Zombie Infestation Page 2

  They took a step back. Good.

  I’d lost my husband ostensibly because of my exposure to AIDS. He’d wanted out. The government denied the seriousness of the illness, said it was harmless. Hell, even AIDS was a cover up for their fucked up experiment. The governments involved had a lot to answer for.

  All those people with HIV and AIDS? Their nightmarish situation defied all current medical knowledge. They were in various stages of being a zombie. They just didn’t get the super powers that came along with it or the neato resurrection side effect.

  Those who tested positive for AIDS were the unlucky ones, especially in the early years when it was blamed on gays. As a result of this manmade catastrophe, their bodies simply deteriorated, and the disease was recognizable by the medical community. Although in my book, they could count themselves lucky their bodies went before their brains turned them into mindless killing machines. Most didn’t feel that way.

  Hard to be grateful for something the government insisted didn’t exist.

  “Well?” I demanded.

  “We need you to go in as a ghost writer. The people we’re dealing with, a relatively unknown terrorist group, specifically don’t want a regular journalist,” Blue Suit said. Apparently, he’d been voted the mouthpiece of the pair.

  I couldn’t work out if they thought I was stupid or if they were simply spouting party line. “Who wouldn’t want a news journalist over a mystery writer?”

  “This group wants someone more malleable to what they want written than a journalist.”

  Really? Fortunately for them, I thought they were spouting bullshit.

  “We need you to get information for us,” he continued before I could ask any more questions.

  Now they’d really lost me. “What’s going on? What terrorists,” I asked when he hesitated.

  “A group of people have threatened to release the virus on the general public. We suspect these terrorists have their hands on the serum that causes the Ultimate form of the disease you were exposed to,” he replied.

  “Ultimate form?” Best to play it like I’d no idea what they’re talking about.

  “They’ve taken the virus you were exposed to and made it stronger. The terrorists are threatening to unleash the Ultimate form of AIDS if we don’t give them what they want.”

  “The Ultimate form of AIDS? What if I’m not as able to fight off the new stage?” And who the hell would they find to blame this time? I could fight it off. No point in telling them. Or explaining how I came of this knowledge. Besides, who knew if a stronger strain lurked out there? “What is it they want?” None of this made any sense whatsoever. If I had spidey senses, they’d be tingling. Wait, I do.

  I call it my bullshit meter.

  Did they know not everyone exposed to the virus contracted the deteriorating disease the government and medical professionals classified as AIDS? Probably not. These two didn’t seem to understand AIDS was a mutated, failed, version of the experimental virus that started this whole mess. One our government had secretly helped develop and fucking refused responsibility for. The again, what did they care? The end of the world as we knew had already started. Most people just didn’t know it yet.

  I didn’t know what they were originally searching for, but they found a way to make super soldiers. When exposed, some people became smarter, faster, put out higher levels of pheromones, which gave them control over other humans. They spread the disease quicker than you could say, STD.

  “I don’t know about your ability to fight off the new stage of virus. I’m here to recruit you. The terrorists want a writer to tell their story, but want to share the credit. They claim they have the cure to all illnesses, except AIDS, and the government is covering it up,” Blue Suit said.

  He eyed me speculatively. No doubt weighing his preconceived ideas of a writer’s ability to do anything not sedentary against the way I’d fought back earlier. A lot of people thought the same. I couldn’t help but wonder why they wanted a fiction writer instead of a news journalist. More importantly, did they think I was immune? They couldn’t possibly know about my mutated genes, or could they?

  I noticed the agents exchanging glances. Maybe they were afraid I’d attack again. I narrowed my eyes. “Exactly what government agency do you work for?” A question I should’ve asked a while ago, but was too caught up in things like being kidnapped, kids, and the zombie virus.

  Blue suit pulled out his ID. “We’re FBI,” he said with large amounts of self-importance. Great. I’d met his kind before. Regardless of why they’d started in their chosen field, their position of authority went straight to their heads. “Part of a special task force put together to fight this particular terrorist group,” he finished, confirming my suspicion. He held his ID wallet up to my scrutiny. I looked closely, memorizing the numbers so I could do a deeper check later.

