City of the damned, p.16
City of the Damned, page 16
Claudia rewarded him for his meticulous concern by vomiting all over his boots. The soldier swore and retreated to his position. Acheson's nose wrinkled when he caught the scent of bile, but so much turbulent air passed through the troop area that it lingered only for an instant. Claudia clutched her knees to her chest. She shuddered again, but held it back.
"I don't believe she just upchucked all over me," the disgusted soldier said as he pushed his head and shoulders through the open gunnery door.
"Hey, Mr. Zaslow, this bird got a name? If it don't, I'd like to recommend Vomit Comet," Cecil said with a chuckle.
"We've got a job to do, so if you don't mind, don't bother us unless it's important," Zaslow said. "And by 'important' I mean if a fire breaks out."
Cecil laughed again, making sure he'd depressed his push-to-talk button so the aircrew could hear him. Acheson motioned for him to knock it off.
Ahead loomed Interstate 5, a glowing python filled with slow-moving headlights and brake lights. Beyond that rose downtown L.A.. Acheson saw their office tower, its regal crown fully illuminated. Traffic helicopters and other small aircraft flitted about. They did not appear to notice the bigger helicopter hurtling through the deepening night at over 160 miles an hour. The Black Hawk drifted into a left turn.
"We'll orbit above the medical center campus, Mr. Acheson," Zaslow said. "It'll be a hard right bank. You call out when you see the parking lot."
"Roger that," Acheson said.
The Black Hawk recovered from its left turn and flew straight and level for a moment before banking hard to the right. As the buildings of the USC Medical Center slid into view, Acheson leaned over Cecil to see as much as he could. The helicopter orbited over the I-5, giving him a clear view of the coroner building.
"Parking lot's at thirty degrees," Acheson reported.
"Roger. We've got some cars and light posts there, and we'd damage property if we try to squeeze in. What about that parking garage right next door? We can hover over one corner while you guys bail out."
Acheson considered it. The parking garage Zaslow spoke of was much closer to the coroner's office than the hospital landing pad, which was a city block away. It would be easier, especially when lugging their gear along.
"Sounds good to me, chief, as long as you think it's safe."
"Roger. We'll make one more orbit, then I'll drop us in. The tail of the aircraft will be hanging off the edge, and I'll have to keep us between lampposts. I want your people to exit through both doors and run away from the aircraft. We'll have to pull out at max power, so watch out for debris."
"Understood." Acheson looked around the darkened troop compartment. "Everyone got that? When we get the word, unstrap your harnesses and hit the door. Run straight out from the helicopter and crouch down. Keep running until the helicopter pulls away."
Everyone acknowledged the instructions. The MH-60 went through another orbit, slowing as it approached the parking garage. The helicopter descended and shuddered as it passed through its own rotorwash.
"Clear left," said the crewman on the left side of the aircraft.
"Clear right, watch the poles," advised his counterpart on the right.
"Everyone out," Zaslow said as he transitioned the helicopter into a stable hover and kept an eye on the long refueling boom that protruded from its nose. "Remember to remove your headsets!"
The two crewmen pulled back inside the aircraft and assisted the team with removing their harnesses and headsets. Acheson followed Cecil as he scrambled for the exit and leaped out, pulling his heavy black duffel bag with him. Acheson joined him, then turned and assisted Sharon as she followed him, with Rick right behind. Crouching against the violent rotorwash that tore at their clothes and bags, deafened by the booming rotors and the wailing engines, they distanced themselves as quickly as possible from the hovering Black Hawk.
"Hoo boy!" Cecil shouted when they were clear. "Ain't done nuthin' like that in a long time!"
Rotors thundering, the helicopter lifted straight up. Once above the lampposts that illuminated the parking lot, it nosed down and accelerated away.
Acheson pulled his radio headset from his pocket and inserted the earpiece in his right ear. He flipped over to the frequency reserved for the Night Stalkers.
"SHADOW, this is Two-Six."
"Two-Six, this is SHADOW, over," Zaslow replied immediately.
"SHADOW, Two-Six. How long can you loiter? Over."
"Two-Six, this is SHADOW. We're good for about two hours plus. Uh, Two-Six, looks like you've got some sort of security team approaching your position in a small white pickup truck with flashing amber lights, over."
