The Undead World (Book 1): The Apocalypse Page 2

  However with a teenage girl even the smallest ripple could be made into a tidal wave. “Of course they don't, duh!” Brit said, rolling her eyes. “But, you know, they like eat anything a tourist will throw their way. McDonalds and shit like that.”

  “Brit, we're in public,” Sarah said in a whisper as she looked about, ready to unfurl an apology if anyone had overheard the word.

  The girl breathed out loudly as though it was an effort to exhibit the least manners, “Fine: stuff like that. You don't know.”

  Sarah didn't know, though she thought she did.

  Chapter 4

  Ram

  Los Angeles, California

  “Oh this is going to suck big time,” Victor Ramirez said, running a hand through his thick black hair. He was sitting in a van parked just down the block from the mosque with three other agents, though none were sweating like he was.

  “You got that right, Ram,” one of the men agreed. “But it's the job.”

  “But is it my fucking job?” he shot back. “We're DEA, not FBI, or NSA. This should be there shit job.” The Special Agent in Charge, Ron Fillmore only continued to stare out the window, which had Ram getting angrier. “Look, I knew going in that I'd be monkeying around in Mexico, trying to get into a cartel, but this? Do I look muslim to any of you?”

  The senior agent, who looked like he had just strolled out of the whitest section of Whitesville, Connecticut only glanced his pale blue eyes away from the window for a second. “You're closer than I am.”

  Ram pointed his deeply tanned hand at another agent and asked, “What about Shelton? He could be a black muslim. They have them you know.”

  Fillmore shook his head. “Not at this mosque. Trust me. Those sand-monkeys are the most racist people imaginable.”

  “Is that right?” Ram asked, dryly. “The sand-monkeys are racist?”

  “What the hell's your problem?” Fillmore seethed, slamming a hand down on his chair. “This is the job. It doesn't matter right now that it should be FBI. Do you know how many mosques there are in this country? The Director has asked for our help and out of courtesy and damned love of country you're going to do this!”

  “And what happens when this is another false alarm?” Ram asked quietly. “Who gets hung out to dry? Am I going to get thrown overboard as a supposed rogue agent?”

  “This is nationwide, so no,” Fillmore replied, calmer now. “And for Christ's sake I hope it is a false alarm.”

  In his gut, Ram didn't think it was going to be and that had him doubly nervous. In his seven years with the agency he'd had guns shoved in his face, he'd been beaten nearly to death, and he had dined with stone cold killers who made Ted Bundy look like a chump, but there was something about the ethereal and invisible nature of biological weapons that made him shiver at the very thought.

  Was he even then infected? Or was his next breath going to be the one that killed him?

  “What about clothes?” he asked, thinking that maybe he would like to wear one of the long robes he had seen middle-eastern muslims wearing. Sometimes they wore scarves, which would go a long way in hiding the fact that he was latino and not muslim, and which he figured he would breathe through in the hope of lessening any chance at catching the disease.

  “What you have on is fine,” Fillmore answered after a glance. “Here, study these while you can.”

  The senior agent handed over four photographs; all were of middle eastern men. Dreadful rumors had been rippling from every intel source and only in the last few days had they firmed up. An Al-Qaeda spin off group was thought to be bringing a weaponized form of Bubonic plague into the US. However the group was so secretive that only eighteen of them were even named and just four of those had ever been photographed.

  The others were described in the most useless fashion: Arabic; olive skin tone; black hair; brown eyes.

  “This is impossible,” Ram griped. “The pictures could be of anyone and I know it isn't PC to say this, but these descriptions are pathetic. They probably describe everyone in that damned building.”

  Fillmore nodded, thin lipped. “They aren't all the same. Not all of them are Saudis, Fuad Mehdi, he's from Kazakhstan, and Shehzad Bhanji, he's from Qatar. Maybe they'll stand out. If you don't see anyone who matches the pictures, look for someone who's all by themselves, or a pair who don't belong. Use your training.”

  “My biggest worry is that I'll find fifty people who look like these pictures.”

  Fillmore tried a smile; it wasn't his strong suit under the best of conditions and this one was watery. “You're going to be fine, Ram. Now it's time to get moving. They should be calling the people to pray any minute and you should be in there before they do.”

  Ram took a shaky breath, felt the pistol in the holster under his jacket, tapped the tiny two-wave radio in his pocket, and then stepped out of the van. “Wait, is it salmon aleekum,” he asked, fouling up the traditional greeting.

  “No, hold on.” Fillmore looked at a folder and said slowly, “As-salam alaykum. Say it to yourself as you go.” With that the van door was closed in his face and Ram was left to walk down the street alone.

  He tried again, “As salamun malaikum? Oh, Jesus! This isn't going to work.”

  The mosque, a white rectangle of a building with a domed minaret in its center was fast approaching. He tucked his chin down and kept his eyes up, watching as men in twos and threes came up the street. Most were smiling easily, others seemed tired since the sun was already set. He followed a pair as they entered the front door and stepped to the side in a lobby. Everyone who entered took their shoes off and Ram did as well, though he took his time, deliberately.

