KILL BOX: A Post-Apocalyptic Pandemic Thriller (The Zulu Virus Chronicles Book 2) Read online

  “At ease, Painter. And no more saluting. We’re in a tactical environment,” said Smith.

  “Sorry, sir,” said Painter, relaxing a bit.

  “What do we have out here?”

  “Nothing, sir,” said Painter. “Sounded like the convoy got in a scrap.”

  “They ran into a mob of armed civilians,” said Smith. “Infected.”

  “Crap. I hope that shit stays clear of the hospital.”

  “Me too.”

  Private First Class Chris Painter was one of the newer members of the battalion’s headquarters and support company, temporarily assigned to Bravo Company specifically for this mission. Due to his relative inexperience, Smith had assigned him to Bravo Company’s command group, where he would be somewhat insulated from the mess outside the hospital.

  Smith had stacked the convoy with the most experienced soldiers, retaining enough of the “been there, done that” crowd to bolster the hospital’s perimeter defenses. Not that the forty-three soldiers guarding the facility constituted an effective defense given recent developments. If a three-hundred-strong mob of gun-toting crazies hit the perimeter right now, they were seriously screwed. His people were spread thin covering the vulnerable entrances.

  Without an early warning, he’d have trouble massing the defenders in one spot quickly enough to stop a mob that size. The thought triggered an idea he’d been too busy to consider until now.

  “Painter, have you seen Staff Sergeant Vaughn?”

  “Yes, sir,” said Painter. “She’s sitting in back of the leftmost HUMVEE.”

  “Thanks,” said Smith. “Carry on.”

  Vaughn climbed out of the heavily armored vehicle right before he arrived. She reached into the vehicle and retrieved her rifle before addressing him.

  “All is quiet on the block, sir,” she said. “For now.”

  “For now is right,” said Smith. “I think it’s time to put up one of our drones. The convoy reported a sizable mob not too far from here.”

  “How big?”

  “A couple hundred,” said Smith. “Some armed with pistols and rifles. I’d like to get eyes on that mob, or any other mobs out there.”

  “I’ll grab Sergeant Chase,” said Vaughn. “We’ll have a Raven up within fifteen minutes, as long as the satellite links are good.”

  “Last time I checked, we had full Satcom support,” said Smith.

  “We’ll get to the roof immediately,” said Vaughn.

  “Patch into my command net,” said Smith. “I want to know what you see out there.”

  “I can do you one better and transfer the feed to one of our ruggedized laptops,” said Vaughn. “You can see what we see.”

  Smith nodded, not sure he wanted to see what was out there.

  Chapter 4

  Laura Ragan, Specter team leader, crouched behind the brick fireplace, pointing her rifle at the sliding patio doors. It was still dark enough outside to tell that no lights had been left on inside the house. She peered beyond the rough-hewn stone table standing between her and the house for several seconds. All quiet inside and outside. The motion-activated lights mounted under the overhangs should have bathed her in light at this distance—unless the power grid was out on this side of town. A distinct possibility given the odd circumstances Specter team had encountered since hitting the ground.

  The mission had started fine; her team had landed without incident outside a gated research park several miles to the east of Indianapolis. The target building, an unmarked chemical laboratory facility believed to be part of NevoTech, where Chang worked, had been completely deserted, a fact they confirmed firsthand. After reporting the results of their reconnaissance, they were instructed to take up surveillance positions outside the building and watch for Eugene Chang, their “high-value individual” (HVI).

  Intelligence provided by Control indicated that Dr. Chang lived in Indianapolis and worked at the NevoTech facility in the city. However, he also had a second home east of the city and spent time at the second research facility near that house.

  Distant emergency sirens drifted across the research park while they waited, her first indication that something widespread might be amiss. The order to proceed immediately to Chang’s second home, by any available means (A2M), had been her second warning. An A2M authorized her to steal a vehicle at gunpoint, which thankfully hadn’t been necessary. They’d hotwired an SUV sitting in a neighborhood driveway less than a mile from the research park and followed the highly specific driving directions on her CTAB.

