The Apocalypse

Chapter 8

Ram

Los Angeles, California



Ram snuck a look around the edge of the building and gave a thumbs up to the two men behind him. The alley, a dirty stretch of weeds and trash behind the running warehouse was clear.

“Let's go,” he whispered, taking point with gun drawn. Shelton moved to his left and the Fed, in truth they were all feds now, went to the right, each moving with all the stealth they could. Their target was a ratty mobile home that sat on a little square of a lot just past the warehouse and Ram prayed to God that it wasn't booby trapped like the last one had been. There'd be no calling in a bomb squad, since as far as he knew everyone in the L.A. bomb squad was either dead or bitten.

Overnight, Los Angeles had officially gone from a clear zone to a red zone, though Ram had known for four days it was red. Ever since they had interrogated the Iranian, it was known who they were after and what was happening. Sadly they hadn't been believed…until now that it was too late.


The terrorists were veteran killers and had taken out the bomb squad by the simplest method possible. They had put out a dummy bomb in an obvious location and had then set more bombs all around, and these were far more cleverly hid, and worse was the fact that the virus was an added element.

The terrorist's aim was to cause as many injuries as possible, knowing what havoc would be caused when the men began to turn. This was their modus operandi all over the city. Their bombs were placed where people gathered: shopping centers, movie theaters, even the police stations, and all the bombs were shrapnel bombs filled with nails, and needles, and roofing tacks, and of course, the virus.

Ram could honestly say that L.A. had turned. The zombies were everywhere, though nowhere were they worse than at the hospitals. With the blood and the wounds and the death, hospitals were the natural breeding grounds for the creatures and Ram wouldn't be caught dead in one.

Still, despite the zombies, he had a job to do and it was why he slunk down below the level of a waist high chain link fence and eyed the mobile home. It was brightly lit and that was something. The other places had been dark house after dark house. Two had been booby-trapped and two others had been the home of living corpses. Fillmore had punched his ticket getting bitten on the shoulder in one of them.

No one had known what to do with him. They had tried the county hospital, but when they had rushed into the Emergency Room it was their first inkling that the city was lost. The zombies came at them from every door and some even fell from windows to get at them. They had fled with poor Fillmore and in the end, when the fever was burning bright on his skin and no one wanted to get too close, he had shot himself in the head and they had left him there on some nameless side street.

That had been only the night before, though to Ram it felt like days ago. They had gone from lead to lead without rest and this was going to be the sixth house since his death that they would search, and with each the team had shrunk.

“Who's going first?” Ram asked in a whisper.

“Man, I don't even know why we're bothering anymore,” Shelton hissed back. “Look at this place! The city is f*cking toast.” To accentuate his point, or so it seemed, gunfire erupted on the next block and each slunk lower.

Gunfire had become almost as ubiquitous as the zombies and Ram had ceased getting worked up over it. “You got a point. The city is toast, but what about the state? And what about the country? And what about Fillmore? I never even liked that guy and for some reason I'm pissed off that he died the way he did.”

“I'll go first,” the federal agent said. “It's my turn.”

“Damn straight it's your turn,” Shelton said angrily. Despite his talk he wasn't leaving his partner. “You've been hanging back all f*cking…”

Ram put his hand out. “He said he's going first, so let it drop.”

The Fed, a member of the weak Homeland Security force ignored Shelton and Ram both. He was too keyed up. His breathing began to race in and out, and then he nodded and took off for the door with the other two agents right behind. There was no polite knock or even a 'hello', the agent went right at the door and slammed his bulk against it and immediately fell forward; the door hadn't been locked.

“Allah's will,” rasped out a thick accented voice. “My work must be complete.”

Ram stepped over the Fed and leveled his piece at a middle-eastern man who eyed him blackly. “Hands where I can see them,” Ram ordered.

The man sat at a little table and before him were wires and a glass jar of nails and a little test tube filled with blood. “Or what?” the man asked. “Or you'll shoot me?” He laughed at this and Ram glared.

“Or I'll shoot you and then roll you in bacon before burying you with a dog. How does that sound?”

The man cursed in a foreign language and Ram stepped forward to let the Fed get up. Shelton stayed outside, watching their backs.

“Where are the others?” Ram asked. “We got Al-Fadl two hours ago and Amir last night. So?”

“The others? Denver, Chicago, Dallas, but it does not matter now. They can do no more harm. Allah has seen to it that only the most faithful will survive.”

“How is he going to do that?”

“Thou bringest forth the living from the dead and thou bringest forth the dead from the living, and thou givest sustenance to whom thou pleasest without measure,” the man said with a smile and hard black eyes.

He had turned slightly in his chair when the door had burst open and Ram had a clear shot with his Beretta. When it came to how prisoners were dealt with, things had changed considerably with the declaration of Martial Law, and without the least warning Ram pulled the trigger on his gun, sending a bullet speeding into the man's knee. And then he waited as the man rolled around on the floor of the trailer grunting and moaning in agony. While Ram waited he inspected what the terrorist had been working on, and, taking rubber gloves from his back pocket, the DEA agent very gingerly took the blood-filled test tube and held it up.

“You're going to tell me what I want to know or I'm going to pour this on your leg.”

“Go ahead, poor it,” the terrorist grunted and spittle flew. “I am Allah's servant and that blood can't hurt me.”

It had been a bluff only. There was no way in hell that Ram was going to open a vile of that blood and risk catching the virus. Yet his threat hadn't been in vain. He was a good agent and this was primarily because he could spot lies in an instant and there was something about the man's attitude that struck him as odd.

“This blood can't hurt you? What about other blood? What about black as hell zombie blood?” The man answered Ram's question with the tiniest sneer, yet the agent read more into it than the terrorist wished. “What about pig's blood?”

Now the terrorist set his face in stone and Ram reeled with sudden knowledge. The middle easterner did not fear being turned into a zombie yet he was horrified at the idea of pig blood. There could only one reason for this.

“You've been inoculated, haven't you?” Ram demanded. The man looked away for the briefest second and said nothing, and Ram knew he was right. “Shelton! There's a cure. Did you hear that?”

The other DEA agent backed into the trailer, staring out. “I heard and so did everyone else. There's some zombies heading this way.”

They all ducked down so they couldn't be seen and Shelton locked the door. It was a flimsy door.

It was tested a minute later as a number of the creatures pushed and pulled at it and then hammered and thumped at it, shaking the trailer. Shelton, his eyes huge in his brown face, had a firm grip on his gun with both hands. He had it pointed straight at the door and he wasn't the only one. Both the Fed and Ram had their guns at the ready as well.

Thankfully they weren't needed. The zombies gave up after a few minutes and went shuffling down the alley in search of easier prey.

“Oh shit, that was close,” Shelton whispered, passing an arm across his brow. “I thought for sure…” he stopped staring past Ramirez.

The middle easterner was lying there, staring upwards and in his neck was a small screwdriver. He had killed himself.

“Damn,” Ram whispered, staring in amazement. He then hurried forward.

“What are you doing?” Shelton asked. “Don't touch him.”

“I have to. He's got the cure in him,” Ram said pulling out a pocketknife.