Chapter Eight When You're Strange
SARA
It's really hard to climb a ladder with a drawn gun . . . I'm just putting that in because I learned first-hand that between the awkwardness and the fear, my level of coordination goes right out the window.
I made it to the top and sort of stumbled onto the roof, trying to catch my breath when Greg grabbed my arm, looking at it, and I saw it too. Oh shit . . . I was bleeding.
"Sara, were you—" he gulped and I shook my head, wiping the area to show the jagged scrape.
"Slipped on the edge of the ladder . . . damn it! I don't remember my last tetanus booster either . . . "
Grissom interrupted us, yelling from the Manly Hammers Roof. "Sara!" He had that undertone in his voice; the really concerned one and I felt warm all over.
I jogged over to the dangling rope and called up to him. "I'm fine! Banged myself up on the ladder, but we're both okay—"
To prove it, I reached into my vest and tossed up one of the bottles of water; Grissom snagged it easily and set it down, then caught the two others while Greg came over. Ms. Miller and Pepito were peering over the ledge at us too, and she gave a little yelp—I guess I was bleeding more than I thought.
"It's just a scrape—we saw one zombie in the ice cream shop, but Sara put him down." Greg reassured her. She looked over her shoulder and then back at us.
"That's good, but what in God's name are you wearing, Greg?"
"Just . . a little something I picked up in the shop—" he told her and I cracked up again. Grissom didn't smile; he was focused on me.
We've got zombies on the ladder inside Manly," he told us in that matter of fact way he has. I moved over to the rope and grabbed it.
"So are you guys coming down?" I asked him, waiting for his decision. He and Ms. Miller would have a hell of a time descending, but if zombies were about to make it through the hatch, I'd let Grissom fall on me gladly.
I'd probably let him do it even if there weren't any zombies involved at all, actually. I could think of several scenarios with moving bodies with a much shorter distance between them—
"I think—" Grissom began, but right then Pepito started barking his head off, so intent that he sort of bounced on his old, rickety forelegs. He wasn't specific though, so we were all sort of looking around, wondering what had set him off. I had the Glock out, and Greg was scanning the roof with me . . .
Then we all heard it at about the same time and looked up.
A helicopter—just a black dot coming from the northeast, but clear and getting bigger with every second. A big, double ended military helicopter that looked like a sea slug with an umbrella at each end.
I'm sure Grissom or Greg would have been able to identify it—my personal make and model database was limited to cars, and to be honest, only those I'd pulled apart myself—but whatever that big ugly thing was, I loved it. No way zombies would be flying a thing like that, no fucking way.
They were heading in our direction, and I suddenly realized that Greg and I needed to get back up on the Manly Hammers roof if we were going to catch a ride with Grissom, Ms. Miller and Pepito. I set the safety on the gun and jammed it into my vest pocket, then looked at Mr. Birthday Club next to me.
"Think you can make it up?"
"Baby, for a sight like that, I could wall crawl like freakin' Spider-Man," he assured me, grinning.
I helped him get started up; Greg climbed as if he were going for the President's Physical Fitness Award in a PE class. I was concentrating on keeping the rope steady from down below, so I didn't pay attention behind me.
Isn't that always how it is in the damned movies? This would have been the point at which all the people in the audience would be screaming "Look behind you, look behind you!"
As it was, I had Grissom, hollering over the maniac barking of Pepito and the dull, vibrating approaching chopper. "Saaa-raaaa!"
Yep, coming up the damned ladder—
A zombie.
And I was pretty sure he wasn't going to hold the rope steady for me.
GRISSOM
The CH-47 Chinook out of Nellis was a welcome site—but I didn't have much time to fully appreciate how wonderful when Sara was about to be ambushed by a half-brained zombie.
Literally in both senses.
"Sara!" I yelled again, knowing it was stupid to distract her, but feeling a helplessness I never wanted to feel again. Sara turned, drew her weapon, aimed—
Nothing happened.
The zombie clambered between the curved rails of the ladder, stumbling onto the gravel of the parlor roof while Sara stood there for a second, frozen, then began fumbling with her Glock. There wasn't any time for that, and I yelled once more. "Rope, honey! Wrap it around you and we'll haul you up!"