"Roger that, SHADOW. Two-Six, out." Acheson looked across the parking lot as he switched frequencies and watched Chiho and Ellenshaw help Claudia get squared away. Julia was straightening out their gear. All wore sidearms hidden beneath their clothes, but their tactical weapons—MP-5s and shotguns—remained in the black duffel bags.
"TOC, this is Two-Six, over."
There was a brief pause before Jerry Licht's voice came back over the headset. "Two-Six, this is TOC, over."
"TOC, Two-Six. What's your pos?" Acheson picked up his duffel bag and trotted toward Chiho's team. Cecil, Sharon, and Rick stayed close behind.
"Two-Six, we're just past the 710 interchange. We're at least twenty-five minutes out, over." Licht was riding in a converted Ford van that served as the team's urban Tactical Operations Center, probably inching down the freeway toward Los Angeles. There were four people in the van, and they'd left ten minutes before the Black Hawk picked up the team. They had a designated holding area at the corner of Marengo and Zonal, across the medical campus from the coroner's building.
"Roger that. We're going to have to move before you get into position, but we'll do our best to keep you informed. Two-Six, out." Acheson looked over his shoulder as a white Chevy S10 pickup truck with flashing amber lights crested the ramp that led to the garage's lower levels.
Acheson and Cecil angled toward the truck. The vehicle stopped and two men stepped out. They wore white uniform shirts and dark slacks, and were armed with pistols. The legend on the truck's driver-side door read USC MEDICAL CENTER SECURITY.
"What's going on?" asked the driver, a paunchy man with a shaved head that was beaded with sweat despite the chill in the air. His nervous eyes darted from Acheson to Cecil and back again. His partner, a lanky Latino with razor stubble and a chronic sneer, didn't seem as nervous as his white companion.
"Homeland Security," Acheson said. "This is federal business. Get back in your vehicle."
"What business is that?" the guard asked suspiciously. His hand danced toward the pistol on his belt. His partner kept the truck between him and the team.
Cecil flashed his ID. "Homeland Security," he emphasized. "And if you don't believe that, you might wanna ask yourself how many people arrive by military helicopter." He nodded toward the sky, and the man turned. Shadow Flight was in the distance, orbiting at 150 feet. "Go back to your bidness, and leave us alone."
"I gotta call this in," the guard said.
"Call whoever you want," Acheson snapped. He marched toward the stairway door, and the others followed.
"Wait!" the guard called after them.
"Get back in your vehicle," Cecil said in his best Samuel L. Jackson voice. "Don't interfere, man. This is way above your head. Call whoever you want to call, then sit in your truck and keep your pal company." He looked across the truck's roof at the Latino. "You boys understand me?"
The Latino held his hands out from his sides, well away from his pistol. "No problem."
The team hurried to ground level. Acheson was first out, shouldering open the steel door as he stepped into a smaller parking lot. Signs marked every parking space there as RESERVED. The coroner's building was nearby. Most of its windows were dark. Acheson checked his watch. It was after 7:00 p.m.
A lanky black kid was on his way out when Acheson made it to the door. Acheson grabbed the handle before the door could close.
"Can I help you?" the kid asked with a frown. Acheson made him to be about twenty-three, maybe an intern or an assistant. As he spoke, the young man glanced back at the rest of the team as they charged toward the door. His frown deepened, and Acheson reckoned it wasn't every day a group of folks packing assault weaponry closed in on his place of work.
"Homeland Security," Acheson said while making no move to show his ID. "You've got some bodies in the cooler that were tapped in Hawthorne. We need to get to them."
"Uh...look, man, you can't just walk in there. You need a security card to get in through the inner door, and believe me, no matter who you're with, they're not just going to let you walk in and go down to the service floor. You need an escort and all of that..." As he spoke, the man tried to hide the photo ID card hanging around his neck. It read PATRICK johnson.
Acheson propped the door open with his right foot and grabbed the man's jacket, pulling him back inside. "You'll do just fine, Patrick."
"Hey!" Patrick shouted, struggling. "What’re you doing?"