  “Fucking Bad Information is involved with this? Tell me, stud. What did you hit me with back in the parking lot?” I put out my cigarette, sat back down, and crossing my feet, plopped them up on the table.

  “Nothing,” Blue Suit—I’d continue to think of him that way—said. “We just hit you on the head.” His left hand twitched and he stared at me full in the eyes.

  Have I mentioned I hated being lied to?

  “This interview is over. Take me home. If you can’t tell me the truth regarding the drugs you’re pumping in me, I’m not buying the rest of your bullshit.” Not that I bought it anyway. I stood and was halfway to the door before Black Suit grabbed my arm.

  I looked him up and down scathingly. “Get. Your. Hand. Off. Touch me again without my permission, and I’ll kill you.” Okay, so I had a temper. But these guys were seriously pushing my buttons. Attacking me and leaving my kids vulnerable were not the best ways to get on my good side.

  The agent looked stunned and took a step back. Blue Suit stepped between me and the door. He held out a hand in an attempt to placate me. “Sorry,” he said. “We need her to cooperate,” he spoke over Black Suit’s protest. He turned back to me. “We gave you a special concoction for those who’ve been exposed.”

  “I need to know what it is,” I told him through clenched teeth.

  “We don’t know.” Desperation laced his voice.

  “Who does?” I believed him about his ignorance, but it didn’t make me happy. On the other hand, if I could get ahold of the drug, it would make my job easier.

  They exchanged another look. It infuriated me.

  “Look, guys. You want my willing cooperation? Then tell me what I need to know.” God help me if they didn’t care if I was willing or not.

  “The army developed it. The same scientists responsible for creating the virus has been looking for an antivirus. They created this to help put the infected under anesthesia for testing. Before this, it was nearly impossible to catch or test them.”

  I looked at Black Suit and wondered if he understood he’d just told me they’d been abducting other people the way they’d grabbed me. Ironic. The FBI in the kidnapping business.

  I walked back to the desk and settled in again, this time picking up the ashtray and playing with it while they talked. It was tempting to use it. Maybe a quick toss smashing Black Suit’s nose completely? Or hitting them in the back of the head while I burned the eye out of the other with my cigarette? However, I didn’t want the agency to know I was capable of more than a few self-defense moves. It might be all that kept me out of the aforementioned labs. Plus, these guys weren’t zombies. Until I figured out whether or not they were involved with spreading the virus, I couldn’t hurt them again.

  “What was the virus originally intended to do?” I thought I knew, but how much information did the FBI have on it? Or at least, how much did these two know?

  “The virus was invented to boost the immune system. Something backfired. We don’t know the details.”

  Hello, Captain Obvious. I knew more than they did. These two were left ignorant and therefore disposable in case something went
wrong. Which meant, more than likely, I was as well. I’d have to tread carefully so the people arranging the mission didn’t grow suspicious of me. I wished I knew who pulled the strings behind this.

  I nodded, as if accepting their explanation. “So what am I supposed to do?”

  “You travel a lot.” Blue Suit paused, apparently waiting for my confirmation. I nodded. “We want you to go on a trip to Mexico. A research trip, or whatever. You’re going in as a writer. We’ll give you the details of who to meet, code words, everything you need to get in and accepted by the group.”

  “If you have all that, what do you need me for?” My spine tingled. No, this wasn’t right. My intuition screamed, Run. Fast and far. Another gift from the accident. My life was partitioned into two parts—before and after the accident.

  I’d become something else after the accident. Something more than human, but not zombie. I hadn’t believed the government when they’d said nothing changed after the exposure, but their doctors wouldn’t order the lab tests for me. A fact I’d since become grateful for.