  The night’s surprises continued en route. Ragan was informed that Zombie team had landed at Chang’s house an hour ago—and had ceased responding to all queries. CTAB tracking data indicated that Larsen was still on site, and Ragan’s job was to determine his team’s status, exercising extreme caution. The only status choices provided by Control painted a grim picture of the possibilities.

  ☐ROGUE

  ☐NEUTRALIZED

  ☐CAPTURED

  ☐UNKNOWN

  The only additional detail provided was that Larsen had reportedly entered and searched the house, failing to locate Chang. Reportedly. A small, but important indicator that Control wasn’t confident about Larsen’s report, which she found strange. Larsen was a little too laid-back and smart-alecky for her taste, but he was probably the most competent CHASE team leader at the Grissom Air Base Center, and everyone knew it, including Control.

  There was a reason her team had been sent to an abandoned research park at two in the morning, instead of Chang’s primary residence. The thought made her nervous. If someone could get the jump on Larsen’s team, then what chance did her team have? And if his team had gone rogue? Same scenario.

  So far, her team hadn’t detected anything unusual. Zombie team’s parachutes sat in the field behind her, crudely stuffed into their harness rigs, a few loose ends fluttering lazily in the weak breeze that flowed through the clearing. A detailed visual sweep of the home’s entire exterior showed no signs of forced entry. If Larsen’s team had accessed the house, they’d done it without breaking or disturbing anything, which she found unlikely.

  Hell, if Ragan didn’t know better, it almost looked like Zombie team had just walked off the job after landing. Then again, maybe they did. Her team was already having doubts. She could read it on their faces and barely blamed them. Halfway through their trek through the forest, after they had parked the confiscated SUV on the road at the edge of Chang’s property, a massive explosion had lit up the northwestern sky, followed by a vicious firefight.

  Not long after that, the unmistakable buzz of miniguns echoed through the forest. One hell of a battle had erupted nearby, convincing her that the mission was real—and the world around them had fallen apart. Maybe Larsen had heard something similar soon after landing and came to the same conclusion.

  From what she remembered, he had a young family waiting for him in Colorado. Ragan didn’t have kids, but she had been an adoring aunt to her sister’s three munchkins for seven years. Long enough to know that family came first. Especially kids. Her money was on this scenario, but she still had to search the house to know for sure. Zombie could be inside, lying dead in pools of their own blood, or tied to chairs and gagged.

  Ragan scanned the darkened interior again before shaking her head. There was no easy way to do this. She wanted to gain swift access to the house without bunching her team up in a constricted area like a hallway, so the glass sliders looked like her best option. They could quickly shatter both sliders with McDermott’s shotgun and simultaneously fan out inside the spacious, two-story great room. She started to ease behind the fireplace, when something caught her attention.

  A smooth rock the size of a fist lay on the patio below the rightmost sliding door. She slowly walked her gaze up the glass, noticing a scratch at about chest level. Looked like the rock had just bounced off the glass. Shit. It occurred to her that the shotgun trick might not work. Only one way to find out.

  “Specter, thi
s is One. Firing a single shot at the back patio slider,” said Ragan. “Hold your positions.”

  After all team members responded, she pressed the trigger, firing a suppressed .223-caliber bullet at nearly three thousand feet per second toward the center of the slider. The bullet snapped off the glass before her finger reset—having almost no impact. What the living hell?

  “This is One. Firing again.”

  She repeated the process, getting the same result. Barely a nick in the glass. Damn. If the windows were bullet resistant, she imagined the rest of the house was built the same way. They weren’t getting inside the easy way. Maybe Larsen had come to the same conclusion, and that had sealed his decision to abandon the mission. She had to admit there was something very strange about a bulletproof house in the middle of nowhere.

  “Specter, fall in on my position behind the patio. Watch your surroundings. The sliding glass doors are bullet resistant.”

  “That’s not a good sign,” said McDermott.

