Under a Graveyard Sky

firearms instructor as well and is a reserve Virginia police officer. This is not meant to be offensive, Officer Torres, but I teach police officers. Part time anyway.”

“In Virginia,” his partner said.

“I once taught a class for some of your NYPD SWAT people,” Steve said. “A Lieutenant… Hansen comes to mind?”

“You mean Captain Hansen?” Torres said, suspiciously. “Out of the One-Thirty- Second?”

“Five-ten, two hundred?” Steve said. “This was five years ago or so. Weight may have changed. Blue eyes, shaved head. I detected balding… Wife’s name… Cynthia or something like that? Five years and we only chatted briefly outside of class.”

“Stay where you are?” Torres said, pulling out his cellphone. He walked up to the front of the boat for the conversation.

“How’s it going for you guys?” Steve asked.

“All good, sir,” the officer replied.

“My two daughters are onshore,” Steve said. “They paint a rather lurid picture.”

“Lurid?” the officer said.

“Vivid in color,” Steve said. “Presented in shocking or sensational terms. Sorry, I only instruct in firearms during the summer. The rest of the time I’m a high school history teacher.”

“Got it,” the officer said. “My dad’s a teacher. He used to spend summers and holidays working odd jobs.”

“How’s your family doing?” Steve asked.

“So far so good,” the officer said, shrugging. “People are scared. I mean, what can you do about a plague?”

Steve tilted his head and tapped the respirator.

“They won’t let us use those,” the officer said, balefully. “I guess…” He looked up as Torres came back from the front of the boat.

“Aussie, huh?” Torres said, looking at him oddly. “I thought it was Irish.”

“Australian accent mixed with southern tends to sound that way,” Steve said, trying not to sigh.

“That’s a buttload of ammo,” Torres said, looking at the paperwork again. “You get a fire onboard and you’re a floating bomb.”

“Which is why we anchored well away from other boats, Officer,” Steve said. “As well as to avoid contamination.”

“Can see you’ve got that down,” Torres said, handing him back the papers. “Those weapons do not go on- shore until all your certifications have been processed, understand? We’ve had too many of you god damned contractors get gun-happy in the City.”

“If it makes you feel any better,” Steve said, “I agree with your opinion of most contractors. They tend to be unprofessional nuts with delusions of grandeur because they can walk around with the big guns. Part-time firearms instructor. Dealt with too many contractor wannabes.”

“The captain said you were a straight shooter,” Torres said. “No pun intended.”

“I’m glad he’s hanging in there,” Steve replied. “I didn’t really keep in touch,” he added with a shrug.

“Not a round of ammo, not a single gun, goes on shore,” Torres repeated. “I take it all your safety gear is complete?”

“Inventory, location and log book,” Steve said, handing over that paperwork.

“Yeah, we’ll…” he started at a honk from the boat.

“If it’s clear, come back,” the captain said over the loudspeaker. “Priority call!”

“Just…” Torres said, looking both ways.

“We’re not going to go zombie hunting in your city, Officer,” Steve said. “We’re perfectly content just sitting here.”

Torres shook his head and scrambled back over the side.

“You guys take care,” Steve said, casting off their lines. “And hopefully that takes care of that. I suppose hoping that there won’t be any more crises today would be too much?”

CHAPTER 11

“Where’s the usual mailman?” The Executive Assistant for the Manager of Cost Accountancy was a lady in her forties with what Faith mentally dubbed “teacher face.”

Faith sort of preferred being the mail girl to filing. It got her some exercise and she got to meet and talk with people. Of course, half of them asked her why her sister was fighting a zombie. She’d given up trying to explain which was a bit of a pain. And her thumb still hurt like heck, which was another pain.

“Didn’t show for work,” Faith said, handing over the next set of packages. A lot of it was actually “mail.” FedEx was having trouble with deliveries. “No answer on his cell. H7? Left town? Who knows…” She was used to answering that question, too.

“Oh, my God…” the executive assistant said, looking at her computer.

“What?” Faith asked, craning over.

“Airplane crash,” the EA said, gesturing at her screen. “Go ahead.” She turned the sound up slightly.

“…these images were taken by a cellphone shortly after the crash…” the voiceover was saying. The plane had landed in a suburb and the caption read “Bellefonte, PA.” All that could really be seen was billowing smoke and flame. It didn’t even look like a plane. “FAA reports that based upon the truncated call from the cockpit, one of the pilots may have succumbed to the secondary H7 virus… There are no reported survivors on the flight…”

“No wonder FedEx isn’t delivering,” Faith said.

“They need to get vaccine distributed,” the assistant said, shaking her head. “This shouldn’t be happening. Where’s the vaccine?”

“Depends on the type,” Faith said, shrugging. “The Pasteur method requires infected material. And it can only come from higher order primates. Since there are only so many rhesus monkeys in the U.S., there’s not much of a source from that. To do the other type requires growing the proteins. Two months, minimum, to do that. And then…”

“That’s not true,” the EA snapped.

“Which part?” Faith said, confused. “I mean, I’ve talked to…”

“It doesn’t take that long to produce vaccine! They’re just stalling because the vaccine companies want to run up the price!”

“They are?” Faith said, still confused. “According to Dr. Curry, you have to build the protein crystal…”

“Young lady,” the EA said, calming down. “I know you think you know what you’re talking about. But this is the fault of the Bush Administration allowing the drug companies to get run-away profits off of pharmaceuticals. They know that if they wait they can ask anything for their vaccine. And it will probably be dangerous to use even then. Vaccines are the cause of autism and allergies in children, another thing that the Bush administration allowed to run rampant. I think this virus was created by the drug companies just to make money. They’re making money hand over fist just with the tranquilizers for those poor infected people.”

“According to the FBI and the CDC, it appears to have been one person,” Faith said, mulishly. “They’ve tracked the spread.”

“Young people,” the lady said, shaking her head. “You believe anything your told, don’t you? Just because it’s on the TV, doesn’t make it true.”

“Okay?” Faith said. “I guess you could be right.”

“Trust me, I’m right,” the lady said. “I don’t know who’s been filling your head with all that other nonsense, but this is definitely the fault of the drug companies.”

“Okay,” Faith said, frowning. “Well, I better get back to work. Mail to deliver.”