The Zone: A Post-Apocalyptic Thriller (Infection Chronicles Book 1) (5 page)

“Don’t get distracted.”

“That’s just a damn shame. Perfectly good car like that going to waste in here.”

“Everything goes to waste in here,” Parker said.

“I’m gonna buy me one of those,” Delroy said, beaming. “And a Porsche. I’ve always wanted a Porsche. In fact, I want a garage full of classic cars. What about you Parker? What do you want?”

“With the way the world is, I want an underground bunker. Fusion powered with a stockpile of food, weapons, and medical supplies.”

“No, I mean something fun.”

“What could be more fun than surviving?”

Delroy shrugged her off. “What about you, Major?”

“Don’t go spending your money before you earn it. It’s bad luck.”

“How did you get so rich, Ferris?” Delroy asked.
 

Ferris was still wheezing. “I have one guiding philosophy. Money isn’t everything, it’s the only thing.”

“I hear that,” Delroy said.

The sound of a bottle clinking across the pavement startled them. Delroy snapped his weapon into the firing position. The sound was coming from around the corner. Delroy’s finger gripped the trigger, just waiting to take out a lurker.
 

A disheveled little girl stumbled around the corner and stepped into his sights. She froze and stared back at Delroy. Her face was dirty, and her clothes were tattered.
 
She was maybe 8 or 9 years old. She had curly brown hair and brown eyes. Steele pushed Delroy’s weapon down. The little girl turned and ran back the way she came.
 

She
ran
. That was something that lurkers didn’t do. Stagger, lurch, plod, trudge—
yes
. Run—
no
.
 

“I don’t think she was infected,” Parker said. There was just a twinge of concern in her eye.

“Doesn’t matter,” Steele said. “Lets keep moving.”

FROM THE ROAD, it didn’t look like much. Just a concrete wall and a security gate. What was past the gate was a different matter entirely.

Delroy was the first over the gate, followed by Parker. Ferris was pale and looked like he was about to puke. His legs were jello, and he was dripping in sweat. Running seven clicks wasn’t sitting well with him. There was no way he could scale the gate. 

Delroy disengaged the motor drive, and rolled the gate open. Ferris was still heaving for breath. He looked like one of the infected. With the way he staggered up the drive, he could have easily been mistaken for one. A sickly, almost green, pallor washed over his face.

“It must be my allergies. I can usually run this far no problem,” Ferris said. It was a boldface lie, and everyone knew it. 

Ferris’s mansion was nestled in an enclave of lush greenery. The home was a masterpiece of modern architecture. Clean, functional design—something you’d expect to see in a magazine. Trees towered overhead, providing a canopy of shade over the property. Floor to ceiling glass windows allowed interior spaces to blend seamlessly with the beautiful landscape. The back yard sloped down to a small creek about forty yards from the house. Tucked away as it was, the home had survived the chaos relatively unscathed. 

“Is that a McLaren?” Delroy asked, eyeing the sleek car in the driveway. 

Ferris nodded.

Delroy darted to the car, completely enthralled. “This is nice. What did that set you back?”

“$3.5 million,” Ferris said. 

“Damn,” said Delroy. He traced the sleek curves with  his finger. “This is what I call a panty dropper.” His eyes flicked to Parker with a lascivious glint.

“Not even if you owned two of them, Delroy,” she said.

“Keep focused,” Steele barked. 

At the front door, Ferris fumbled for his keys. Steele kicked it open before Ferris could pull them out. Delroy, Parker, and Steele filed in, clearing the corners and securing the area.

The interior was sprawling. The semi-open floor plan made it look even more spacious. The panoramic windows made it feel like living in a rainforest. It had a sleek, minimalist vibe. Impeccably decorated. The team cleared the first floor with textbook precision and regrouped in the living room. 

“Safe is in the master bedroom, right?” Steele asked Ferris. 

He nodded. “Top of the stairs. First room on the right.”

