03 Deluge of the Dead (3 page)

“What do you propose?” Scott inquired.

“I would like to return Clint to observation and isolation in the sickbay where we can acquire further blood samples and conduct additional tests.  I could be wrong about this, but we can’t take any chances.  Anyone who has had close or intimate contact with him since the amputation should also be tested.”

“Of course,” Scott agreed immediately.

*****

At that moment Clint was in Carla’s stateroom. She had invited him there after sharing a drink on the aft pool deck where they had watched the Survival Flotilla swell in size with the arrival of five large cruise ships and hundreds of smaller yachts that had followed the Coast Guard cutter back from Catalina Island.  It was invigorating and encouraging to witness so many uninfected people stream into port at the Terminal Island Safe Haven.  The excitement was shared by everyone aboard the
Sovereign Spirit
and, combined with a few cocktails, had been more than enough to spark some romantic lust between Clint and Carla.  Excited hand-holding had soon progressed to their first passionate kiss.  From that moment on it had only been a matter of time.

Her stateroom had been closest, which explained why nobody was able to find Clint when Scott issued instructions for him to be returned to sickbay for further tests and observation.  At that point, while crewmen were looking for him in his own stateroom and throughout all the public areas on the rest of the ship, Clint was making love to Carla in her bed and feeling just fine.  Due to the recent loss of his left arm he found himself in the unusual position of being on his back while Carla straddled him and did most of the work, but he soon decided that he liked that just fine too.  He didn’t even hear the public address announcements asking him to report to sickbay over the sound of Carla’s iPod player and their own passion.  By then it wouldn’t have mattered anyway.  They had already exchanged body fluids.

*****

FBI Special Agent in Charge Corrigan had flown from the Federal Building to visit with Police Chief Harris and Mayor Del Fuego at the city’s Emergency Operations Center in downtown LA.  The brand new two-story building was designed to survive earthquakes, fires, and even terrorist attacks, not to mention riots.   This zombie apocalypse had put its security systems to their ultimate test.   So far it was working.  Twelve-foot high steel fences kept the zombies out of the ten-acre compound, even though the undead were pressing against it in crowds that spilled out over the sidewalks to cover East Temple Street.  

            Agent Corrigan knew that helicopters landing on the roof were what drew so many zombies towards the EOC.  He had the same problem at the Federal Building where the first few floors had actually been overrun by the infected.   Only the fortified stairwells kept the FBI offices secure there.  The GNN television studios in Westwood had a similar problem.  Its news helicopter and frequent visits by VIPs had drawn thousands of the infected to the surrounding streets.  The zombie horde held the high-rise office building under siege.  Corrigan felt guilty for attracting more attention to the EOC.  He could have used a radio or tried to set up an online conference, but he felt the need to keep an eye on the mayor. The man had shown signs of coming unglued more than once since the crisis began. 

            Corrigan descended two flights of stairs from the rooftop helipad and entered the seventy-five hundred square foot Main Coordination Room.  This was where representatives from every surviving branch of emergency services manned computer and communications consoles, or gathered to watch events on the giant multi-function display screens mounted on the walls.  These tools were supposed to help them control and solve any conceivable crisis in the city, but what they faced now was the inconceivable self-destruction of the city they were supposed to protect and serve.   For the past two weeks they could do little more than watch the apocalypse unfold.  It had come like a bolt out of the blue, totally unexpected and ultimately devastating. 

Ralph Corrigan knew what it was like to feel helpless and inadequate in the face of horrific events.  He had spent most of his life dealing with crises of one type or another.  His career in the FBI had just begun with a posting in Idaho when he had served as backup to the team that stormed Ruby Ridge.  That had left a bad taste in his mouth, but it was nothing compared to his next assignment when he was sent to support the siege of some religious wackos in Waco, Texas.   The stench of burning bodies still plagued his nightmares.   As if things couldn’t get worse, Ralph’s next assignment had been to Oklahoma City.  He had taken a “sick day” when many of his friends and hundreds of strangers were blown to bits in the Federal Building.  It took years of therapy to wash the survivor’s guilt from his mind because he really should have been there writing up his overdue reports on that fateful day.  Nevertheless, FBI agent Corrigan remained a rising star in the Bureau.  In 1999 he was transferred to the New York office and assigned to work on counter-terrorism and diplomatic surveillance.  His regular beat included the UN Building where he followed the activities of diplomats from countries such as Iran, Iraq, and Syria.  It was an educational experience and Ralph thought he was actually getting a handle on the players and threat levels when his world changed again on September 11, 2001. 