  After finding a genetic scientist who lived in my area, I had set up my own lab in the basement like Frankenstein, a mad scientist. Successful as a writer, I could afford it. My scientist worked on demand and doubled as a babysitter for cover. I had blood and saliva samples from everyone I’d come in blood contact with and the few Infected I’d killed in the course of my work as my alter ego. So far, none showed the same “T” shaped addition to the antibodies like mine did. My mind kept going back to my kids despite these two yahoos. I really needed to get out of here.

  Blue Suit set my file down on the desk. My fingers itched to grab it and check if it had been updated since I last saw it. “We need you to get in and confirm they have the virus. Also, if they’ve succeeded in creating an antivirus. A lot of agents died to obtain the information we have so far. Somehow, the terrorists know when we send in an agent and no one gets past the door. We don’t know what gives us away.”

  Perhaps because you guys are from the same cookie cutter? I bit my tongue on my nasty retort, and said, “Okay, I get that you need someone who doesn’t stink of cop.” I ignored Black Suit’s low scowl. “But why me? Why a writer and not an investigative reporter?”

  “The terrorists asked for a specific type writer. One who will tell their story. But not a journalist. They said a journalist would be too biased. They want an objective account of what they’re doing.” For the first time, his stance changed as he slouched, making himself a smaller target.

  “Terrorists want an objective account?” Uh-huh. And I was the fucking Easter Bunny. Their excuse was so flimsy, a child could see through it. From his pacing, it looked like he’d started to realize how lame it all sounded. Good. A little fear would help keep him safe.

  “What aren’t you telling me?” And when can I get the hell out of here? I fought the fear every mom had when they’re unsure of where their kids are, even while I tried to concentrate on the issue at hand.

  “These particular terrorists include army personnel. Ex-army.”

  I whistled low. “You do have a problem. That explains their knowledge of tactics, but doesn’t explain how they got their hands on the virus in the first place.” I was a writer, not a dumbass.

  “That’s one of the things the task force hopes to find out. If you make it in, you’re our best chance at saving the world from terrorist damage capable of harming every man, woman and child if it gets out,” he said, impassioned as only those who truly believe could.

  I pursed my lips grimly. He’d no idea just how right he was about the dangers to the rest of the world if the terrorists unleashed the virus. It already spread its insidious poison through love and sex and hate. If the terrorists had found an antivirus, I wanted a chance to get a sample. AIDS was the least of our problems.

  “I’ll do my best. What do I need to know? How’re you going to get me in?”

  For the next hour, they went over the details of the plan. It wasn’t a bad plan, but with every step, I grew colder, sure someone higher ranking than the two suits knew about my double life. Were they setting me up to be a scapegoat in the same way the agents were being set up, or was someone using my talents without revealing themselves for a more honorable reason?

  I, for one, hoped for the latter.

  Chapter 2

  The unexpected trip with the FBI had nearly cost me a night’s worth of work, but had put me behind schedule. Damn them and their stunts. Despite working as fast as I could to push the Suits, I was late, making everything from dinner to picking up the boys from their sports practices late, which upset them. Fury didn’t begin to cover what I felt.

  Per the conversation with the FBI, I was due to leave in two weeks. By car. That’s the only part I’d dug my heels in about and wouldn’t budge. Fuck going by plane and not being allowed to bring any of my specialty weapons.

  The bar was busy for a weekday. I already found my target for the night. Some nights, I could go all night without finding one. But not tonight. I smiled, knowing how the deep red lipstick emphasized my lips, and licked them for good measure. The guy sitting next to me adjusted his jeans and gave me a once over. My leather biker pants and leather jacket looked good on me and I flaunted it. His eyes drifted from my perfectly painted face framed by my wild mane of auburn hair, to the bountiful cleavage showing above the V of my silk shirt.

  Gotcha, I thought as his breathing changed, speeding up.

