The Killing Floor

“We’re not even sure we can get him,” Slater tells him. “Since we don’t know how he spreads Wildfire, will a standard MOPP suit be enough to keep someone from catching the bug from him? Not to mention how we would separate him from a hundred thousand crazies.”

“It’s worth the risk,” Travis says.

“For who?”

“You could send a—what do you call it, a search and destroy. . .”

“Snatch and grab?”

“Right,” Travis nods. “A snatch and grab team. Special Forces. Navy SEALS.”

Slater says, “Dr. Price, I hope you’re listening to me carefully. There’s no way I would risk our best men on your shit theory.”

“Well,” Travis says, stunned.

“Do you play poker, Dr. Price?”

“No, I don’t.” He enjoys cards, but not the social aspect of most card games.

“The General plays. Damn good, too. He’s a man who likes to hedge his bets. That means if there’s an even tiny chance you’re right, he will want to give it a shot. If he does, we’ll pull a squad or two off the line and drop them between Typhoid Jody and Washington. It will be their job to find this guy, grab him and bring him to an isolation facility.”

“Perfect,” Travis says, happy to see any effort made. “Since you’ve identified the carrier, do you have any records on him? Anything would help.”

“We have no idea who he is.”

“But you called him Jody.”

Slater laughs, and even the stony-faced officers flanking him crack smiles. “Jody does not actually exist, Dr. Price. It’s a nickname for the Infected going around. More military speak.” He chuckles again. “Let’s talk about why you’re here. If the General decides to send some of our people, you will go with them as mission science adviser.”

“Me? I’m not a soldier. I don’t know how to fight the Infected.”

“Who does? But millions are somehow managing. Now it’s your turn to step up.”

“But you’ll need me here to run the tests after we pick him up,” Travis pleads. “You’re not being very logical about this.”

“I heard you lost your lunch in front of the President of the United States when he asked you what was going to happen after he nuked one of our own cities,” Slater says. “I almost admire you for that. It might have been the only sane thing to do. But it tells me something about you. It tells me you’re a weak sister. You want to see the epidemic put to an end but only if you don’t have to get hurt doing it. So let me put my offer to you another way, Dr. Price: Now would be a very good time to make yourself indispensable to the war effort. Do or die, so to speak.”

Travis nods dully. He’d forgotten his knowledge of the coup makes him a liability to the new regime. “I understand.”

“You’ll have forty-eight hours to find the carrier,” Slater informs him. “Captain Fielding will go with you. Bring him alive, bring him dead, bring his left foot—I don’t care what, as long as you get what you need. If at any point it appears to the Captain you will fail, we will drop every bomb we’ve got on Typhoid Jody and his friends, and the Captain will tie up any final loose ends in the field. Do I need to explain what that means?”

“No,” Travis mutters.

“Don’t look so sad about it, Dr. Price. On the bright side, if you succeed, you will get more resources than you dreamed possible. If your theory is right—shit, Congress will probably award you the Medal of Honor. People will name their babies after you. You’ll never pay taxes again as long as you live. I’ll give you a big, fat kiss myself.”

The officers smile again, like sharks.

“How does that sound to you, Dr. Price?” the Colonel asks. “Does its logic appeal?”

“It’s a great opportunity,” Travis says, feeling sick. “Thank you.”

“See? I told you. Smart guy.”

Travis shudders as he realizes he is about to be released from his imaginary terrors down here in this underground prison and face the very real terrors ravaging the surface. He feels Fielding’s hand slip under his armpit, lifting him from his chair and propelling him toward the door.

I’m still alive. They’re not going to shoot me, at least not right away. I have a chance to win this. I have a chance to survive.

“We’ll let you know what the General decides,” Slater calls after him.

Wendy

The Bradley hums along the road, its crew sweating at their stations and its squad of four shooters raggedly singing a rap song popular when the world ended. Wendy looks at the optical display, scanning repeatedly for targets, chewing on a piece of nicotine gum and blinking at the head rush. She is addicted to the gum, not the nicotine. Her eyes sweep the indicator lights, confirming the vehicle’s big guns are ready to party. Then she glances at the man sitting next to her and smiles like a school girl.

I love you.

She says out loud: “It’s like an oven in here today and I have to pee.”

Toby grunts. “I’ll turn up the air conditioning.”

She laughs. “Now there’s an idea. We spent over a million bucks on each of these things, and nobody thought it might be a good idea to put in some air conditioning? Come on, guy.”

They are in high spirits after the supply drop. They now have a tuned-up engine, full tank of diesel with a good amount of spare fuel, functioning weapons systems and enough ammunition to obliterate anything in their path.

Toby produces a protective mask provided for crew use in the event of a nuclear, biological or chemical attack. A plastic hose dangles from its filter.

“Observe,” he tells her. “This hose connects the mask to an air purifier that has a fan.”

“I’m not peeing into that tube.”

Toby grins. “I have a better idea.”

He removes the hose from the mask and tucks a length of it down the front of her shirt.

“Oh my,” she says.

“Now check this out.”

The commander flips a switch, forcing air across her chest, drying the sweat pooled between her breasts.

“Now we’re talking,” she says. “Welcome to civilization.”

Steve chimes in over the radio: Did you show her the hillbilly AC, Sarge?

Toby laughs. “You’re in the Army now, Wendy. In the Army, we make do, right Steve?”

“That’s all well and good, you guys,” she says, “but I still have to pee.”

¦

An hour later, the amored vehicle idles in front of a red brick school building. The clerestory windows installed along the roofline of the gym, dirty and glinting in the sun, are spray painted with giant, bleeding red capitals: PLEASE HELP US. Toby studies it on his optical relay, rubbing his stubbled chin and scowling. Wendy knows he does not like the risk, but this is the mission; they separated from the convoy this morning to strike northwest, back toward Camp Defiance, and search for survivors. She closes her eyes and listens to the beating heart of the engine, which sends tiny vibrations tingling along the surface of her skin.

“I guess we’d better check it out,” Toby says.

“I’ll go too,” Wendy tells him, pulling off her headset.

“I guess we’re all going, then.”

They agreed they would stay together no matter what. It is an incredible thing to realize another human cannot live without you. She never felt that way before. Understanding it as she does now, Wendy wonders how so