The Chronos Plague (Book 1): No Time Left Read online

“Who is it?” a gravelly voice came through the intercom, surprisingly in German.

  I gambled. “Who do you think it is, idiot? Let me up,” I answered in hoarse German.

  “Reinholt? You weren’t supposed to be back until tomorrow.”

  “Let me up, you idiot, I left my key at the other place.” Sometimes I gambled too far, but this time it paid off.

  “Hang on.”

  I stepped back and waited on the near side of the door. The second it opened, I moved in, drawing my gun as I did. I stuck the barrel of my gun in the man’s face and pushed him against the wall. Conner followed and quickly closed the door.

  “Wieviele nach oben?” I asked.

  The man opened his mouth, but I shook my head. “Benutze deine hand.” I wasn’t going to risk him shouting a warning.

  He raised three fingers and I nodded, not removing my gun. He stared at it, and I couldn’t blame him for that. A stainless 1911 wasn’t something you saw every day, and anyone who saw it knew it was serious business.

  “Let’s go back upstairs. You first,” I said, motioning to the man. I put a hand on his shoulder and the gun in his back, right behind his heart. Any movement by him would mean his ability to stay alive would be curtailed.

  We stepped up the stairs and the man led us to an apartment at the end of the hall. He put a hand up to knock, and I stopped him.

  “Any signals, and we know who dies first. Won’t matter much what happens after that, right?” I asked.

  The man ran that through his head and made a decision. He opened the door without ceremony and stepped inside. As he did, he fell to the ground and yelled.

  “Polizei!”

  There were four men in the room, and all of them dived for weapons. One man stood up and aimed a gun at me, but Conner shot him first. I shot the man on the floor who was scrambling like a madman, and then again at another man who fired at me and missed. My shot hit him, tumbling him back over a table. Another man came into the room, tripping over the body on the floor and missing as he shot into the ceiling. My shot hit him square in the chest and he was done.

  Conner fired again, killing the last man in the room.

  “Well, so much for questioning,” Conner said, holstering his pistol.

  “We have about ten minutes before someone summons up the courage to call the actual police, and another five before they’re here. After that ,they will be describing to the police the two strangers that left here suddenly,” I said. “Grab what we can and let’s get out of here.” I was actually impressed with the outcome of this fight. But then I shouldn’t be surprised. Some of my most spectacular results have been achieved with less planning than this one.

  “Quick question. Are these guys even Jester? How can we tell?” Conner asked. He popped the used magazine out of his gun and put in a fully loaded one. I had already done that, but it was good to see I didn’t have to remind him.

  I pulled up a dead man’s arm, and pulled the sleeve back. No tattoo. Crap. I pulled up the other one and to my relief, there was a small tattoo of a four-pointed jester hat, complete with little bells on the tips.

  “Here’s how. Now let’s get moving,” I said.

  We grabbed every piece of electronics we could find, plus several notebooks and legal pads. There was a map on the wall in a back bedroom, so we took that as well.

  Before we left, I took a look at the apartment, and I realized there was nothing I could do that would make this look like anything other than it was.

  Conner seemed to realize it as well. “Too bad we can’t plant some drugs or something.”

  “That would help. Oh well. This will probably put the rest of them on high alert, or send them underground,” I said. “Can’t be helped. Let’s go.” As we left, I texted a number to another number, and even as we reached the street, I could see a black van turning up the road down the block. This was a mess I needed cleaned up so I could get time to get ahead of Jester.

  Back at the hotel, we went through every single thing we had. The cell phones, the laptops, the tablets, and the notes. One thing that we found that was true for any terrorist organization, whether it be the jihadis causing problems nearly everywhere to the home-grown morons calling themselves the new militias back in the States, they all recorded everything they did. Don’t ask me why. Low self-esteem notoriety or something. The profilers could figure it out.

  We came up with a few good leads, and a whole lot of nothing. Everything lead to some websites that required a login, and we just killed all of the people who might have given that information over.