Acheson shoved Patrick into the entrance foyer. "You're going to take us to the bodies. We don't have time to stand around out here holding our dicks in our hands."
"Whoa, man! How do I know you're who you say you are?"
Acheson pulled out his ID, and shoved the Homeland Security photo ID into his face.
"Happy now?" he asked curtly.
"Oh, fuck. Listen, I can't—" Patrick glanced at the hard faces surrounding him, then swiped his ID card through the card reader next to the foyer door. The lock clicked open loudly, and Acheson pushed him through the door. Cecil held it open for the rest of the team.
Patrick looked around, and sighed when he saw no one else in sight. "The bodies're downstairs. Stairs are over there, elevators are over there." He pointed out each.
"We'll take the stairs."
They followed Patrick down the stairwell. When they reached the final landing, Acheson pulled him back from the door. He glanced back at Sharon, who stood behind him with Cecil. Chiho had stopped the rest of the team on the upper landing and leaned against the wall. She'd drawn her suppressed MP-5 and had her machete on her hip. Patrick eyed this with a mix of suspicion and apprehension.
"So what's with all the guns?"
Acheson ignored him. "Sharon?"
"They're awake. That's all I know."
"On this floor?"
Sharon chewed her lower lip. "I think so."
"Man up," Acheson told the team. He dropped his duffel bag and opened it. Patrick's eyes bugged when he saw the evil-looking AA-12 shotgun and the stakes.
"Man, the people down here are already dead!" He backed against the cinderblock wall, eyes wide.
"Relax, Patrick. We're not the ones you need to worry about." Acheson jerked his chin toward the door. "What's the layout in there?"
"Uh... autopsy room's on this side," he said, pointing toward the wall at Acheson's right, "and the door here opens onto a hallway. Bodies are down this way, in the crypt." He jerked a thumb toward the wall behind him. "And there's a couple of offices for the pathologists. Forensics lab is right before the crypt, and maybe a janitor's closet."
"Who else is here?" Cecil asked. He had just pulled the SAW from its big duffel and was in the process of slinging it from his shoulder by its patrol strap.
"Maybe the cleaners. I was working late, getting in some OT."
"Any more locked doors we need to know about?" Acheson rose to his feet and kicked his duffel bag against the wall. Cecil tossed his duffel on top of Acheson's.
"No. Listen, what—"
"You don't want to know." Acheson glanced over his shoulder as Nacho joined him, followed by Rick. The stairway landing was getting crowded. Nacho shouldered his MP-5. His bulky body armor made him look like a football player wearing a black trench coat.
"Fight's on," Acheson said. He yanked open the stairwell door and flung himself into the hallway, keeping to the left. Nacho followed and moved to the right. Rick went next, sliding across the hallway on his knees, MP-5 shouldered and pointed to the left, to where the crypt was supposed to be.
The lit hallway was deserted. Acheson remained in his crouch, panning the barrel of the AA-12 back and forth. At the end of the corridor was a steel door like those on a walk-in refrigerator. It was closed.
"Clear left," Acheson said, broadcasting over his transceiver.
"Clear right," Nacho reported.
"Team in," Acheson ordered. "Robert, you and Claudia take Patrick upstairs and hunker down until you receive an all-clear from one of us."
"Roger that."
"Hey man, you said I could go!" Patrick whined from the stairwell.
"I lied. Now shut up and do what the people with the guns tell you to do."
The rest of the team entered the hallway, splitting off into two elements. Chiho led her element to the right, canvassing the autopsy room and an office. Acheson led his element, composed of Cecil and Nacho, toward the crypt. Acheson and Nacho remained in front while Cecil trailed twenty feet behind. The door to the forensics lab was locked. Acheson sidled up and looked through the mesh-reinforced window in the door. Most of the lights in the room were out, leaving the equipment and workstations shrouded in shadow. Nothing seemed out of place. He pointed toward the crypt door and fell to one knee.
"Forensics lab looks clear. Door's locked, so can't really check it out. Two-Five?"
Both Chiho and Sharon started to answer at the same time. Acheson groaned. No one had thought to assign Sharon a new call-sign before they left. After a brief pause, Chiho's voice filled the uncomfortable void. "Autopsy room is locked, but clear. Offices clear."
