basement office is gone. Bowman is pleased to see the NCOs pulling together as a team. These men are professionals.
Wyatt and Mooney are already trying to stand, pushing bodies off of them, moaning at the mauling they received as the Mad Dogs trampled over them.
Wyatt gets to his feet unsteadily and starts laughing. “That was so freaking cool!”
Mooney, covered in blood and swaying drunkenly, takes a wild swing at him and by sheer luck manages to connect with the side of his head, knocking Wyatt against the far wall and sending his glasses flying. Then the boys pull them apart.
“Sergeant Kemper!” Bowman calls.
“Sir,” says the platoon sergeant.
“Get these people sorted,” he says. “Separate the dead and wounded and find a place to put each.”
“Morgue’s full, sir.”
“Find something, Mike. I want them out of here.”
“I’ll see to it, sir.”
“Sergeant Lewis will lead a squad to round up any stray Mad Dogs and then re-establish contact with Winslow and the hospital staff. If you’re not helping here, I want you helping him. I want everybody doing something.” Bowman notices two soldiers waiting for a chance to speak to him. “Well, what is it? What do you men need?”
“Just what the hell is this plague, Lieutenant?” asks Finnegan.
“We just shot all these people,” Martin chimes in. “What are we going to do, sir?”
“Sergeant Lewis, see to these men.”
“All right, morons! You heard the Lieutenant! Get your dicks out of your ears and un-ass this hallway!”
The effect is electrifying on the boys, who snap out of their funk and spring into action.
“Hey!” a voice calls from the stairwell. “You all right?”
“Come forward slowly and show yourself,” Lewis orders, raising his rifle.
Winslow steps into the corridor holding his pistol at his side, breathing heavily, looking at the dead and dying with wide-eyed horror. Stepping carefully through the bodies, he approaches Bowman.
“Are you infected?” Winslow asks him.
“We were attacked,” Bowman explains. “We fired in self defense.”
“Are you infected?”
“We’re trying to see to the wounded, but we could use some of the hospital people down here. Some of these people are still dangerous. They have to be sedated before they can be treated.”
“Hospital people?” Winslow says, looking confused.
Bowman steps forward. “Sir, are you all right?”
The cop’s voice cracks. “These monsters killed half the night shift. They tore my men to shreds. Like tissue paper.”
A wounded middle-aged woman moans at their feet, wide-eyed and panting, holding a bleeding hole in her ribs.
He adds, “Stand back, Lieutenant.”
And shoots her through the forehead.
Chapter 3
I’m Security, not Facilities
After the mob swarmed into the lobby, the Bradley Institute of Graduate Microbiology and Virology Studies went into lockdown. The scientists couldn’t get out, and the mob couldn’t get upstairs and into the laboratories.
Most of the staff went home last night, leaving only a few diehards in the labs working on a vaccine for Hong Kong Lyssa. They are now trapped for the duration of the siege.
Bleary from lack of sleep and his large belly growling with hunger, Dr. Joe Hardy, director of research, watches the tall, beautiful blonde on the security screens and wonders where he has seen her before.
“There she goes again,” Stringer Jackson, the security guard, says next to him. “Check it out. She’s writing another message.”
The mob easily overwhelmed the two National Guardsmen posted in the lobby and took them hostage. The blonde, apparently the leader of the group, has been communicating their demands by holding up signs to the security cameras and miming shooting the soldiers in the head.
“She a tough bitch, that one,” Hardy says with respect, his hands buried in the pockets of his labcoat. “Like my ex-wife.”
Jackson grins appreciatively.
The blonde triumphantly holds up a sign. It
Wyatt and Mooney are already trying to stand, pushing bodies off of them, moaning at the mauling they received as the Mad Dogs trampled over them.
Wyatt gets to his feet unsteadily and starts laughing. “That was so freaking cool!”
Mooney, covered in blood and swaying drunkenly, takes a wild swing at him and by sheer luck manages to connect with the side of his head, knocking Wyatt against the far wall and sending his glasses flying. Then the boys pull them apart.
“Sergeant Kemper!” Bowman calls.
“Sir,” says the platoon sergeant.
“Get these people sorted,” he says. “Separate the dead and wounded and find a place to put each.”
“Morgue’s full, sir.”
“Find something, Mike. I want them out of here.”
“I’ll see to it, sir.”
“Sergeant Lewis will lead a squad to round up any stray Mad Dogs and then re-establish contact with Winslow and the hospital staff. If you’re not helping here, I want you helping him. I want everybody doing something.” Bowman notices two soldiers waiting for a chance to speak to him. “Well, what is it? What do you men need?”
“Just what the hell is this plague, Lieutenant?” asks Finnegan.
“We just shot all these people,” Martin chimes in. “What are we going to do, sir?”
“Sergeant Lewis, see to these men.”
“All right, morons! You heard the Lieutenant! Get your dicks out of your ears and un-ass this hallway!”
The effect is electrifying on the boys, who snap out of their funk and spring into action.
“Hey!” a voice calls from the stairwell. “You all right?”
“Come forward slowly and show yourself,” Lewis orders, raising his rifle.
Winslow steps into the corridor holding his pistol at his side, breathing heavily, looking at the dead and dying with wide-eyed horror. Stepping carefully through the bodies, he approaches Bowman.
“Are you infected?” Winslow asks him.
“We were attacked,” Bowman explains. “We fired in self defense.”
“Are you infected?”
“We’re trying to see to the wounded, but we could use some of the hospital people down here. Some of these people are still dangerous. They have to be sedated before they can be treated.”
“Hospital people?” Winslow says, looking confused.
Bowman steps forward. “Sir, are you all right?”
The cop’s voice cracks. “These monsters killed half the night shift. They tore my men to shreds. Like tissue paper.”
A wounded middle-aged woman moans at their feet, wide-eyed and panting, holding a bleeding hole in her ribs.
He adds, “Stand back, Lieutenant.”
And shoots her through the forehead.
Chapter 3
I’m Security, not Facilities
After the mob swarmed into the lobby, the Bradley Institute of Graduate Microbiology and Virology Studies went into lockdown. The scientists couldn’t get out, and the mob couldn’t get upstairs and into the laboratories.
Most of the staff went home last night, leaving only a few diehards in the labs working on a vaccine for Hong Kong Lyssa. They are now trapped for the duration of the siege.
Bleary from lack of sleep and his large belly growling with hunger, Dr. Joe Hardy, director of research, watches the tall, beautiful blonde on the security screens and wonders where he has seen her before.
“There she goes again,” Stringer Jackson, the security guard, says next to him. “Check it out. She’s writing another message.”
The mob easily overwhelmed the two National Guardsmen posted in the lobby and took them hostage. The blonde, apparently the leader of the group, has been communicating their demands by holding up signs to the security cameras and miming shooting the soldiers in the head.
“She a tough bitch, that one,” Hardy says with respect, his hands buried in the pockets of his labcoat. “Like my ex-wife.”
Jackson grins appreciatively.
The blonde triumphantly holds up a sign. It
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