  Going to one knee he scanned the faces around him and as he did his training, as well as his natural inclination as an adrenaline junkie, kicked in. His nervousness disappeared and his eyes were sharp. He took in every detail of the men who drifted through the lobby, most of whom jabbered in this or that language.

  Quickly he realized two things: one, the pictures and descriptions were as useless as he had supposed they would be, and two, he didn't need them either way. There was another man lingering in the lobby.

  He was dark complected, even compared to the other middle-eastern men, and his clothes were odd: stylish, but out dated as only foreigners seemed to wear them. He and Ram locked eyes and the DEA agent knew this was his man. Unfortunately the man realized this as well, and without hesitation, he broke for the door in his stockinged feet.

  Ram was right behind him, at first, however the man was fleet of foot, while Ram, though tall was more of a bulldog in form and in style. Still he ran as hard as he could with his shoeless feet slapping on the pavement as he yanked out his two-way.

  “Suspect running north…on ninth…in pursuit,” he yelled this between gasping breaths. And then the middle-easterner sprinted up the first street he came to and this was lucky because down it the van roared and out jumped two of the DEA agents.

  The man turned first one way, and then the other but by then it was too late. “One move, dip-shit and I'll drop you,” Ram threatened as he came up with his gun drawn and the trigger half pulled.

  “You have got the wrong man,” the middle easterner said in a thick accent. There was fear in his face, but anger as well.

  The senior agent frisked him from behind and pulled a gun out of his jacket pocket. “My ass we do,” Fillmore said, holding it up. In a second Shelton cuffed the man and hustled him into the back of the van.

  “I'm glad that we won't have to worry about a translator,” Fillmore said, with an evil glint to his eye as the van took off in a screech of tires. “Or about rendition either. There'll be no playing around this time. No lawyers, no judges, none of that crap. You understand what I'm saying?”

  “Like I said you've got the wrong man. Check my pocket! I'm Iranian not a Saudi!”

  “Oh, you're Iranian? Well Mr. Iranian, do you care to explain what you're doing here in the states?” Fillmore asked, searching the man'
s pockets and finding a number of photographs. “Meeting some friends? Who are they?”

  He held the pictures up to the Iranian's face and Ram caught sight of them—two looked very familiar. Way too familiar. Ram dug out the four photographs that he was carrying and stared with a growing realization.

  “My name is Sayyid Nosair and I'm doing the same as you,” the Iranian answered. “Trying to stop the world from ending. We're after the same people and you just ruined any chance that I could've had to stop them!”

  “He may not be lying,” Ram said, holding up the matching pictures side by side. His insides felt greasy.

  Back at the mosque a man slipped from the prayer line and hurried outside to intercept another two men before they could come in. With quick steps they walked to a late model BMW and drove away, losing themselves in the night.

  Chapter 5

  Neil

  Montclair, New Jersey

  The train into Manhattan was right on time—according to Neil Martin's watch, and his watch was an Omega; a point of pride. He slid his newspaper into the briefcase he always carried and then commenced to bob up and down on his toes as the train slid by, going ever slower. The door, his door as he thought it, stopped precisely in front of him.

  Neil was always precise; another point of pride.

  He stood exactly three feet back from the door. It was plenty of room for anyone departing to walk around him, either left or right, and just close enough so that another passenger looking to board would have to wait behind him.

  Unless they were rude, that is. The doors opened and with no one exiting, Neil started forward, only to be jostled aside by a rather average man pushing past him.

  “Excuse me!” Neil said in anger.

  With a snide look to his blonde features, the man turned on the top step of the train and stared down. “Yeah? You got something to say?” he asked. His Jersey was thick and menacing on his tongue.

  “I was just here first,” Neil said in a softer tone. The man might have been average in size, however Neil wasn't. Even with the inch tall heels on his loafers, they barely boosted him to five-foot-five. And no amount of eating seemed to ever push him over the one-hundred and forty pound barrier.

  “You were here first?” the man asked. “Good for fuckin you.”

  Neil's chin dropped on its own and the man walked off, snorting in contempt. “Troglodyte,” Neil whispered, moving to the car on the left; the opposite direction of the rude Jerseyite.

  He sat himself down and fumed, staring out the window as the train commenced its journey and he didn't notice the pretty girl across the aisle until they ducked through a long tunnel. Then he could see her just fine reflected in the train's window: auburn hair, pert features, a trim little figure, and what was more, she was a good size for him, probably only a hair over five feet.

  He turned with a shy look and was surprised when her smile broadened. “Hi,” she said, scooting over to the aisle seat.

  “Hi,” he replied in kind, feeling that nice warmth in his chest at meeting a pretty girl. It was a rare event for him.

  “You shouldn't worry yourself about that guy,” she said, her smile turning sympathetic. She tilted her head to add to the effect.

  “That guy?” The warmth in Neil's chest turned to ice.

  “Oh yeah, that idiot. How on earth do those people get to walk around on this planet with the rest of us? You know what I'm saying? Homophobia is a disease on this society.” She said this far too loudly for Neil's tastes.

  His head clicked up and down and his smile went crooked. “It's a bitch,” he agreed and then pretended to read his newspaper. The headline blared: Super-flu Strikes Russia!

