Plague World (Ashley Parker Novel) (29 page)

A face broke through the waves, then, as impossible as it seemed, a man’s entire head. Rano held up a hand to shade his eyes, making sure what he saw wasn’t a trick of the sun’s strong reflection. But there was indeed a man coming up from out of the ocean. He wore a Chilean sailor’s uniform, but Rano couldn’t see any ship on the horizon.

“Tika?” he said softly. “There’s a man walking in from the sea.”

His brother didn’t look up, still fixated on his own prey in the water below.

A moment later, a second figure surfaced, then a third. And then another.

“Que milagro,”
Rano murmured.

The boy hurried down the beach to greet them.

* * *

On an isolated stretch of the so-called demilitarized zone between North and South Korea, the situation had been building, until it had reached the breaking point. In his office at the border station, Republic of Korea Commander Kyo hung up the phone receiver and looked up at his subordinates.

“It’s happening. Here. Now.” As if on cue, sounds of gunfire erupted outside, startling the hardened soldiers. It was coming from the line. From the North. Of course.

At his command, the ROK troops scrambled from the barracks to join their fellows already at the border. But the firefight wasn’t what they were expecting. Their own men were at their regular positions, simply staring at the DPRK troops in disbelief. The North Koreans were indeed engaged in a full-on firefight—but against their own troops; a moaning, shambling, advancing horde of North Korean soldiers, thousands of them, all torn and bloodied, all dead.

“Cease fire!” the Northern captain barked. He turned and marched alone up to within arm’s reach of the checkpoint gate, halted and saluted to Kyo. “I formally request political asylum for myself and my unit.”

Kyo approached the fence, stopping at the same distance as his counterpart.

“What you request is impossible.”

The North Korean officer furrowed his brow and tried again. “We are prepared to immediately surrender our weapons.”

Kyo shook his head.

“Keep them—you’ll need them.”

The North Korean gave up any further pretense at protocol or formality. He lunged for the fence, grabbing it with both hands and pressing his face hard against the chain links. He stared directly into Kyo’s eyes, his voice low and desperate.

“Please—we’re dead if you don’t.”

Kyo was struck by how much the Northerner resembled him—they could be cousins, or brothers. He closed in and leaned hard into the fence himself, so that the two men were nearly head to head.

“You don’t understand—we can’t…” His voice cracked. “They’re coming for us, too.” Kyo turned and pointed behind him, to the south, where from out of the mists, another army of dead soldiers was advancing toward them.

* * *

In Detroit, firefighters responding to a factory fire were shocked to see a ring of charred and smoldering bodies emerging slowly from out of the flames, moving to surround them…

* * *

During a Sunday morning Holy Mass with seminarians and novices in St. Peter’s Basilica, the visibly ill Pope faltered while elevating the Host. He dropped the body of Christ and suddenly turned on the Cardinal-bishop of Ostia, tearing out his throat before biting three members of the Swiss Guard who rushed to his aid.

* * *

An armed standoff between gangsters and the Metropolitan Police Service, following a botched bank robbery in London’s East End, was unexpectedly resolved when a fresh swarm overran the neighborhood, causing criminals and police to join forces.

We left the Mission Hills area and came down out of the canyons, back into the emptiness of a city holding its breath. I wondered how many people were still hiding in the shadows, holed up behind closed doors and boarded-up windows. How long they’d be able to hold out without help.

I knew it wouldn’t be long enough.

I was riding with Rooster this time, a San Diego native who knew his way around the city without the help of Siri or Google Maps. JT was perched behind Zilla.

We made it to the Pacific Highway and found long sections of road improbably empty and easy to navigate. The interchanges, however, were snarled with the same kind of metal log-jam we’d encountered in San Francisco, forcing us back onto surface streets to avoid the wreckage and clusters of zombies.

Along the way, the zombies provided us a chance to do some target practicing with our new toys. I decided I liked the Glocks. They were just as shootable as Dragon had promised. And from the back of the bike, I could fire with both hands at the same time. How cool was that?

We entered a light industrial area with lots of warehouses and a maze of narrow streets, parking lots, back alleys, and chain-link fences. Rooster slowed noticeably, keeping the engine quieter with a low throttle. The other bikers peeled off one by one, heading off down different streets.