"Sharon, you're now Three-Zero. Come forward to my position."
"Roger that, Two-Six." A moment later, Sharon was easing into a crouch beside Acheson, her MP-5 at her hip. She stared at the crypt door.
"Well?" he said.
She nodded. "In there. I think they're still waking."
"Team forward!" Acheson rose to his feet and held back Sharon with one hand. "Not you. Stay at the rear, wait until I call for you."
He didn't wait for her to protest, just continued toward the door. It opened outward, which was good in that nothing could hide behind it when they pulled it open, but bad in that it would make the actual ingress more cumbersome. And blasting it off its hinges with plastic explosives wasn't wise, as the hallway would channel a lot of energy right back at the team. They would have to go in one at a time.
Acheson waved Rick forward. The bigger man hurried up and assumed Acheson's position as he fell back a few steps and readied his stakes. Sweat beaded on his brow, and the lining of his gloves felt damp.
"I'll go in first," he said. "Jules, you up to giving me hand?"
Julia smiled humorlessly and slung her MP-5. "If I must."
"Cecil, you and Nacho provide security. If they get past us, pin them down long enough for Chiho and Rick to finish 'em off. Rick, ready for prime time?"
Rick snorted, eyes glued to the crypt door. "Is it too late to borrow a pair of Cecil's Depends?"
"You'll do fine." Acheson looked up from his work and saw Sharon staring at him. He cocked an eyebrow at her.
"I should go in with you, Mark."
Acheson shook his head. "Not a good idea."
Sharon stepped toward him. "Stop the bullshit! I'm still a member of the team, so at least have the decency to let me haul my own weight."
Julia screwed one of the stakes onto a telescoping pike. She glanced at Acheson, looking away before he could meet her gaze. Acheson looked at Chiho. She stared back, her face an emotionless mask.
"Hey man, if the lady says she can do it, let her," Cecil said from behind his SAW. "We ain't got all night!"
Acheson sighed. He didn't like it, but Sharon and Cecil were right.
"Jules, fall back."
Julia handed Sharon her pike as they exchanged places. Sharon swept up the knapsack with the rest of the stakes and slung it over her shoulder. She faced the crypt door.
"I'll go in first," she said. "I'll take out the first one I see, then you come in for the rest."
He nodded, and they advanced toward the door. Acheson hefted his own pike.
"Jules, get on the door," he said.
Julia joined them at the door and grabbed its cold steel handle with both hands. "Ready here."
"Open it," Sharon ordered.
Julia yanked open the door. The lights came on automatically. Sharon entered, moving with purpose, as if she knew exactly where the ghouls were. Acheson hurried after her, careful not to get too close or lag too far behind. He sensed the rest of the team closing ranks behind him, establishing a perimeter and ready to seal it with firepower.
Chill air washed over them, fogging their breath. The crypt was large, much larger than Acheson had anticipated. Ahead stood a wall filled with dozens of steel cubicles. It would take a while to search all of them, and Acheson wondered if they should just sit and wait for the ghouls to come to them.
Sharon pointed at the far end of the crypt. "There," she said. Acheson looked.
The ghoul was small and wiry, its tattooed skin like parchment paper. A Y-shaped incision stood out in stark contrast against the jaundiced flesh, as did the black hair on its head and pubic region. The vamp was completely naked, having shed the body bag it had lain in. It regarded them stupidly with gleaming eyes. It crouched over another corpse; with no other food source available, it had fanged the corpse and was trying to feed on it. When it saw Acheson and Sharon, it tore its fangs free from the lifeless husk it had dragged onto the floor and coiled itself into a crouch.
"Heeeeeeeeeee," it squealed. Whether it was a laugh or an attempt at speech, Acheson couldn't tell.
"Got one in the open," he transmitted. "No signs of any others yet—"
The ghoul shrieked and ran toward them on all fours like a dog, snapping its jaws. It closed on Sharon, and she drew back a step, wielding the pike before her. The ghoul paid no attention to the stake, but it shifted its hellish gaze toward Acheson. A peal of cackling laughter escaped its bloodless lips as it bounded toward him, ignoring Sharon altogether.
