Chapter One: Coffee Break
"You need to stop reading that garbage, Clarke," Mick Murphy admonished his partner, peering over the younger detective's shoulder at the newsstand. "It's going to turn you into even more of a moron if you keep it up."
"Just trying to stay informed, buddy." Marshall Clarke chuckled, shaking his head. If ever there came a day where Murph was in a sunny mood, Marshall would dive under the nearest cover and wait for the proverbial rain of fire to begin.
"No news is good news," Murphy grunted, his fat grey mustache twitching.
"You've got that right," Clarke said as he scanned the headline of the Raccoon Herald, his grin fading into a frown.
"CDC LEFT SCRATCHING HEADS AS SEARCH FOR ANSWERS CONTINUES," declared the paper in Clarke's hands. Beneath the headline a caption read: "Centre for Disease Control specialists Sarah Waxer and Homer Shields (both pictured below) have spent the last two weeks researching the strange virus plaguing Raccoon but claim to be no closer to finding the source of the disease or manufacturing a vaccine. Doctor Waxer has commented only that she finds the situation 'Frustrating'.
Underneath the type was a half-page black and white photo featuring the two scientists. Both had been photographed coming down the front steps of Saint Jude's hospital where, by all reports, the first case of Raccoon Syndrome had been detected. Both appeared flustered - brows knit together, faces scrunched, Doctor Shields even raising a hand as if to try and block his face out of the photo. When Clarke noticed that the pictured had been credited too Thomas Chan he didn't blame the pair of eggheads for looking so pissed.
"You see that?" Marshall snorted as he tapped the name in small print placed in the far corner of black-and-white. "Tommy Chan. He calls himself a freelance photographer but he should carry a business card reading Tommy Chan, Professional Scum Bag.' The Herald's standards are really slipping if that twerp's photos are making the front page."
"You two old college roommates or something?"
"Not exactly," Clarke said, finally turning to accept the steaming cardboard cup of coffee from the elder investigator's wrinkled hand. "I busted him at least five times when I was back working a beat. Nothing serious really, just the crimes of a journalist - trespassing, invasion of privacy, harassment. I learned enough about him to realize he's a vulture. Tommy would push his grandmother down an elevator shaft if he thought a paper would buy the pictures. Never figured he'd get anything outside of the tabloids though."
"Wonders never cease, eh?" Mick squinted down at Tommy's work on the front page and snorted a sardonic laugh. "That's the girl they sent to figure out why people are dropping like flies around here? No wonder they're all still sitting around with their thumbs in their asses. She doesn't look old enough to be out of high school yet."
That was a massive overstatement but - glancing back at the picture - Clarke noticed that Doctor Sarah Waxer was young, almost too young to be taken seriously in that lab coat but there was something about her eyes - sharp and clear even in black and white - that hinted at profound intellect and confidence bordering on arrogance. Child prodigy then? Maybe but Clarke doubted anyone in Raccoon City cared about the girl's life story. They wanted someone to tell them what was wrong and how to make it better and if that someone happened to be a test-tube junkie barely into her twenties no one was going to complain.
Especially not with the situation as desperate as it is now, Clarke mused, taking a swallow of the sharp, dark brew. It was one thing when people were coming down with fevers and rashes - quite another when they starting going into comas and attacking people when they came out of them.
Whatever delirium Raccoon Syndrome victims were sent spiraling into it must have been a doozy. Reports were coming in left and right down at the station of family members who were caring for the sick at home, due to overcrowding in the hospitals, being bitten, clawed and mauled by their own sons, daughters, mothers and fathers. Clarke had never had to deal with such an incident personally but he had heard the patrol boys tell their stories: lethal force had been implemented more than once.
If it's this crazy out on the streets I don't want to imagine what it likes being a nurse right now. It's better you than me, Doctor Waxer. Give me a bad guy I can throw in cuffs and toss in a holding cell, thank you very much.
"That one marble of yours rolling around again up there, Clarke?" Mick said, nudging Marshall from his reverie. "Looks like you're thinking about something. Must hurt pretty bad, eh?"
