Pavlov's Dogs (12 page)

“The first Dog we did successfully—that would be Theta Kaiser—he took a good three months to get right.” Crispin took a swig out of his glass and swallowed it. “Kaiser required a lot of recuperation time between surgeries. But once the kinks were ironed out, it was fairly easy.”

Donovan put the book down. “And McLoughlin? He’s got something the other Dogs don’t, is that right?”

“Yes,” Crispin said, putting his drink down. Then he reconsidered and drained it. “Mac is the only Dog to have successfully taken to the hormones. He doesn’t require therapy after the Change, as the other Dogs do. His gland actually produces them now.”

Finding his hands empty, Crispin poured himself another drink. “He is living proof that my procedure, my, uh, life’s work, is, as they say, indistinguishable from magic.”

The smug look on the project director’s face was expectant, so Donovan gave him the satisfaction. The ego was the quickest way to a man’s heart, and to his head.

“Genius,” Donovan replied. “I suppose that accounts for the Alpha’s large stature, as well.” He turned back to the life-sized model. “All those nodes. Such a fine degree of control.”

“Control,” Crispin said. “Yes, it’s all about control, isn’t it? Or loss of it.” He drained his glass and found the bottle empty. “Gah!”

The project director sat back and stared at Donovan, again in deep thought, brow furrowed. “Listen, have you ever seen footage of when those researchers poured cement into the ant hole? Ten tons of cement? They let it dry and then started digging?”

“No,” Donovan said. “I can’t say that I have.”

“Well, what they unearthed was extraordinary. It looked rather like the air sacs in our lungs.” He waved his hands around for emphasis. “And it all looked to have been masterminded by an architect, a single mind. But, no, it was built by the collective will of the hive. This is rather how the zombies behave, if you’ve been watching. In fact...” Crispin lowered his voice, “it’s how they were designed.”

The BCI manual fell to the tabletop. Donovan looked up at Crispin, his mouth open. “Designed, sir? Are you saying the zombies were
manufactured
?”

Crispin fiddled with the empty champagne bottle, a morose look on his face. “No, I’ve stopped saying those kinds of things a long time ago, Donovan. It’s practically a clause.” He blew his cheeks out and said, “We’re out of bubbly.”

Donovan grabbed his still-full glass and thrust it in Crispin’s face, which lit up.

“Oh, there’s more!” He took the glass, drank from it and put it aside. He looked up at the monitor, but his eyes were unfocused, staring at something else.

Donovan waited until he couldn’t stand it anymore. “Sir, if you have something you need to get off your chest, perhaps about this outbreak...”

Crispin glanced at him, and the look on his face was so naked, so vulnerable, Donovan almost didn’t need an answer, even though he desperately wanted one.

Oh. Oh, my sweet Jesus
, Donovan thought.
Doctor, this is all you, isn’t it?
His eyes widened.
Of course you have to try to save them. You killed them.

Your father was
wrong.

The burring ring of the comms unit interrupted the silence, and Crispin’s hand slapped down on it. “What is it, Winchester?”

“
Good news, sir! The Dogs are back with civilians. Right now, they’re in quarantine until Ron and the med team finish screening them for bites and illness.”

“Excelsior!” Crispin shouted. “Good work, Winchester. When your shift is over, get yourself a drink. Tell them I authorized it, if you’re already at ration.”

He swiveled his seat to face Donovan. For all the champagne he had put down, Crispin’s eyes were bright and focused.

“You see that, Doctor? For all the mistakes I’ve made, for all the hurt, I now believe I have achieved some modicum of atonement. And this is only the beginning! Shall we?”

Donovan nodded, hoping the project director didn’t want to walk arm-in-arm to meet the survivors.

“Where is the quarantine?”

“Oh,” Crispin said, waving his hand. “I had Miss Randall fabricate some cages outside just for this reason.”

A short walk later—accompanied by a pair of Jaden’s security detail—the two doctors were in the presence of the survivors.

“This is it?” Donovan asked, looking over the huddled masses. He felt his face warming as he did so. Twelve—no, fifteen new mouths to feed. “Where are their belongings?”

Lucas Jaden, who had beaten the doctors there, turned to Donovan. “They brought none. There were a few firearms, but we’ve confiscated those.” He looked over at Crispin. “And don’t worry, sir. Everything was bagged and tagged. We’re keeping a very careful inventory.”

Crispin, overjoyed at the mass of people, just nodded.

“They have no supplies,” Donovan said to Crispin quietly. “They have nothing. No food, no seeds. I doubt if any one of them has any skills we could put to good use. They are, in short, dead weight, Doctor. We could give them one of the boats from the marina and—”

“Enough,” Crispin said, placing a hand on Donovan’s shoulder. “They’re here now. And if this is indicative of the Dogs’ performance, there will be more.” He smiled. “We’re heroes now, Donovan! Saviors!”

He stepped forward and began to introduce himself and Mr. Jaden to the survivors, and as a cheer went up, Donovan backed away. He caught the eye of one of the security guards and snapped his fingers.

“I’m headed back to Command. Come on.”

He stalked back to the central building, a black mood following him like a cloud.

Old fool. Doddering, incompetent. I cannot believe he’s willing to endanger all of our lives,
my
life, for these squalling civilians whom we’ve never met. People
his work
put in harm’s way.

Donovan stopped at the door to Command, staring at the retinal scan. He turned to the guard. “The door, please.”

“Sorry, sir, only Crispin is authorized to enter Command.”

“Well then we will need to change that, won’t we? I will need
equal
access if I’m to—”

“Sir, I’m sorry, but I meant to say that Dr. Crispin is the only one who
can
. Not even security can get in there.”

“Ah,” Donovan said, backing down. “Yes, of course.” After staring at the door for a second, he turned back to the guard. “Take me to my quarters then.”