I leaned forward and tapped him on the shoulder.

“What’s up?”

“They’re checking out the area,” he said over the low rumble of his bike. Then he eased his bike to a stop in front of a chained gate with a sign reading “Sidd’s Auto Repair and Detailing.” Zilla and JT pulled up next to us, the rest of the club joining us shortly thereafter.

Beyond the gate was a small shop set into the corner of a much larger metal warehouse, one wall lined with eight garage doors.

“See that double-fenced area in the back, with the razor wire on top?” I nodded as he continued. “They rent that area out to the local police as an impound lot.” He grinned. “Pretty fucking ingenious. I mean, if you want to hide something, do it with the police in plain view. Who’s gonna think twice about it?”

“So these Sidd’s guys are dealing guns, too?” JT asked.

Rooster shook his head. “Nah. This is a terror cell. Or at least the seeds for one.”

My jaw dropped.

“In San Diego? Are you sure? Who is it?”

He shrugged. “Heck if I know. Take your pick. Christian zealots, Muslim extremists, maybe people who like to graze their cattle on government land.”

Viper laughed. “We’ve got it all, darlin’. Iranians, Albanians, Pomeranians…”

“Do you think they’re still in there?” JT shielded his eyes, looking for movement in the locked business compound.

“Nah,” Rooster said. “Revolutionaries aren’t the bravest bunch. If they survived, they bugged out long ago. Let’s just hope they left some stuff behind.”

Dragon shut off his engine and dismounted, and the others followed suit, looking around warily.

“It’s nice and open here,” Dragon said. “If we can get back outside quick enough, we’ve got several avenues available.” He paused as a low moan drifted down the street. Several blocks away a lone figure had staggered into the middle of the lane and looked our way.

“Ms. Parker,” Dragon said without looking at me, “do you think you and your friend can hold the gate for us? We’re gonna see a lot more company than we did in Mission Hills.”

“No problem,” I said. “This is what I do.” I glanced at JT. “What
we
do, I should say.”

“Damn straight.” JT cracked his knuckles and flashed his manic grin.

“I’ll stay with them.” Cheeky gave me a nod, racking the pump on his stubby Kel-Tec. “We’ll hold the line, no problem. Just get it done so we can get out of here.”

Bird was already at the gate, where he quickly picked the lock and unwound the heavy chain holding it shut. The gate swung wide open and the bikers drove through, leaving me, JT, and Cheeky to hold the fort.

There were now three zombies up the street, both moaning and staggering our way. Cheeky scratched one cheek thoughtfully.

“How are either of you at distance shooting?” he asked. “I can hose ’em once they get up close, but maybe we should keep ’em thinned out, dontcha think?”

“Good plan,” I agreed. I drew one of my Glocks and took a nice wide stance, trying to remember everything Gabriel and Nathan had taught me as I aimed and fired.

Nothing.

Damn.
I missed my M4 and even more, I missed Gabriel and his sharpshooting abilities. Hell, I just missed Gabriel.

The zoms were still a block away, so I raised the muzzle a little more and fired again. One of them twitched when the round hit a shoulder.
Ah, better.
Another adjustment, another round fired. This time the head jerked to the side and the figure crumpled to the ground.

JT nodded, took out his own Glock and mimicked my stance. He fired just once. A second figure took one or two more steps, and then dropped in its tracks.

“Nobody likes a show-off,” I muttered.

Attracted by the ruckus, more walking dead emerged from a doorway on the right side of the street, and another crawled out from behind a parked car on the left. I knew how quickly the odds could shift against us, and got down to business. The Glocks barked with precision, and more bodies littered the street. But even as JT and I put them down, more seemed to come out of the woodwork.

Cheeky was going to get his chance to get up close and personal.

Gunfire rang out from behind us, somewhere in back of the warehouses. I hoped it was our guys, and not some crazy terror cell.

I dropped another magazine and reloaded, drew my second gun and began firing with both hands now, feeling like some badass in a John Woo movie. Both JT and I hit our targets with decent regularity, but some slipped past our fire, growing close enough for Cheeky to cut them to shreds with his shotgun.

