Outbreak (Book 1): Emerald City (8 page)

CLARK

Clark looked over the body of the man who had been resistant to the infection. Clark was dressed in full surgical scrubs with goggles, paper mask and gloves. A precaution the soldier at the door insisted upon when Clark tried to enter the gymnasium. The building had been turned into a well-functioning, rather state of the art medical facility. Unfortunately it was overwhelmed with the injured, sick and the dead. Clark now stood among the last group. He had pulled back the white sheet to see the corpse and completed a quick assessment. Other than the head trauma, which to Clark looked like a someone had literally taken a bite out of the side of the man’s skull, the only thing Clark found to note was the victim had B-negative blood.
A very rare blood type
, Clark thought. He remembered specific blood types were more resistant to certain diseases, something to do with the sugar concentrations, but he had no idea why B-negative would be of any significance.

Finished with his examination, he turned to look at some of the other bodies of fully infected victims. He was surprised at the different levels of infection the victims had endured. One of the bodies appeared to have died of nothing more than a severe flu. Others looked to have been infected much longer and had everything from blisters and sores to broken bones and lacerations. Yet another had been in later stages of decomposition. Clark realized he still had a lot to learn about this virus but he needed a break. He was tired of looking at dead bodies. He wanted to know more about the blood, but knew he would get nowhere without a computer and network access to research diseases and blood types.
It will have to wait until I get back to the ship,
he thought.
Whenever that is.

Done at the gymnasium, Clark decided now would be a good time to go and track down the soldier who had brought in the disease resistant victim.
Hopefully he can tell me about the condition the man had been in before he died
. As Clark got cleaned up and prepared to leave the building, he realized he had no idea where to find the soldier. He asked the guard at the door and found out Special Operations guys liked to stick to themselves. “He could be anywhere, sir,” the soldier said.
Fabulous,
Clark thought as he stepped out into the rain. “But I’d try the cafeteria first,” the soldier yelled after him. Clark gave him a wave of thanks as he walked away. Looking around, he saw the cafeteria building and went inside. He approached one of the cooks on the food line.

“I’m looking for a soldier,” Clark said. “His name is Rocha. Is he here?”

“No, sir,” the cook said. “But he was earlier. Heard him talking about his rifle being damaged on his last mission so he’s probably at the firing range.”

This is becoming a regular goose chase,
Clark thought. “Okay, which way to the firing range?”

“Football field,” the cook said. “Just follow the sounds of gunfire. Or wait, scratch that, we could be fighting zombies on the perimeter. No point in you going out there and getting yourself killed! Just go back behind the gymnasium, you’ll see it.” Clark followed the cook’s directions and soon heard the methodical sound of gunfire. Clark knew very little about shooting guns. He had played some video games back before the outbreak, but he had never understood the obsession. In college, his friends would rather hole up in their dorm rooms, virtually killing each other, when there were college girls out in the world looking for guys exactly like them. As he reached the shooting range, he saw a lone, muscle bound soldier with his hat on backward. The soldier was shooting a small compact machine gun at little paper targets that were no more than a few feet away from him.
Doesn’t look like much of a challenge,
Clark thought.

Clark stood back and watched for a few minutes as the soldier went through some kind of drill where he would shoot multiple single shots at the targets. Clark had to admit, the soldier was fast, efficient, and definitely knew what he was doing. Once the soldier finished the drill, Clark saw his opening.

“Excuse me,” Clark said. “I understand you were the guy to bring in the patient who had been infected, but not turned?”

The soldier gave his machine gun a quick look over and then set it down on a wooden table. He had the name Rocha stenciled on his uniform. “You mean the guy with the bite in the side of his head?” he asked.

“That would be the one,” Clark agreed. “You bring him in?”

“Damn straight,” Rocha said. “Who are you?”

“Dr. Clark Mason,” Clark replied and stuck his hand out. “Brain surgeon.”

Rocha shook Clark’s hand. Clark could not believe the size of the soldier’s fist. It completely dwarfed his own.

“Rocha,” the soldier said and let Clark’s hand go. He pulled out his canteen and took a drink. “What can I do for you?”

“I’m not sure, exactly,” Clark said. There was a sudden break in the overcast sky and rays of sunlight streamed through. Clark held a hand up to shield his eyes. “What can you tell me about the guy you brought in?”

Rocha turned his hat around to shade his eyes. “Probably a lot of things,” he said.

Clark waited for Rocha to continue, but there was only an uncomfortable pause. “So,” Clark said. “Where did you find him?”

“Hospital,” Rocha said and took a breath. “Command had received intel that there were survivors holed up in the big facility over on the coast of the Sound. So, we geared up and caught a chopper into town. We fast roped to the roof, went inside, and started clearing floors. I would say we got down through about half of the building when we came across a laboratory kind of place with cages and shit.”

Clark thought about the hospital. He was not surprised laboratories had been set up in the civilian sector. As the virus was storming across the country last fall, all funds for research were redirected to finding a cure, or at least something to try to slow down the spread of the infection. “Did you find any documentation or anything?” Clark asked.

“There was a whole bunch of computers, papers and stuff, but our mission was to extract the survivors,” Rocha said.

“Any chance you will be going back?” Clark asked.

“I figured you were going to ask that,” Rocha said rubbing his chin. “Orders come from Command. Talk to my superiors. I go where they send me.” Clark made a mental note to talk to General Dodge.

Rocha took another drink from his canteen. “You some kind of lurker expert or something?” he asked.

“Lurker?” Clark asked.

“Yeah,” Rocha said. “You know. Walking stiffs? Zombies? Lurkers. You been studying them or what?”

“Kind of,” Clark said. “Why do you ask?”

Rocha paused for a second. “I have a theory I have been working on,” he said. “So, seriously. You an expert?”