Special Agent Corrigan had seen the Twin Towers fall.  He had been driving toward the towering infernos from the UN Building, lights and sirens opening his path, when the first tower crumbled before his eyes.  He stopped the shiny black Crown Victoria in the middle of the street as the incomprehensible dust cloud of destruction engulfed it and everything around him.  Sitting inside the car on that fateful day, as the dust, smoke and debris swirled past the windows, Ralph had been convinced that he was witnessing the apocalypse.  He assumed that nothing could be worse than that.  Of course he was wrong.   As the dust settled he drove the now ghostly gray car closer to the remaining tower, until it too collapsed and engulfed him once again in an even thicker cloud of horror.  By the time he arrived as close as he could drive to Ground Zero, it was all over – all but the lingering horror of the event and the symphony of beeping firemen’s emergency location devices chirping from the rubble.  Ralph had gazed into the mouth of Hell on 9/11 and knew with a certainty that nothing in the rest of his life would approach that level of evil. 

Ralph had been wrong again.  The last two weeks had proven that beyond doubt.  After a decade of fighting the War on Terror in his own way, including helping to foil a plot to repeat the horror of 9/11 right here in Los Angeles, he had been ready to believe that the worst was in the past.  Then the truly unthinkable happened: the Zombie Apocalypse struck on April 1
^st
, 2012.   It was a global event that overran the civilized world in a matter of hours.  

As SAC of the FBI’s Los Angeles Field Office, Ralph Corrigan was the senior surviving federal law enforcement officer in all of Southern California.  That distinction didn’t seem to mean much anymore, especially since most of the Federal Government seemed to have been swallowed, quite literally, by the zombie hordes.  Nevertheless, Ralph still commanded a small but formidable force of FBI agents and a heavily armed Hostage Rescue Team that were holding the upper floors of the Federal Building against constant zombie attacks.  Ralph’s office still had access to satellite communications, although he was rapidly running out of people to talk to. Mayor Del Fuego was one of them, as was Commodore Allen.  He wanted to discuss the news from Commodore Allen’s Survival Flotilla with the mayor.  It was hard to believe that simple garden sprinklers and water hoses could drive zombies away, but his men had tested it in the stairwells of the Federal Building and succeeded in reclaiming the third floor from their undead assailants.  Too bad water was in such limited supply, or they might have been able to clear the whole building.

Corrigan scanned the faces of the men and women in the Main Coordination Room, or “war room” as those who worked there often referred to it, looking for Mayor Del Fuego and not seeing him.  What he saw instead were the faces of people who had looked exhausted and discouraged the last time he was here, but now held a new air of expectancy, even hope.   There were even a few smiles thrown his way as people recognized him.  Most faces, however, were directed towards the large multi-function displays on the walls.  Ralph turned his own attention to the HD video screen and immediately understood the excitement in the room.

The big monitor displayed a view of the fire station next door to the EOC where the big garage doors were opening onto a street full of zombies.  Ralph caught his breath, but the zombies were not rushing forward to engulf the station and exposed firemen.  Instead, the undead were retreating before the wide spray of a fire hose.  It was almost a stampede as those being drenched by the hose turned and fought their way back through the crowd.  It was the first time Ralph, or anyone else in the EOC, had ever actually seen this phenomena.  Until being told about this defense tactic the only known method of stopping a zombie was to shoot it in the brain, or otherwise disable it.  To see these monsters turn and run in fear, instead of relentlessly attack was unheard of.