  Conner looked up from a legal pad. “Here’s something. I found Dr. Venkus’ name on a list.”

  “List of what?”

  “Other names.”

  I must be rubbing off on the boy. That’s exactly the same smart-ass answer I would have given.

  “Try again, or I may have a negligent discharge in your direction when I clean my gun,” I said, closing the laptop I had been dissecting.

  “I meant to ask you, why do you carry that 1911? It’s a little dated, don’t you think?” Conner asked.

  I had fielded this sort of crap before, usually by some plastic Wondernine-loving fanboy who thought carrying forty-five rounds was badass.

  “I don’t plan on missing as much as you do, and I have found that people will take a chance when a 9mm is aimed their way. No one risks a .45 when they don’t have to. And since I use hollow-points, I don’t usually need more than one bullet if I do my part,” I said.

  Conner laughed. “Whatever, I’ll be loaning you my backup when yours runs out.”

  “That’ll be the day. You had a list, before you got distracted?” I asked.

  “Yeah, they had written it on the last page of this legal pad, but they had indented the cardboard. The late doctor is on this list, along with several others. The next person on the list is Doctor Nhan Bich Hang. Wonder where she is?” Conner asked.

  “Vietnam,” I said.

  “What? How the hell do you know that?” Elliott asked, getting a side dog look to his face.

  “Father was in Vietnam, picked up a good bit of the language, taught me a few things. Her name means Jade Moon, by the way,” I said.

  “Well, just because she is from there, doesn’t mean she’s there now.”

  “Fair point. Call Central, tell them what we have and arrange for pickup of this stuff. We’ve got to move fast or Jester will step up the pace,” I said. “Also, see if they can get a location on the doc.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Pack. Chances are we’re wheels up within the next three hours.” I hoped we wouldn’t have to go to Vietnam. Not that I didn’t like the place, it was actually very nice. But the two of us would stick out like the proverbial thumb. Conner and I could blend in in most countries, and continents, but Asia was not on the list. It was hard to blend in with a country where the average height was five foot five and I topped over six feet two.

  An hour later, Conner came to my room. “Doctor’s in Ho Chi Minh city. A.D. wants us there. Keep her alive and bring her in,” he said.

  I sighed. It sounded so easy. But it always did.

  Chapter 3 – 6 Months ATEOTW

  I headed north on A1A, riding a scooter. It was all I could find that had any gas in it. It worked out better than a car, since it was able to zip around the traffic jams and the stalled-out cars. Many of the cars had leftovers in them, remnants of the meals the zombies left in them. During the dark time, people had been trapped as hordes of zombies descended from the inner parts of the cities and spread out. If you stayed in the population centers, you died.

  Once things started to sort themselves out, then it was a different story. The world basically wound up in three camps. There was the obvious zombie camp, covering the world in death and disease in numbers too staggeringly high to contemplate ever getting a handle on. The marauder camp, which essentially meant you devolved into little more than a rabid animal preying on whatever you could kill,
rape, or torture. And finally, there was the survivor camp. This group sucked it up, dealt with it as best they could, and tried to just survive. The future was bleak, but they refused to give up.

  I guess you could say there was a fourth camp. This was the hangers-on, the people who really served no useful purpose and just attached themselves to whatever group would have them. Except the zombies, of course. To them, we were all just food anyway.

  I moved carefully up the road, stopping at several cars to see if there was any gas to salvage. I had a siphon I found in a pet store. It was supposed to be used to clean fish tanks, but it worked really well in getting gas out of the bottom of cars’ tanks.

  On the fourth car, I found a decent supply, and filled not only tank on my scooter, but an extra gas can I had strapped to the back. I had stopped paying any attention to any occupants of the vehicles, moving or otherwise. The only thing I did these days was to make sure they weren’t going to get out and attack. I had a screwdriver to get the gas caps open, so I didn’t need to go inside.