  “No. It’s not,” she said, hearing a low-pitched alert tone in her earpiece.

  She pulled her CTAB from a pouch attached to her vest, checking for the update signaled by the insistent tone.

  —SPECTERXC32 MISSION STATUS UPDATE—

  -PROCEED TO LOCATION SPECTER-D73M ASAP

  -AVOID ALL CONTACT WITH LOCAL/STATE/FED AGENCIES

  -DO NOT ATTEMPT TO DRIVE THRU INTERSTATE 465 QUARANTINE

  -BOUNDARY CHECKPOINTS

  -SEE MAP FOR RECOMMENDED BOUNDARY APPROACH LOCATIONS

  —IMMEDIATELY ACKNOWLEDGE RECEIPT—

  Seriously? A third location? She acknowledged receipt of the change to her team’s orders and checked the MAP tab. SPECTER-D73M was located in the heart of Indianapolis. Twenty-two point four miles away by the recommended route. Fifteen of that on foot, since they would have to abandon their vehicle before reaching Interstate 465—a federal quarantine boundary line. Quarantine for what? They’d soon find out.

  “This is One. Change to orders. Proceed to southeast exfil point,” she said. “I just received a new location.”

  Chapter 5

  Stan Greenberg skeptically eyed the group loading gear into the pickup truck. Four wouldn’t be enough. Not if his suspicions were correct. A platoon of Navy SEALs wouldn’t be enough. The group looked hardcore enough, but it would take more than combat skills to survive in an infected urban environment. The little he knew about the destruction of Monchegorsk, a city that had been destroyed by a similar virus, painted a grim picture of what this motley crew faced, and that had only been a city of seventy thousand. The population of Indianapolis was ten times that number.

  “You look worried,” said a voice next to him.

  He flinched, nearly jumping in place.

  “Jesus. You people move like ghosts,” said Greenberg.

  The leader of this operation stood next to him, one hand on a hip, the other sipping coffee from a stainless steel insulated mug. He looked oddly familiar, but Greenberg couldn’t place him. Definitely someone that had spent some time in the spotlight around D.C. Undoubtedly ex-military, the buzz cut and athletic physique a dead giveaway. Upper echelon, if he had to guess. The guy had the presence of a general, and his people treated him like one.

  “Occupational hazard,” said the man, surveying the work like a proud father before turning to him. “They’ll be fine.”

  “I don’t know,” said Greenberg. “They might be the best in the business, but this is unlike anything anyone has faced before, except for the Russians, and they’ve swept that information completely under the rug.”

  The guy grinned, pausing for several moments before responding.

  “How much do you know about Monchegorsk?” said the man.

  Greenberg tried not to appear surprised, figuring it would tip his hand. He still knew next to nothing about these people. Only that they had presumably saved his life, and that they had a keen interest in learning as much as possible about the virus that had been released in dozens of U.S. cities. Keen enough to send people into one of the quarantine zones to retrieve Dr. Chang’s lab analysis—and hopefully Dr. Chang himself.

  “We didn’t pick you at random, Dr. Greenberg,” he said. “You’ve worked at Edgewood for twenty years, specializing in emergent and potential weaponized biological threats. I can’t imagine Monchegorsk slipped past your radar.”

  “No. It didn’t,” said Greenberg, unsure how much he should reveal about what he knew.

  After a short pause, the man spoke. “I understand your hesitation,” he said. “The circumstances surrounding the Russian city were uniquely terrifying, to say the least. The virus and its creator? Incomparably evil. I’ve spent the past several years chasing this down in one form or another. You and I share that in common.”

  “Who are you people?”

  “We don’t really have a name, but two of the four operatives headed into the Indianapolis quarantine zone completed a similar mission in Monchegorsk. They understand the risks and know how to navigate them.”

  Impossible. This couldn’t be the same group. He’d heard the stories, but considered them legend. The “head in a cooler” story had persisted for a number of years, though nobody could, or would, corroborate it.