“Yes, sir.”

After the guard had left him in his room, Donovan paced back and forth in front of his bed.

“Can’t work for him. Can’t do it. He’s the antichrist, ushering in the apocalypse.
Shit!
” He had a sudden, childish impulse to sweep all of the orientation binders off of his desk. His hand had actually moved back to do so.

An idea stopped him.

Can’t work for him
, he thought. And like every other time he had ever felt that way about a previous boss, Donovan wondered what it would be like to work for himself.

“MAC! I THINK they found something!”

Alpha McLoughlin scowled at the shortening of his name. Theta Rose should have known better to address him that way in the field.

On the other hand, the Dogs were all eager and happy to be
doing
something instead of just running drills on the island. Still, a breakdown in discipline, left unchecked...

“It’s Alpha,” he said, cuffing Rose’s ear. The smaller man reeled for a second.

“Yes, sir,” he said as he found his legs. “Samson reports that Hayte’s on point. I don’t know what kind of scent he’s found, but he’s very eager about it.”

From his position atop an overturned Hummer, Kaiser grunted. “All the money and time they spent making us into the apex predator, you’d think they would’ve left our voice boxes alone so we could
talk
when we’re all fuzzy.”

Mac pointed back the way Rose had come. “Theta Kaiser, I want you changed and on backup with Theta Hayte. Rose, you hold back. Tell Dunne to radio the base, let them know we’re chasing a lead.”

“Chasing our tails,” Kaiser muttered, dropping to all fours as the Change swept over him. Shortly after, his German shepherd form went loping away. Mac stared after him as the Theta bounded over upside-down cars and mounds of rotting corpses left in the scout teams’ wake.

“Of all the special forces units in all the world,” he said.

“What was that, sir?” Rose asked.

Nothing
, he thought. “After Dunne reports to base, recall Kristos and Landis if they haven’t found anything.”

Theta Rose nodded and jogged back toward their temporary headquarters in the marina boathouse.

McLoughlin stood at the closed gate, looking out at the ruins of the city. In only a month, the whole world had tipped on its ear. Intellectually he was sure there were pockets of survivors everywhere, just like in this city. Perhaps even more in rural areas. But looking at the husk of civilization that lay before him, it was hard to believe.

He rubbed his hand over the stubble on his head. After hearing the one survivor’s story about an overturned Blazer and the devastated regular army, Mac really hadn’t expected to find too many survivors. Not after seeing the way the zombies
swarmed
anything living. The city wasn’t especially large, which factored into his estimate; low population density and a relatively unburdened infrastructure had allowed for the one group. A second group would be a welcome find. There shouldn’t be too many of them.

’

Samson watched Kaiser approach with a flutter of anxiety in his gut. On paper, Samson was still his superior, but after Kaiser’s power play in the sparring cage, the new Epsilon carried himself as if it were the other way around. Never around Mac, but that was only a matter of time.

Kaiser padded up next to Hayte and sniffed the air. His black-lined jaws snapped a couple of times, and he turned in place on all fours.

Looking back to the building, Samson nodded and picked up his radio. “Samson to base.”

“
Go ahead.”

“Base, confirmed survivors in the North Regional building. Establishing contact now, will have numbers soon, over.”

“
North Regional, copy. Base out.”

Samson clipped the radio to his belt and whistled. Kaiser and Hayte turned their large, shaggy heads to look at him.

“I’m going in,” he said. “First contact. Stand by for back-up in case they prove to be... non-compliant.”

Kaiser snorted a doggy laugh, leaning over to dig a shoulder into Hayte.

Walking up the steps to the building, Samson checked the clear plastic magazine in his bullpup submachine gun. Loaded. He let the P90 hang by its strap from his shoulder.

The last time he’d made first contact, he had gotten a face-full of buckshot. He’d also been a large hairy monster. So the new protocol had been established. He patted the gun.
Still
.

The glass of the double doors leading into the foyer was shattered and scattered over the marble floor. He saw a reception desk. Clearly the area was meant to double as a waiting room, but there was no furniture.

And no walking dead.

Ah-hah
, Samson thought.
Whoever you are, you’re very sneaky. And clean. Good for you.

Samson walked to the back of the lobby to the elevators, looking to either side for the stairwell sign. A place like this, with six stories and dozens of business suites, would definitely have a stairwell, maybe two. Broken glass crunched underfoot as he walked down the west side. He turned a corner and found the lobby furniture.

The Beta grunted. Easy chairs, end tables, and small couches were piled and interlocked in such a way that, in order to be moved, the barricade would have to be simultaneously pushed and pulled, as well as lifted. None of the living corpses would just wander through.

Not that way, then.

Samson turned back to the lobby and crossed to the east wing. He saw a clear marble floor this way, no glass, so he knew he was on the right track. He came to a turn in the corridor, and Samson slipped around it with his P90 at the ready. The door to the stairwell stood closed.

Tilting his head to one side, Samson considered this. He could understand keeping at least one route upstairs unobstructed; if there were people here, they had to at least go on food runs. But why block up the one door so thoroughly and leave this one so exposed?

He looked around the wall and ceiling. He got down and peered at the floor closely. He looked at the door, at the hinges, at the handle.

Nothing.

Shrugging, he reached out and pulled the handle. The door didn’t move. He pulled harder. Still, the door refused to budge. Pursing his lips, Samson backed out of the corridor and went to the front of the building.

“Hayte!” he called.

The Dog bounded upstairs and came to a skidding halt in front of Samson, tongue lolling out one side of his mouth.

“Come open this.”

Theta Hayte followed him into the building to the recalcitrant door. The Theta sniffed at it, checking for booby traps, detecting none. Turning back to Samson, he chuffed out an interrogative.