  This particular vehicle was liberally painted in old blood on the inside. There were bones and decaying bits of flesh all over the place. If I opened this vehicle, the stench would kill me first.

  Behind me on the road were two zombies that stumbled into view. They had been threading the space between the cars, bumping around like balls in a pinball machine. They maintained their customary silence, although their eyes were locked on me. Behind them, I could see several more zombies crawling out of the ditch and from behind other cars.

  “Time to go,” I said aloud to no one in particular. My overall strategy when it came to zombies was pretty simple: Run away. I’d seen people try to take them on, and at first they would do okay, but eventually, they would get overrun. It was inevitable. They just beat you with numbers.

  I rode away about ten seconds before the first duo reached the scene, and in my rearview, I could see the rest of them giving chase. That was okay. They’d lose me in a while and then they’d drift or just stop where they were.

  I kept heading north, and the landscape changed from two sides of businesses to one to none. There was a large, swampy area to the west, and just as I reached it, the road became more and more cluttered with cars. A lone zombie wandered toward me, and I slowed down, figuring to take him out and then keep moving. Some might have tried to take him out on the run, but that only worked in the movies. Humans were heavy and I didn’t feel like getting my arm twisted off.

  The zombie tripped on something in the road, and tumbled down an embankment to splash into the water. It got up, dripping water and weeds, and suddenly it went down in a hurry, like something had ripped its legs out from under it. I thought it had tripped again, but when I coasted over to look I could see an arm sticking out of the water, fast disappearing into the cattails. A swirl of brown water told me a large alligator had decided to make a meal out of the zombie.

  That might explain why there were fewer zombies in the remote areas of Florida. The zombies were being systematically eaten by the burgeoning dinosaur population. I knew why the animals were not affected by the virus, so they were free to feed as much as they wanted. I wondered if the alligators would have a surge in population and move out of the swamp. That might add another level of stress to the survivors, but that wasn’t my worry. I had a mission, and I was going see it through.

  Another mile up the road and there was a block. Three cars had somehow managed to crash into each other, effectively blocking the road. Two of the cars had open doors, and the third had a driver still in the vehicle. The four bullet holes in the windshield pretty much painted the picture as to what happened here. I’d guess the dead guy caused the crash and paid for it with his life.

  Problem was, I couldn’t get around the damn cars. They were crashed together in such way that the ones on the ends were literally hanging into the swamp on both sides.

  “Crap, crap, crap, crap,” I muttered as I contemplated what I ought to be doing. I could maybe get the scooter up onto one of the hoods and push it over, but it was a finicky thing and I didn’t want to screw up the engine any more than I had to. I would pick it up, but the vehicles blocking the road were higher than normal cars. One was a mini-SUV, the other two were hybrids of some sort.

  Maybe tie a rope and pull it around? Nope. The water would definitely kill the engine. Maybe push the vehicle with the driver out of the way? I checked the car, but didn’t see the keys.

  “Shit, shit, shit, shit.” I upped my epithets and tried to think this one out. Can’t go over, can’t go through, can’t go under, and can’t go around. I opted to try the water route. I hunted through the other cars and came up with a large blanket and five empty gallon jugs. I thought about it for a minute.

  “Why not?” I took out some cord and tied two of the jugs to the opposite sides of the rear wheel, and two to the front wheel. I tied the last one to the front of the scooter, hoping it would help. I tied the cord to the handlebars, and moved the scooter closer to the edge of the water. I planned my moves, then executed.

  I pushed the scooter gently into the water, fully expecting it to sink like a stone, and when it didn’t, I then jumped onto the nearest vehicle. I pulled the cord, guiding the scooter through the water. The gallon jugs held it mostly above the water, and I was nervous it would tip over. I pulled it gently around the car, taking care not to slip into the ditch myself. I swear there was a crocodile in there somewhere. The scooter moved around and I jumped off the car on the other side, pulling the little cycle toward me. When I got it close to land, I grabbed it and dragged it up the embankment. I was actually stunned that worked. I took the floaters off and wondered if I should keep them, but then I figured the odds of me needing them again were pretty slim.