  “Trust me, Dr. Greenberg. We’re on your side,” said the man.

  “Call me Stan,” said Greenberg.

  The man extended a hand. “Terrence.”

  General Terrence Sanderson? The stuff of legends.

  “General?”

  “In a former life,” said the man.

  “Unbelievable. Never in a million years did I suspect our paths would cross,” said Greenberg, now recognizing his face.

  “I sincerely hoped they wouldn’t cross,” said Terrence.

  Greenberg nodded, his attention pulled back to the team loading the truck. A tough-as-nails-looking woman heaved two serious parachute rigs into the pickup bed, catching his eye when she turned around. A quick nod and she was off, replaced by two men carting a black case labeled OXYGEN.

  “You really think they can pull this off?” said Greenberg.

  “I know they can pull it off,” said Terrence. “That’s the easy part. Figuring out what to do with the information is the hard part. I still haven’t worked that out.”

  “Maybe I can help fill in the blanks,” said Greenberg. “After I get a cup of that coffee.”

  Chapter 6

  Dr. Eugene Chang led the group deeper into the NevoTech building, guiding them directly to the main campus building’s security hub. He needed to acquire a replacement ID card to access his laboratory in the research center, where he’d stashed copies of the data analysis he’d conducted on the infected blood. Emma Harper’s ID card limited them to common areas, which was fine for now, but at some point today, he wanted to get his hands on that data. Greenberg had suggested it might help unravel whatever insanity had descended on the country.

  When he last talked to Greenberg, Chang had no intention of returning to NevoTech. His friend should be quite pleased to hear that he was in a position to retrieve the data. The only question remaining was how to deliver it? His private plane could handle another trip. No doubt about that. He just wasn’t sure they could safely get back to the plane at this point. They certainly couldn’t travel the same route they’d taken this morning from the plane to the facility. It hadn’t taken more than a few minutes to attract a mob of infected. By nightfall, it would be worse. Way worse.

  Chang pressed Emma’s ID against another card reader, relieved when it turned green. It was impossible for him to tell which doors they could access. They’d already taken a few wrong paths.

  “How much farther?” said Larsen, leaning against the wall opposite Chang.

  Larsen’s stoic mask had begun to wear thin, the pain in his leg obviously worsening the farther they walked. Incredibly, it only showed on his face—and barely. He didn’t limp or favor the leg at all, a testament to the soldier’s training. The superficial wound to Chang�
�s back had nearly driven him to the point of tears several times during their seemingly endless journey through NevoTech’s expansive, winding passageways.

  “We’re pretty close,” said Chang, pulling the door open.

  “Maybe we should split into two groups,” said Larsen. “One with guns. One without. Give you a chance to explain our situation to security. The last thing we need is a jumpy security guard waving a gun around.”

  “The security force doesn’t carry firearms,” said Chang. “Not even in the research building. Firearms aren’t allowed on campus.”

  “You might be surprised,” said Larsen. “Personally—I don’t like to be surprised. I’m sure the guards don’t like it either. We should split the group in two now, before we get too close. Given what’s going on in the city, they’ll be watching the cameras guarding all approaches to the security hub.”

  “It’s a smart idea,” said David Olson, a Westfield police officer. “Chang and the Harpers can square things away with security. You’re all NevoTech employees. We’ll wait here for you to come get us.”

  “What if you’re right, and they’re armed?” said Chang. “Why would they suddenly be fine with our weapons, even after they’ve cleared our identities?”

  “Because you’re going to tell them I’m with the Department of Homeland Security,” said Larsen, digging through a pocket on his vest. “And give them this ID card.”

  Chang took the card from Larsen’s bloodied hand and examined it.

  “Special agent with the Department of Homeland Security?” said Chang. “Is that true?”

  “Technically. The title is more administrative than anything,” said Larsen.

  David gathered close to him, checking out the ID. “Looks real enough.”

  “It’s real,” said Larsen. “You should add your badge to the pile.”

  “Good idea,” said David, handing over his wallet.