"Me? No, just wondering if the real reason you're so down on Doc Wax is because she's too young for an old coot like yourself, Murph." Marshall fired back, wearing what Mick had always described as his used car salesman smile. "You can't deny, even with her hair in that bun she's nice to look at." Marshall held the paper inches from his partner's face as if reminding him of this fact. "I bet you're dreaming of doing some nasty things to the good doctor with that mustache of yours, aren't you? Maybe a little doctor-patient role play even? You'd be the sophisticated older man who has so much damn charm and charisma but - gosh - you just can't seem to get a hard - oof!"
A quick elbow to the gut cut Marshall off mid-sentence. Hot coffee scalded his fingers as it came sloshing over the rim of his cup but his cry of agony immediately turned to one of giddy joy. It was almost too easy to break Mick's balls sometimes but goddamn if it wasn't fun. Shaking the wetness from his hand, Clarke reached up to wipe the tears from his eyes as his sobs of laughter slowly ceased.
"I hope you're enjoying yourself, kid." Mick growled, giving the other detective another playful shove towards traffic. "I hope you got in a good chuckle there because your life just became severely more finite."
"Ah, c'mon, Mick." Clarke said, folding his copy of the Herald in half and slapping Murph's arm with it as a gesture of peace. "I was only pulling your leg. Your good leg I mean. I know how your knee is always acting up - especially when the weather goes to crap. Speaking of which, is that a thundercloud over there?"Marshall pretended to study the sky intently for a moment.
"Hilarious. I'm not that old yet, pal and if I am it's because working with a smart ass like you for the last three years has aged me considerably."
To that, Marshall only smiled. Three years? Time could definitely fly then and, truth be told, he was surprised an old school student like Mick had been able to survive three turns of the calendar with a guy like him.
In seemingly every realm of existence the pair were different. Style: Mick sported professional - yet seriously outdated - three piece suits to the office seven days a week, three-hundred-sixty-five days a year, topped off with crumbled, garishly colored ties. Marshall abided by the shirt and tie standard of the R.P.D. but made sure he was never caught without his lucky leather jacket on. Weaponry: In true old man style, Mick compensated for a lack of vitality with a surplus of firepower and packed a Colt .44 revolver in his shoulder holster while Clarke preferred the sleek, sexy Glock 17. In the interrogation room it Marshall adopted the role of good cop and Mick filled in as the bad...and enjoyed every minute of making their perp squirm.
Well, at least it's been a happy marriage. Believe it or not, Murph, but I've learned a hell of a lot from you over the years. I doubt I would have lasted a year in homicide sharing a cubicle with anyone else. Clarke grinned and shook his head. Hell, what's with me today? My city is crumbling around my ears and I'm getting all sentimental. Better elbow me in the stomach again, Mick, need to get my brain back in the game.
"So what's the deal for today again?" Clarke asked as he walked in step with Mick back towards their car. Not lost on the detective were how empty the streets had become in Raccoon. It was well after eleven already and aside from a roadwork crew filling potholes there was not a soul to be found on any sidewalk. He supposed it made sense though. When you had a virus running rampant through your town people were not exactly eager to get out there and bump shoulders with their fellow, germ-clad citizens.
"Christ," Mick grumbled, scrubbing a palm across his crew cut. "You just don't listen when I talk do you?"
"Must be going deaf," Marshall confessed casually, tucking a loose strand of long brown hair behind his ear. "Is deafness contagious? Probably caught it from you."
"One of these days I'm going to find your off switch, Clarke." Mick grunted, twitching his mustache - about as close as Detective Murphy ever came to a smile. "Anyway, we're heading down to lock-up today. We've got an interview to conduct and some papers to finalize for a prisoner transfer. We're turning him over to the U.S. Marshals tomorrow afternoon."
"Right, right." Clarke took another long drink as Mick did the same. "That Lincoln guy. You sure he's really the same one the Marshals are after? I thought those guys were supposed to be hardcore. I heard our boy, Lincoln, just waltzed into the precinct and turned himself in."
"For once, you heard right." Mick nodded. "He stepped through the doors, walked up to the desk sergeant and said 'I'm Drake Lincoln. I'm wanted for murder in New York. Where's my cell?'"
"Wonders never cease."
Both investigators craned their necks to the left and out into the street as three S.W.A.T. trucks came rumbling past. The sight of the heavy black wagons stole away a large portion of Marshall's earlier exuberance. Convoys of the trucks had become an all too common sight in Raccoon over the last week. The R.P.D. was sitting up barricades across each and every exit from the city. Nobody in, nobody out - all by order of the CDC.