  I got back on, and my second surprise came when the thing started without a hiccup. Good enough. I drove north again, and as I did I noticed that there was some kind of activity ahead of me. Not being the overly stupid kind, I stopped and took out my monocular. It was a leftover from my other job, and it worked in most light. I scanned the area ahead and did not like what I saw.

  There were three cars, and they had been parked like a barricade. Four men and three women were battling it out with a good-sized horde of zombies. They were pushing against the cars and dying there, and the men smacked the hell out of them. But the zombies kept coming, as they always did, and eventually, someone was going to get tired on the living side. The men were swinging bats and picks and some other garden tool, while the women were using improvised spears of some kind.

  Well, that way was blocked, and I didn’t want to get into anyone else’s troubles. I turned around, and as I did, the edge of the road looked funny. I took another look with the monocular and saw that there were lots of zombies coming from the other direction. Apparently, they got past the parked cars faster than I did.

  “Okay, plan C.” I drove toward the horde and kept an eye out on the ditch to my right. When I saw the drain pipe, I stopped and looked at the area above it. There was definitely a road there of some kind, although the swamp was doing its best to reclaim it. I didn’t know if this was a driveway or what, but it was an alternative, and I was going to take it.

  I turned down the pathway and concentrated on staying on it. The trees were dropping branches from above, forcing me to ride with a hand in front of my head. I had a small pathway to follow, and I realized I was riding on a single tire track. Somewhere to my left or right was another, but I wasn’t going to go looking for it.

  The trees and the reeds cleared up ahead of me and I stopped to take stock of the situation. I was on a small pathway that led into the swamp, and I could only see water and trees all around me. Whatever I thought a swamp would look like, or whatever preconceived notions I had of what a swamp should look like, all worked here. I would not have been surprised at all to see a small green frog playing a banjo on a log nearby. It was that swampy.

  The pathway disappeared into the trees and reeds ah
ead, and since I knew what was behind me, I had little choice but to forge ahead. I did manage to see that the other tire track was on the left side of me, so I knew to fall that way if I had to. I had about two feet of land on my right before it was nothing but mud, muck, and snakes. No thanks.

  I had to slow down, so much so that I shut the engine off to save gas, and walked next to the scooter, pushing on ahead through the tall grass and tree branches. At one point, the branch was so low and thick that I had to squat down and duck-walk underneath it.

  On the other side of the branch, the trail opened up again, and this time there was a heck of a lot more to see. The trail led across a small expanse of water, and at the other end was a small shack. It was a classic swamp shack, with a long, sloping tin roof and deep porch. It looked like it had been there for a while, although it didn’t seem likely it had been inhabited for a spell. As I got closer, there were a few more details that stood out. There was a wooden rocking chair on the porch, as well as a small table. The windows were intact with curtains on the inside, which surprised me, and the siding, while made of wood, looked like it was all in pretty good shape as well.

  I stepped up to the porch and tried to take a look inside the house, but the curtains blocked the view. The front door was not only locked, but had a very severe-looking padlock on it. That wasn’t consistent with the rest of the house. I took out my tools and got the lock off fairly quickly. Lock-picking was one of the oldest skills I had.

  Inside the house was pretty much empty. There was only a small table in the kitchen, a couple of chairs, and an electric fan. The kitchen had one of those small college coolers in it, but it was empty and looked like it had been for a while. On the table was a small folder, and inside was a series of papers that were labeled by the days of the week. Each paper had a script on it, like someone was using them to memorize lines for a play. After reading a couple of them, I had to laugh.

  I had stumbled upon a tour prop. Somewhere around here was a tour company that took people out to see the swamps of Florida. As a bonus beyond the water, snakes, and alligators, this company added some local flavor to the tour. Chances were someone would sit on the porch and pretend to be a swamp dweller, and judging by the scripts, they would recite some pretty fun tales.