Clark looked around. He was stuck on a military base in the middle of an apocalypse. At that moment, he quite possibly knew more about the disease than any other living soul in the state of Washington. Maybe the United States.
Heaven forbid the whole world,
he thought. “You could say that I’m the foremost expert in the field,” Clark said.

Rocha grinned. “So, what does that mean?” he asked. “How much you know so far?”

Clark looked him in the eyes. Clouds had rolled in and it suddenly smelled like rain. “Not a whole hell of a lot,” he admitted.

“Damn straight,” Rocha said and grinned. He picked up his machine gun and motioned at a table and some chairs setup under a cover. “Want to know what I think?” he asked as he moved toward the table.

“Of course,” Clark said as he took a seat.

Rocha looked up at the overcast sky and it suddenly began to rain. “Out in the field, I’ve been spending downtime working on ways to draw in lurkers,” he said. “I’ve been experimenting with clickers, an egg timer, all kinds of shit. I haven’t figured out why, but one thing that gets them coming, and I mean for miles, is music.”

“Music?” Clark asked. It had turned into a downpour and Clark was glad they were under cover.

“Damn straight,” Rocha continued. “I swear the damn things love rap music.”

Clark frowned.
Maybe my new friend Rocha here has been spending too much time out in the field
, Clark thought.
Gone a little crazy …
Still, Clark did remember reading a little about experiments on how the infected reacted to sounds, so he was willing to accept any line of thinking. “I’m listening,” Clark said.

“This is what I've got,” Rocha said, showing a little excitement. “I figure if we can find out what makes these things tick, figure out what they want, then we can figure out a better way of killing them. So, here is my theory.” He paused and gave Clark an appraising look. “You ever gotten close to a lurker that had not been put down? Was still, you know, alive?" he asked.

Clark kept it to himself that the first time he had examined a living infected was only the night before. “Yes,” he said. “Of course.”

“So you know how lurkers are soft inside, right? Just like you and me.”

“Sure,” Clark said. From everything he had read, experiments on the bodies in both an animated state and after they had died, the infected retained the same internal structure as a normal healthy human being.

“Ok,” Rocha said. “Good.” Clark could see that the soldier was excited about what he was going to say next. He had one foot up on a bench and had become animated with his hands. “Now. Have you heard that lurkers still have a pulse?”

That had been heavily documented in the research Clark read on the ship. “Yes,” he said. “There has been a ton of findings on this. Their hearts beat very slowly when they are just standing around and even then, a pulse is hard to detect. When they get moving, their heart rate goes up just like the rest of us. Why?”

“I’m getting there,” Rocha said. “Ok, this is what I think. You know how when one lurker gets riled up, they all get riled up?”

Clark kept his mouth shut. He was not ready to admit that he had never been around more than one infected at a time and when he had, the infected had been strapped to a table and there was a wall of safety glass between them. “Sure.”

“So, last week we were clearing out this mall,” Rocha said. “Command had gotten intel that there were survivors holed up in a nearby structure. So my partner, Matthews, and I … “.

“I heard about your partner,” Clark said. “Sorry.”

“Damn straight,” Rocha said. “He was a good man. Anyhow, we’d cleared this mall once before, but we were told there was a maintenance tunnel beneath the mall we had missed. So, we went back to check it out. The main interior of the mall was exactly the same as last time, filthy, but empty of everyone but dead bodies. But, whatever. Anyhow, we followed the intel and went down into the maintenance chase. It was dark. Really dark. It was a dark mall to start out with, but down in the basement, it was black as a coal mine. We carry night vision and tried using those, but the goggles work off of light amplification, so to really work, they need a source of light to magnify.”

“Ok,” Clark said. He had no idea where Rocha was going with his story, but he thought he should be patient and let the soldier talk.

“But, it was too dark,” Rocha continued. “The goggles weren’t working for shit. So, to fix this, we use red lenses to dim our flashlights. That way they put out just enough light that the goggles work again. Anyhow, down in the maintenance chase area, we found a whole bunch of lurkers. A first we tried to sneak up on them, but I swear to God, they knew we were there. There’s no explanation for it. We had been absolutely silent. I’m sure of it. But as we crept closer, the lurkers knew we were there and then came after us like bats out of hell.”

Clark still had no idea where the soldier was going with this. “Yeah,” Clark said. “But I’m not sure I am getting your point --”

“Well,” Rocha said. “If we couldn’t see, then how could they? Plus, you ever think how half those bastards can’t see worth a shit anyway? Some of those things have half of their face rotting off.”

“Ok, so they can’t see. Not sure I know --”

“Think about it! If the lurkers can't see for shit, they hear even worse, and as far as anyone knows, can't smell at all, how the hell did they know we were even there?” Rocha asked.

“I have no idea,” Clark admitted.

“Right,” Rocha said. He counted off on his fingers. “They can’t see. They can’t hear. They can’t smell … so what’s left?”

Clark shook his head. “Feel?” he guessed.

“Damn straight, they feel it!” Rocha said and slapped Clark on the back. Clark winced. The soldier was strong. “Think about it,” Rocha went on. “When a gun goes off, maybe they see the muzzle flash, and yes, they probably hear it, but I don’t think that’s what gets them moving. I think it’s the feeling, the shock wave of the bullet leaving the barrel of the weapon. That’s why they chase you when you run. When they’re after you, they feel your feet hitting the ground.”

“Maybe when you run, they chase you because they want to eat your brains.”

“Funny. But, I’m telling you. When you run, they feel your heart beating. It’s the vibration, man. Vibration is bad."

Yeah
, Clark thought as the rain finally began to let up.
I got it. Vibration is bad. I'm so getting the hell out of here.