According to the papers that was your move too, Doctor Wax. Clarke turned his head, watching the S.W.A.T. trucks roll down the pavement and out of sight around the corner. I hope you felt there was no other option left because you've got a lot of people on the edge of their seats now. Then again...you already know that.
Chan's photograph had shown a young woman who had appeared more than agitated at having her picture taken as she strove to leave a place that was the sight of unimaginable strife yet Clarke was well aware that was not the sole reason for Sarah Waxer's expression of consternation. What Tommy Chan had failed to capture were the hundreds of protestors gathered around the steps of Saint Jude's that the CDC doctors would have to press through in order to make their escape.
With nearly a third of the city out sick - nearly twenty-five thousand people in just two weeks - the citizens of Raccoon were starting to get antsy. They wanted a cure and if there was no cure to be given then they wanted answers. Sarah Waxer could offer them neither and had compounded that injustice by sealing them inside their poisonous city like rats on a sinking ship. There was nowhere to flee. Needless to say, the rats had taken a liking to Doctor Waxer as a result.
Though the streets were empty most days, Marshall knew that tensions in the city were high, there was a charge in the air that reeked of anxiety and desperation. A single spark and that powder keg would go off. That spark could come from a single misstep or slip of the tongue by Doctor Waxer, another dead RS patient or assault by one and then the fireworks would really begin.
Back at command they're already planning for the riots. Clarke's morning cheer was now completely exhausted, he felt sour and dull inside. Shit. You had better be a prodigy, doc.
"That brain cell trying to fire again, buddy?" Mick asked with a raised eyebrow. "With you doing all this thinking I'm starting to get worried."
"Forget it, Mick," Clarke smiled dryly. "Just wondering about the times we're living in is all."
"Well, hell, if you're worrying about something that profound then I am concerned."
When the pair reached their ride - Mick's dented, rusted, damn-near-dead beige Buick - the senior detective swore and flipped his partner the keys. "I've got to take a leak," he complained, already starting back in the direction of the Starbucks they had just exited. "Get her runnin' would you? I'll be right back."
"Sure, no problem, Gramps." Clarke chuckled, juggling his coffee in one hand and Mick's keys in the other as he tried to shift the newspaper under his arm. "Make sure to stick to a glass of milk for next time. You know how coffee runs right through you. You owe me another if I spill this thing trying to crack open the door to your bucket on wheels."
"I'm the onedrinking coffee," Mick corrected, not even bothering to glance back over his shoulder. "You're drinking the Extra-Tall-Columbian-Americano-Two Shot-Espresso Bullshit Blend."
Placing his copy of the daily paper and piping hot cup of morning Bullshit Blend on top of the Mick's old gunboat, Clarke slid the key into the door and popped the lock. Clarke sighed. He'd be happy the second he stepped through the front doors of the precinct and sank into his chair. Nothing like a little boring paperwork to get his mind off of the impending calamity that his city was facing and back on doing his job right.
I must be going crazy, he thought, shaking his head. I'm actually looking forward to being nailed to my desk for a few hours.
From behind, a hand closed around his shoulder.
"Come on, Mick. You're too much man to be this touchy feely."
A shit-eating grin already pasted to his face, Marshall turned, ready to see Mick's mustache bristling. The sight that awaited him nearly had the detective swallowing his own tongue.
Much like the hand wrapped around his shoulder, the face was ashen and peeling. Cloudy white eyes peered out at Clarke from sunken sockets. Parched, cracked lips parted to display rows of chipped, stained teeth. The man wailed, a hollow, lonely sound.
Infected was Clarke's first though. With a shout of terror and disgust he shoved the man away. Groaning, the figure dressed in a tattered flannel shirt and torn jeans, staggered back three steps then lurched forward once more with a harsh sigh. Bellowing, his pulse racing, Clarke drove his foot into the man's chest and flung him onto his back.
Jesus, this is what RS patients look like? Frantic, Marshall reached inside his coat, unfastening his Glock and pulling the weapon free. "Don't move!" He ordered, ashamed at how his voice shook, training the pistol on the sick man's chest. "I'm a cop, so just stay where you are."