More and more flowed in from all directions, however—their numbers continuing to grow. Cheeky had to stop and reload his shotgun, and in the time that took we suddenly found a dozen zombies less than ten feet away.

“Shit,” I said, backing up toward the gate. I took down one of the closest with a shot to the head, but it was becoming obvious that we were going to have to retreat behind the gate, or become entrees on the buffet.

Then I heard the low rumble of an engine behind me, followed by the roar of an automatic weapon a split second later. It was so close that my eardrums felt like they were bleeding, as the front line of zombies shredded before my eyes.

I looked behind me to find Zilla sitting astride his bike, a large belt-fed machine gun balanced across the handlebars, blasting away. The rest of the bikers, similarly armed, joined in the fun with a devastating barrage, reminding me of the scene in
Predator
when all the testosterone-drenched soldiers defoliated a section of jungle.

The gunfire stopped suddenly, leaving a ringing in my ears.

“Get on!” someone shouted, although it sounded far away.

I didn’t have to think twice. I jumped on behind the nearest biker, who turned out to be Bird. At the same time JT hopped behind Zilla, and then we were roaring out into the street past a forest of groping hands, somehow making it through to a clear stretch of road, burning our way through the industrial district until we’d made it back to the Pacific Highway.

Heading west, we reached a nice open stretch, no zombies in sight, and eased to a stop, parking in the middle of the passing lane. A quick head count confirmed that everyone had made it out alive and unscathed.

Damn, these guys were good.

“So,” I said wryly. “Do we have any ammo left? Or did we just burn through everything you guys snagged?”

“Not hardly,” Bear said. He motioned to a bunch of ammo boxes strapped to his bike. “I don’t know who was backing those turds, but they were well stocked. Check this out…” He pulled back a tarp on the far side of his bike to show a case labeled “Airtronic RPG-7,” whatever that meant. “It comes with its own rocket-propelled grenades,” Bear said, as proud as if he’d given birth to the thing. “Sweet, huh?”

“Errrr… sure,” I said, trying to match his enthusiasm and failing miserably. “It’s a honey.” I walked over to one of the machine guns. “These look like fun.”

“Don’t bother, kiddo,” Rooster said. “That thing probably weighs more than you do.”

“Oh yeah?” Thus challenged, I flashed him a grin and hefted it one-handed.

He gave a snort. “I stand corrected,” he said.

I held it up for a closer look, trying to ignore a painful twinge in my ribs.

“Shee-it,” Cheeky said. “Remind me not to arm-wrestle you, sweetheart.”

Normally I’d deliver a smackdown for the “sweetheart,” but all things considered, I decided to let it slide.

Ouch.
My ribs gave another, more painful twinge.

I put the monster down—I didn’t want them to know just how much I still hurt.

Viper strode over and handed me a short assault-style rifle, very much like my old M4.

“Baby sister, this is for you.” He winked and added, “Those other things, they’re for us.”

I raised an eyebrow. “What? Are you guys gonna start a war or something?”

“Not a war,” Dragon answered. “But a distraction? Definitely. It worked for you in Balboa Park, didn’t it? But I think you’re gonna need a little more than organ music this time.”

I heaved a sigh.

“Listen, I appreciate the thought, guys, I really do. But you don’t know what you’re getting into. Hell, I hardly know what
I’m
getting into, at this point. I don’t know how to get there, or get inside once I
do
get there.”

“Well,” Dragon said, “for starters, we know that there’s more to Cabrillo Point than what’s in the National Park brochures. We’ll assume that whoever’s holed up there is gonna have some firepower, and that you’ll need help getting past that.”

“As to how you’re gonna get inside—” Rooster dismounted and sauntered over to me. “—we might be able to help you with that.” Pulling out a smartphone, he punched in a code, displaying the same photo of me that Dragon had shown at Balboa Park. “When we got the call to come look for you, we got this photo and an encrypted file, as well. This was inside.”

The screen changed to a schematic of some sort.

“Far as we can tell, it’s a floor plan to the facility you’re looking for.” He fiddled with the phone and zoomed in on part of the screen. “The best way to break in is already marked out.” He held the phone out.