The team crept up the stairs and secured the area. The master bedroom was larger than most people’s homes. It was opulent, and even had a Jacuzzi. Ferris moved to the wall, and opened a secret compartment. A panel door swung open, revealing a large combination safe. Ferris dialed in the combination—left, right, left. The last tumbler seemed to click into place. He grabbed the handle and tried to turn it—but it wouldn’t budge. 

“It’s a little bit finicky,” Ferris said. He spun the dial to reset the tumblers, then tried again. Left, right, left. He jerked down on the handle, but it was still locked. Ferris tried two more times to unlock it as the others grew impatient.

 “What seems to be the problem?” Steele asked.

 Ferris shrugged. “It seems the combination has been changed.”

“Who changed the combination?” Parker asked.

Steele glanced around the room. His eyes caught sight of a picture atop a nightstand. It was a photo of a man and a woman, arm in arm. The man wasn’t Ferris. Or, perhaps, it
was.
Steele’s eyes narrowed. “You’re not Ferris, are you?”

“Not exactly,” the man stammered, sheepishly. 

Steele grabbed his throat and slammed him against the wall. “Not exactly?”

“I’m his personal assistant.” He was trembling.

“Where is Ferris?” Steele tightened his grip on the man’s throat.

“I don’t know.” His voice was scratchy. “I think he’s dead.”

Steele’s eyes burned into him. “What’s in the safe?”

“Something very valuable.”

“Fuck you.” Steele was almost crushing his windpipe.

“Titrillium. Ounce for ounce, a hundred times more valuable than gold. There’s at least a billion dollars worth in there.”

Steele let go of the man. 

He clutched his neck, gasping for breath. “Ferris didn’t have faith in the market. He was sure an economic collapse was eminent, so he put half his worth in titrillium.”

“So, you just thought you’d help yourself to it?” Steele asked.

“Ain’t nobody else using it,” the man said.

Steele clenched his jaw. He thought about laying the guy out, but he restrained himself. It wouldn’t do any good. Besides, they’d all be rich if they could get that safe open. “What do we call you?” Steele asked.

“Douchebag seems fitting,” Delroy said.

“Evan,” the man said. 

“I prefer douchebag,” quipped Delroy.

“So, Evan, what do you know about this safe?” Steele stood in front of it, surveying its construction.

“Composite hard plate steel,” Evan said. “You can’t drill through it. The door has got internal hinges. There are false tumbler notches, so you can’t manipulate the lock.”
 

“Parker, break out the
Liquid Satan
,” Steele said. 

Liquid Satan, technically known as S9. An incendiary gel that when mixed with a nano-activator, and oxidized, burns at variable temperatures, up to 4000 degrees. It has the consistency of hot glue. And due to its programable, variable temperature settings, it can be used to either cut through, or weld, metal. The gel reaches its maximum temperature within a few minutes of exposure to oxygen.

It was nasty stuff, and the Army had found numerous applications for it. It was in fragmentation grenades. So, not only did you have chunks of shrapnel ripping through your flesh, you got sprayed with searing hot S9 gel. The stuff was in proximity mines, artillery rounds, bombs, and you could even get S9 tipped bullets.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” Evan said.

“Why not?” asked Steele. 

“It’s got a thermal re-locker. You can’t cut into it.”

“What’s Ferris’s birthday?” Steele asked.

“7/16/75.”

Steele spun the tumblers to reset them, then dialed the combination. Left three times to 07. Right twice to 16. Left once to 75. Then he spun the dial to zero and dropped the handle. 

The lock disengaged and the door swung wide. Delroy’s eyes went wide at the sight. 

STEELE’S EYES NARROWED as he gazed into the safe. The
empty
safe. He gritted his teeth and scowled at Evan, who’s eyes were bugging out of their sockets. 

“You gotta be shitting me,” Delroy said.

“It was here,” Evan said, still dazed. “There was no way he had time to move it.”

“Well, it looks like he did,” Steele said.