Every story Marshall had overheard the patrol guys telling back at the station house came flooding back in an instant. He remembered the uniforms talking about how the Syndrome patients - the ones far along with the disease, too whacked out to be reasoned with - could take an entire clip and get back up. He remembered tales of officers who pulled up only to find patients trying to tear the throats out of their family's necks with their teeth. He recalled one story in particular about a patrolman named Carl Tyson.
Carl had responded to a domestic disturbance call involving an RS patient. After that call he had been rushed to hospital with only one finger left on his right hand. The infected suspect had eaten the other four when Tyson had tried to haul the woman off of her husband.
"I said don't move goddamn it!" Clarke repeated as the figure began to rise again, heedless of the weapon pointed at its torso. "One more step and I will shoot you!"
Too ill to hear or too ill to care, Clarke couldn't say but either way the man proved not at all interested in following his instructions. With another throaty moan, the man lunged at him. The pistol jumped three times in Marshall's sweaty hands. A trio of red holes exploded across the man's chest, bowling him back a step - before he took two more forward.
"Son of a bitch..." Clarke breathed, horrified and stupified. He had always thought those parts of the stories had just been break room bullshit.
Pale hands reached for his throat and Marshall snapped back to his senses. He pulled the trigger three more times, opening up more spaces in the man's dirty shirt. He stumbled a step backwards...then continued forward once again.
"FUCK!" Clarke roared, beads of sweat rolling into his eyes now. The Glock made two more reports and this time Flannel Shirt's head snapped back, blood trickling slowly out of a hole over his left eye. A soft sigh escaped the man - if something that inhuman looking could be called a man at all - and sagged to the sidewalk where he lay motionless.
"Damn it." Clarke breathed, heart fluttering, lungs aching - he hadn't even realized he had been holding his breath all along. He moved a step closer, sighting his weapon on the infected's forehead now. The shot had entered clean above the left eyebrow and it had been a damn lucky hit at that. The headshot had been a total fluke...if his hands had been steady he would have pumped another two useless holes in the man's sternum.
Probably would have had him chewing on my Adam's apple too, if everything the boys told me is true. Clarke lowered his weapon but was unable to tear his eyes away from the man's pathetic but no less monstrous appearance. Goddamn. This is what it does to you? Holy shit. How do you catch the stuff? Bastard got a hold of me. Does that mean I could be infected too?
Mind swirling with questions and a hundred new fears, Clarke had no time to think of any answers though as Mick came charging out of the cafe - Magnum in hand. "What the hell is going on out here?" He roared. "I heard shots."
"He happened." Clarke nodded to the body on the concrete. "Came up behind me, tried to take a piece out of me too."
"Holy shit." Mick muttered, frowning. "What the hell?"
"What is it?" Clarke asked, his heart pounding in his ears again.
"The wounds in his chest...they aren't bleeding."
"You're kidding me," Clarke edged forward to steady his handiwork. Six 9mm entrance wounds but none dripped blood. The holes themselves were red and raw but dry as the Arizona desert.
If I wasn't the guy who shot him I'd swear those wounds were post mortem. Which means he was dead before I killed him. Dumbfounded, Marshall Clarke was left shaking his head again. Yeah. I'm going crazy for sure now.
"Looks like we've got some explaining to do," Mick said, nodding towards something behind Marshall. Clarke twisted his neck around to see the roadwork crew come hustling over, drawn by the commotion. Marshall could only stare though, the gears in his mind rolling so fast they were in danger of overheating. If he was dead before I shot him...if he was infected with the virus....then that means...Jesus. What does it mean? How many of these things are already running around in the hospitals? How is Doctor Waxer keeping them from attacking everyone in sight?
"Christ," Mick grunted, "now what are you thinking about, Clarke?"
Marshall looked up at his partner, certain his own face mirrored the other man's expression of taut nervousness and cold fright. He turned his gaze from the detective to the cup of Joe sitting on the Buick's roof. Not a drop had been spilled during all that had gone on.
"I'm thinking," Marshall began as the construction workers came jogging up out of breath, "that this was one hell of a coffee break."
Author's Note: Here's a new chapter for you guys. I probably should have explained in the first installment that the events of this story begin two weeks before the events of TDN and then run a parallel course with the timeline experienced by Zeke and Co. Hope that clears that matter up. As always, please read and review! Thank you.