Cheers erupted from around the “war room” as everyone saw the new tactic in action.  They were short lived, however, as the order was given for the firemen to withdraw inside the station and secure the doors again.  As soon as the fire hoses were withdrawn the rabid zombies rushed forward to assail the closing garage door.  Luckily it was almost to the ground before the hose was shut off and the steel door held up to the mass assault.  Ralph moved towards the nearest command console and asked the female operator, “Why did they withdraw?”

“This was only a test, sir,” replied the young woman.  “The mayor and the chiefs wanted to be sure the information we received from that commodore was accurate before basing our strategy on his new tactics.”  Ralph nodded in understanding and moved on to find the mayor.  He was directed to an adjoining conference room from which several raised voices could be heard through the partially open door. 

“I’m telling you we don’t enough water pressure to hook up hoses to every hydrant!” the Fire Chief was saying as Ralph entered the room.  “We’ll be lucky if we can suck enough out with the pumpers and that will only work in low lying areas. The pipes are already dry up in most of the hills.”  His exasperated explanation was directed at Mayor Del Fuego who was clearly agitated.

“Then what good is this new water defense, if we don’t have enough water to use it where we need it?” demanded the mayor. 

“Excuse me, Mr. Mayor,” Ralph interjected as the rest of the people in the room noticed his arrival.  “Am I interrupting something?”

“Oh, Agent Corrigan!” exclaimed the mayor.  “Not at all, come in, have a seat.  We were just discussing this new use of water to repel zombies.  I was quite skeptical, as you know, but it seems to actually work!”

“Yes, it does,” Ralph agreed.  “We used fire hoses to clear another floor of zombies at the Federal Building this evening, but it sounds like we have the same problem with getting enough water to make a real difference.  Too bad we didn’t know about this when the crisis started and we still had power and people to run the water works.”

“So what do we do now?” asked the Mayor dejectedly.

“We make the best of a bad situation,” Ralph replied.

*****

Scott tried to put Clint’s disappearance out of his mind as he returned to his more important task of contacting the local authorities and media regarding the approaching storm and its importance.  He reached for the phone again and placed a call to the EOC.  With a grim smile towards Carl, he asked to be connected to the mayor and activated the speaker phone as he waited for his call to be put through.

Carl had remained in Scott’s office, wearing a worried expression after overhearing Scott’s conversation with the professor.  It was terrifying to think that someone aboard the ship could be carrying the virus and possibly spreading it to others.  Nevertheless, he knew that spreading word of the storm and its implications to the outside world was the most critical task at the moment.

“Mayor Del Fuego here,” said a tired sounding voice from the speaker phone.  “Is that you, Commodore?”

“Yes, Mr. Mayor,” Scott replied.  “I’m sorry to call so late, but we have some critical information to share with you and everyone else we can contact.”

“What now, Commodore?” asked the mayor with a hint of exasperation.  “We already confirmed your amazing news of using water to repel zombie attacks and we have prepared a press release that will go out tomorrow morning.  We’ve also mobilized what’s left of the fire department and are making plans to use their fire trucks in rescue operations, but it won’t be easy.  You see, we’re having trouble securing reliable sources of water.”

“I understand completely, sir,” replied Scott.  “But the news I want to share might help solve that problem, at least temporarily.  Have you seen a weather forecast lately?”

“I don’t have time to think about the damned weather!” barked the mayor hoarsely.  “What are you talking about?”

“Rain, Mr. Mayor,” Scott said crisply.  “It’s going to rain tomorrow.”

“So what?  Why should I care if it rains?” asked the mayor, but Scott could hear mumbled exclamations in the background. 

“Because we believe it will have the same effect on the zombies as sprinklers,” Scott explained slowly.  “It should compel them to get off the streets and seek shelter.”

“Commodore?” another voice interrupted.  “This is Special Agent Corrigan.  How confident are you of those predictions?”

“The prediction of rain is backed by a Coast Guard meteorologist and satellite photos,” Scott explained with confidence.  His tone only weakened slightly as he continued, “The effect of water on these zombies has been demonstrated repeatedly, but we can only assume that rain will produce the same results.”