Delroy lost his cool, grabbed Evan and slammed him against the wall. In a flash, he unholstered his side arm and jammed the barrel against Evan’s temple. “Do you know what we risked coming here? Give me one reason why I shouldn’t blow your head off.”

“Delroy, stand down,” Steele commanded.

Evan looked like he was going to piss his pants. Sweat was beading off his forehead, and he had that sickly pallor again.

After a moment, Delroy reluctantly backed down, and holstered his weapon.

“I think we should put some S9 up his ass,” Parker said. She held up the S9 applicator with a glint in her eye.

“No, I know where it is,” Evan stammered.

“Where?” Steele asked. His voice was full of gravel. 

“Ferris has a survival bunker under the house,” Evan said. “And if he moved the titrillium in there, that means he’s probably in there watching us right now.” Evan pointed to a small camera in the corner of the room.

“Son-of-a-bitch,” Steele mumbled to himself. He scowled at Evan, then marched to the surveillance camera and smashed it with the butt of his weapon. “Show me where he is.”

Evan led them downstairs to another hidden door within a wall. Evan pushed the panel. It clicked open, revealing a staircase that descended to a massive steel door. 

There was a surveillance camera just above the door,  but Steele let it be for now. He clanked the butt of his weapon against the door several times. “Ferris, if you’re in there, open up.”

There was no response.

“We’re coming in, one way or another. Why don’t you just open the door? Make it easy on yourself.”

Still nothing.

Steele leaned in to Evan. “Is he armed?”

Evan nodded. “You name it, he’s got it.”

“How thick is the door?”

“I don’t know,” Evan said. “Half a foot, maybe?”

Steele nodded to Parker. She put on her tactical safety goggles, then readied the S-9 applicator. It was like a high-tech glue gun, but way more deadly. She drew out a large 3x5’ rectangle of gel on the door, then stepped back.

After a few moments, light wisps of smoke began to rise from the gel. Soon it was glowing orange, melting the steel like a cutting torch. Streams of molten metal poured out like lava. An instant later, a clear channel had been cut away. The massive steel rectangle slammed down a quarter of an inch, dropping free. 

The major reached in a pocket and pulled out a filtration mask. It was a half-face respirator. He secured it over his nose and mouth, and lowered his tactical goggles. The bio-mask was state-of-the-art and was effective against biological and chemical weapons. It was self cleaning, which eliminated the need for bulky filters. A digital meter indicated the threat level. An audible warning would sound if the device had reached capacity.

Parker and Delroy followed suit.

“Hey, I don’t have a mask,” Evan said.

“Just hold your breath,” said Delroy.

Evan was standing in the middle of the hallway. Steele grabbed him by the collar and pulled him aside, out of harms way. “Go upstairs.”

Evan shook his head and stayed put. “Hell no, I don’t want to miss this.”

“It’s not going to be pretty,” Steele said. “Go.”

“You’re not the boss of me.”

“This is a military operation, and yes I am. Go,” Steele growled.

“No,” Evan said, defiant.

“Suit yourself.” When the team was ready, Steele kicked in the 3x5’ metal rectangle. It slammed to the ground with a thunderous boom. He tossed a canister of tear gas into the bunker, then hid behind the remaining portion of the door. A flurry of automatic gunfire sprayed out from within the bunker. 

Ferris was definitely armed.

The canister exploded, and smoke billowed out. CS gas—or as it’s chemically known, 2-chlorobenzalmalononitrile. Say
that
six times fast. It’s the most common non-lethal riot control agent, and has been in use for the past 100 years. But non-lethal may be a bit of a misnomer. It’s known to cause pulmonary, heart, and liver damage. Its immediate effects are severe eye, skin, and respiratory distress. Throw in some pain, vomiting, and even temporary blindness. And if you’ve got a pre-existing condition like asthma, forget it. You are seriously fucked. There are also high rates of nerve injury associated with tear gas. And if you get hit with an exploding tear gas cartridge, it’s like getting hit with a grenade.