in no small part to his inability to take orders and obey authority. He asked too many questions. That was the problem. He just couldn't shut his mind off. He'd been this way since he was a kid, and he'd been paying the price for it just as long.

“Sources from inside the government tell us that the infection has been contained,” the reporter said. Gunner whipped around to face the television again.

“Bullshit!” He roared with indignation.

“While no bodies have been retrieved we're being told there were no survivors when the boat unexpectedly sank without warning,” the reporter continued. “Mexican authorities continue to deny that there was a break out at Islas Marias Federal Penitentiary. The island prison colony is believed to have been the site of an extremely contagious strand of leprosy. With the transfer of over seven hundred suspected cartel members to the island in the last several months some experts believe that drug gangs may have been involved in trying to help prisoners escape.”

Gunner knew only too well that nearly everything the polished-looking talking heads on television told him was a lie. They didn't tell you the news. Not anymore. They just fed you their propaganda, what they wanted you to believe. And people lined up to swallow it, sentence by poisonous sentence, letting it rot their heads like cancer. They were no better than farm animals being led to the slaughter.

“We'll tell you what local fisherman have to say about the crisis and how it may affect you, after this quick commercial break.”

Gunner shut the television off in disgust.
Did they really expect anyone to believe their nonsense? And why on Earth did they talk like that?
He suspected there was something to the way they moved their heads around when they spoke, some hypnotic mind controlling suggestion they were attempting with their body language and speech patterns, but he'd given up being able to unravel it long ago.

Gunner grabbed a stack of mail he'd brought from home off the top of the television. He lifted his feet and set them on the edge of his desk, letting out a loud sigh as the black rubber of the combat boots hit the metal and took some of the pain out of his lower back. It felt good to be getting back to his normal routine, now that summer had ended and the new fall shift was starting. So far, there were only clusters of returning scientists, and most of the suits were still off God-knows-where, enjoying their break like privileged college students from affluent families.

Worthless cunts,
thought Gunner,
every last one of them.

While they’d been off growing weaker, he'd spent the summer in intensive conditioning at a so-called boot camp for Black Helix at their headquarters in South Dallas. He'd put in long days training rejects for their lower level security force Code Gray. Most candidates would end up providing personal protection for politicians and celebrities on a job-by-job basis. It was shit work, plain and simple, but it paid way better than what he was making. His current position, guarding assholes at a government clearance bio tech company, meant long hours on his ass pointlessly watching video monitors. For the life of him he'd never understand why they only hired former Gulf War vets to babysit scientists. Even if they were making potential chemical and biological weapons behind those doors the chances of being attacked by a foreign enemy were virtually none. While Black Helix did the tedious details the Code Gray clowns got to travel and see some action. Whether it was pummeling a stalker or roughing up an aggressive paparazzi didn't matter. At least they saw combat.

Despite being offered a position as lead supervisor countless times, Gunner found the work demeaning in general. That didn't mean he didn't enjoy helping them beat up on new recruits. There was nothing like the feeling of pushing a guy past his limits until he finally broke--and either became a better warrior or quit for good.

Most of the training involved teaching hand-to-hand combat and close range fighting, but some of it allowed Gunner to dog these overweight slobs around a running track in the hot sun. He found that pretty rewarding. Half of them looked like they had failed being mall cops. The other half looked like they had won some kind of eating competition. The company's version of “boot camp” didn't even come close to the type of brutal and demanding physical punishment real boot camp put you through. These sorry candy-asses that showed up couldn't handle that. No sir. But it did whip them into some kinda shape, at least as long as Gunner was helping out. As emotionally rewarding as it was he had fallen behind on his reading.

Usually during the latter part of the afternoon, after most of the eggheads were out for the day and the grounds had grown quiet, he'd get a chance to flip through some of his newsletters. Other guys mindlessly read one pulp novel after another by writers like John Grisham and James Patterson. There was nothing wrong with that, mind you, but as far as Gunner was concerned there would be plenty of time for that kind of frivolity once Doomsday had passed. He preferred his light reading to be a little more educational in nature until then.

Since coming back from his last tour of duty in Iraq, he'd subscribed for dozens of publications others might consider, well, just a little off the beaten path--even in Nevada. These weren't just
Soldier of Fortune
or
Guns and Ammo
. Any redneck could grab that kind of thing at the local supermarket or gas station, right next to the girlie magazines and the beef jerky rack. Gunner was more interested in the real tools a survivalist would need to stay alive in the event of a catastrophe. He subscribed to
Independent Living
,
Surviving Off the Grid
,
How to Hoard Smart
,
Chaos Strategy 101
, and
Urban Survivalist
. He read and reread the weathered copies over and over until he’d practically memorized them. For instance, right off the top of his head, he knew seven types of fuel sources he could make from plants. Hell, he could lecture better than one of those tweedy nerds giving lame speeches in front of a class of bored college freshman every day at the UNLV campus across the street, that is, if any they ever decided to teach anything useful. Gunner chuckled to himself at the thought of him in a tweed jacket and nerd glasses, opening his briefcase.

He opened the newest copy of
Urban Survivalist
to the main article “Making Antibiotic Alternatives and Weapons from Common Discarded Items” and settled in to read for a spell. Gunner wasn't taking any chances, especially since he heard about the bees dying off. Colony Collapse Disorder had already disrupted three billion dollars worth of crop harvesting in the United States alone, and rumor had it the natural pollinators were disappearing in Europe as well. The first cases could be traced all the way back to a small field in Germany, owned by a farmer supposedly linked to Monsanto. Some blamed the death of the bees on a designer neurotoxin, created by a major pharmaceutical manufacturer to disrupt a parasitic insect that was killing off the corn. Gunner didn't buy it for a second. In his experience, these kinds of things were never accidental. No it was all part of the plan to reduce the world population by any and all means necessary. He'd been like the rest of these blind idiots for years until the military woke him up to the terrible truth. In his lifetime, the world had grown by over four billion people. There simply weren't enough resources for everyone. Sooner or later, something would have to be done about it. Gunner figured by the time they started rationing the essentials, he'd be well prepared and years ahead of them.

Most people thought in day-to-day blocks of time . . . maybe buying enough groceries for a week at a time, if that. They would be the first ones to go when the disaster eventually came. A lot of them wouldn't know what hit 'em. Gunner almost felt sorry for them. Then there were the religious nuts. They took a far more sensible approach to the end of the world, even if it was misguided. Then there were the super rich, the puppet masters with strings of gold, who not only prepared for disasters, they precipitated them, using the ensuing chaos for their own advantage. The blue bloods . . . they stuck together. They knew what was coming next because they were the ones that had set the events in motion. To some degree Gunner respected them, even if he hated their overly privileged guts.

Last but not least were guys like Gunner, ex-military, ex-government, or just plain paranoid. They'd seen too much of the truth to go back to normal life. One glimpse behind the curtain was all it took to permanently change your outlook. These were the guys who would inherit what was left of the world, the ones who were willing to fight to stay alive at all costs.

Most of this last breed kept their stuff stashed in a pile in their garage and carried a BOB--a “bug out bag”--to get them through in case something went down while they were out shopping or at work. Your typical BOB had waterproof matches, a flashlight, ammo, soap . . . basic stuff like that. Gunner was ten steps ahead of them, if not more! He'd fortified his living quarters, secretly converting it into a shelter capable of weathering out the worst kind of storm.