  I went to the Back Street Bistro almost every night. It was a popular hunting ground for the zombies who still appeared and acted human. At least that had been my initial reason. The warm ambience and rich interior—leather, brick, high-end coasters—appealed to a wealthy clientele even if it was downtown. Men and women trolling for a sugar daddy were ripe for the taking by those infected. Unfortunately for the Infected, their brain waves gave them away. My psychic talents had gone from extremely intuitive to knowing within seconds if someone else carried the virus when they used any of their extra talents. After physical contact, I could also tell what level of sickness they’d contracted. Of course, the intuition, my gut instinct, remained.

  And I always had my trusty bartender back up, Gabe Dance, whom I’d saved from a zombie early in my career. We’d been lucky that day. Now he watched my back and helped cover for me. Sometimes, he tipped me off if he noticed particularly strange or overt changes in his customers. With a subtle wink at Gabe, I turned my attention back to the man near me.

  “Hi,” he said, using a low voice designed to be intimate. Even with my natural defenses, his voice danced along my skin. I’d bet my last dollar, this man-turned-zombie’s voice made other women weak in the knees and light-headed.

  I pulled a new cigarette pack out of the inner pocked of my jacket, tossed my hair over my shoulder with a short flick of my head, and started packing the cigs against my palm. “Hi, stranger,” I purred with my own brand of magic. Zombies in particular seemed to fall in love with my voice. In a long practiced move, I ripped the plastic off my cigarettes, flipped it open with my thumb, and tore the foil off the top.

  I sat on a bar stool, one high-heeled leather boot on the floor, the other hooked on the lower ring. The position emphasized the muscles of my legs through the tight fitting leather. The zombie’s eyes glowed with lust.

  “What’re you having, doll,” he asked.

  “Nothing if you keep calling me doll,” I replied archly.

  He looked taken aback. I could see the wheels in his head working on a retort. My best guess, he was a businessman by day. Short, well combed hair, Dockers, casual dress shoes, and a long-sleeved collared shirt. His only concession to the night scene was the lack of tie and he’d unbuttoned the top two buttons of his shirt. I’d met his type before. They wanted people to know they were successful. Figured it drew in more moths. I shrugged. They were right. Women liked a man with money and this place dripped with it.

  “I’m sorry, Miss—” he paused and looked at me expectantly
.

  Shit, really? That’s the best he knew for pick-up lines? I had to play it through, or find a new mark for the night. This guy caused my instincts to buzz. I couldn’t risk letting him loose. “I’m Rogue.” I took a deep drag of my cigarette, letting the smoke out slowly.

  “Well, Rogue, I’m Roger. Roger Vincent. And I’ve just put you at the top of my to-do list,” he said as if he were a luscious dinner and I a starving Survivor contestant. Like I’d jump at the chance to bed him.

  I rolled my eyes. Funny he should use that particular line. He was at the top of my to-do list. I doubted we meant the same thing. “Honey, I get lines from boys like you all the time. I want a man. Call me when you grow up.” I turned my body so I faced the bartender, effectively dismissing Roger.

  If I fell too easy, he’d lose interest. I needed him alone so I could put a knife through the base of his skull, or shoot him between the eyes—only sure way to kill a zombie.

  I wished I knew what the government hoped to accomplish when they originally got their hands on this particular virus. It had mutated in so many ways, I suspected they no longer had control of it—as if they ever did. I’m sure they had their illusions of control, but they certainly didn’t know the extent of the virus’ spread. With so many asymptomatic people, it must be impossible for them to track.

  Roger leaned over the bar next to me, rubbing his arm against mine and signaled for the bartender to bring me a drink. The bartender, a big burly black man with the visage of Attila-the-Hun but the heart of Mother Theresa, winked at me and brought me the usual.

  I winked back and grabbed my Long Island Iced Tea—with half the alcohol. I had a deal worked out with Gabe, the bartender. He made me two drinks out of one drink’s worth of alcohol. One early in the evening, one later when my work was done.

  I’d saved his ass from a female zombie—my first actual kill—on a virus-induced high. He and I had a special understanding. He took care of me, I took care of him and his customers. Worked out well.