  “It's a real fucking bitch,” he whispered. Neil Martin wasn't gay at all and he very much wanted to say something, but what good would it do him? None whatsoever. Instead he hid himself in the paper and when the nearly empty Sunday morning train pulled into Penn Station, he lingered in his chair, not wanting to see the rude man. Nor did he want to be around if the woman was going to fight his battles for him.

  That would be embarrassing beyond anything he could contemplate.

  So he hung back as they disembarked and as chance would have it they preceded him through the maze-like terminal.

  “This can't be happening,” he said under his breath. The ill-mannered blonde man was walking right for the 1 train, heading south and a few steps behind him, clacked the small woman in her four-inch stilettos. Neil groaned and actually considered the idea of taking a cab down to his office.

  It would cost him twenty dollars and most of the remaining shreds of his ego to do so. Instead he took a deep breath and went through the turnstiles, hoping against hope that the pair had moved down the platform so that he would be spared their presence. It was not his lucky day it seemed. The rude man stood exactly fifteen feet from the beginning of the tunnel, right where the first car would come to a halt. It was Neil's spot. He always stood there.

  Not that day. Keeping his head down to avoid eye contact he went past the man who made a loud business of it to hock up a big ball of snot and spit down into the tracks. Neil made a face of disgust and unfortunately the auburn haired woman, who was just a little further on, caught it.

  “That's so foul,” she said, shaking her head. “I'm sorry you have to put up with it. I have this co-worker, yes he's a bit of a flamer, but…” Just then the blonde man spat again even louder and the woman turned on him. “Do you have to be so gross?”

  He didn't yell or make snide comments as Neil expected, instead he squatted at the edge of the platform and pointed down at something unseen. “I ain't gross. That is. I've never seen something like that before in my life.”

  The man was at a safe distance so Neil inched up close to the edge as well. “What the…what is that?” he asked stepping back in alarm. Gradually, curiosity had him moving forward to look a second time. “Is that half a rat? And it's alive? How is that possible?”

  It was indeed one of the huge sewer rats New York City was famous for, only this one was torn in half. It pulled itself along by its front limbs and all the while it made a doleful squeaking sound. The woman took one peek and then looked away touching her palm to her mouth lightly. The blonde spat on the rat again and Neil had to turn away as well.

  The man smirked and said, “You're going to have to grow a pair or Red will never sleep with you.”

  Neil couldn't argue the point mainly because it was true; however the woman wasn't going to be constrained. “Listen pencil-dick. This guy's got far more of a chance than you will ever…”

  “What is that?” Neil asked putting out his hand to the woman. From the tracks the strange squeaking sound had increased—a lot.

  “Whoa,” the blonde man said and now he hopped back. There were more of the rats and even by the low standards of sewer rats these were repulsive. Like the first they were mauled and chewed upon. Some were missing limbs, while others had necks that were near bitten through, or bellies that hung in shreds.

  They stared up at the blonde with a look that spoke of hate or anger. It was a bizarre moment that was cut short by the rumble of the 1 train as it came into the station far down at the other end of the platform.

  The woman looked pale and she began to walk away from the blonde man. “I don't want to share a car with him,” she said, giving Neil a little sideways nod with her head. Eager to be further from both the blonde and the rats in the tracks, Neil began to go with her but by chance he turned to look back at the man who had so antagonized him.

  The blonde was looking right past Neil at the oncoming train, which was growing louder with every second, and this was probably why he didn't hear the rats as they came from out of the tunnel behind him in a hideous grey wave.

  Neil's mouth failed him; it dropped open but sound refused to come. So he pointed with one hand at the onrushing rats and slowly the blonde turned with a puzzled expression.

  Now it was that many of the rats didn't appear injured a
nd these ran with a surprising speed so that they were on the blonde before he really understood what he was looking at. And then like small dogs, they leapt at him, latching on with their diseased teeth. He screamed and it was an inhuman sound that could be heard even above the approaching train. Neil ran, a move that was all instinct and panic and cowardice. Dozens of rats were all over the blonde and dozens more that couldn't get at him had turned toward the other two people on the platform.

  Neil took off and almost as an afterthought he grabbed the woman and pulled her along, though he was quick to let go. Unlike in the movies where people sprinted hand in hand, in real life it only made them both slower and she wasn't very fast to begin with, not in her high stilettos.

  “Don't leave me!” she screeched only seconds later.

  He looked back and saw that he was already fifteen feet ahead of her and his lead was growing with every one of his strides. In a flash, he fought an internal battle as he judged the distances between her and the lead wave of rats, and the flash turned into a pause, and then the pause turned into a moment of too late as one of the least injured rats caught up to the woman in the tight skirt and the too tall heels. It sank its teeth into her ankle.

  It didn't seem like much of a bite, however it was right at the tendon above her heel and the horrid beast severed it with a rip of its jaws. She went down and more of the rats rushed over her and her screams were added to that of the blonde who was still alive, kicking and flailing under a mantle of grey bodies.

  And Neil ran. He ran grimacing and crying, staring over his shoulder at a nightmare come true.

  Chapter 6

  Sarah

  Danville, Illinois