She shoved the gun in her pocket, grabbed the rope and looped it around her waist. I glanced back behind me—Ms. Miller and Greg were nodding, and already grabbing the rope. I looked down over the edge again, and called to Sara. "Hang on TIGHT!"
I pulled, and once again adrenaline kicked in, along with fear. The line went taut, and together with Ms. Miller and Greg, I pulled, not giving a damn about rope burn or pressure or straining muscles, just focused on the all-encompassing need to GETSARAOUT.
The rope came in, slowly and while I longed to hurry the process, I definitely didn't want to drop her, so I dug in my heels and called back to my two pulling comrades. "More!"
"Yeah, one . . . two . . . three—" Greg grunted, and together we all gave a strong, united yank. Sara's head and shoulders appeared over the ledge; she grabbed it, smearing blood from her arm along the bricks. We pulled again and got her torso over the ledge, then I moved.
I don't run, at least not often or well, but I was kneeling at Sara's side in seconds, pulling her to me, checking her over and generally preoccupied with her well-being. So much so, that I was oblivious to the arrival of the Chinook overhead until its shadow engulfed us.
"I'm fine, I'm fine . . . forgot to take the damned safety off the gun," Sara told me huskily. "I'm okay."
"You're bleeding. That's never okay," I told her, and the whole moment hit me then; that I might have lost her—lost her in the most hideous, heart wrenching way possible. Clumsily I pulled her to me, determined not to waste any more precious time. "I love you."
"I know," she replied with a cheeky smugness that I might have been slightly hurt by, had I not seen how beautifully luminous her eyes were at that moment, wide and sweet and brown . . .
"Hey!" came Greg's protest, but I kissed her anyway, glad to the depths of my soul for the opportunity. Even Pepito bouncing over and enthusiastically snuffling my backside didn't change that.
Then the Chinook arrived, hovering over the roof, close enough for us to see the door on the side open and someone lean out of it.
"So—anybody need a ride?" came the familiar voice through a bullhorn.
I've never been so glad to have Brass leading the cavalry.
The chopper didn't land; they rolled out a ladder with weights on the end to stabilize it, and up we went: Ms. Miller, whimpering and moving slowly, then Greg with Pepito under his arm, then Sara, with me right behind her.
I had the best view, frankly, and I won't deny that I took advantage of it all the way up, considering it a nice compensation for the hellish night we'd all been through.
Inside we were herded into an enclosed plastic-lined holding area within the chopper; a move I understood but didn't appreciate. Greg had an arm around Ms. Miller, and she was crying. Dimly I was aware of other plastic-lined pens, and other people, crying, talking around us. I called to Brass, and he moved closer, looking at us through the plastic, his features distorted by it.
"What the hell is going on?" I tried to yell over the noise, but the helicopter was rising, the rumble of the engine and vibrato of the blades making casual talk impossible. Brass shrugged and made a placating gesture with his hands, so I moved closer to Sara and put an arm around her, looking at her scrape.
It wasn't too bad; more of an edged cut from elbow to mid-forearm, and when the chopper lifted, she jostled against me, getting some blood on my shirt. I didn't care, frankly—we were safe, and on our way out of the danger zone.
We flew on, back to Nellis, I guessed, although none of us were near a window to be able to see. From the noise around us, I estimated there were about fifteen to twenty other people in quarantine holding pens like ours here in the helicopter.
I wanted to sleep, but didn't, and let Sara doze against me instead.
GREG
Back in the dark ages of my high school years when the Army recruiter tried to interest me in signing up, he'd point to the poster of the tanks and choppers and talk about being a hero. And I'd nod and then laugh my head off when I walked on, because there was no way on God's green earth I was ever going to climb into a metal monstrosity like a CH-47 Chinook.
It was good to be wrong. It was so very, very good to be absolutely wrong on that one. This huge, rattling, ugly flying Quonset hut of a helicopter was now my home, yes indeed. I loved every inch of it, especially the fact that it was carrying us away from the mutant horde of brain-eating undead zombies thankyouverymuch. I wondered if I could look up that old recruiter and send him a thank you note---
We were in a sealed plastic isolation pen, and I could appreciate the precautions in this case. Since none of us were contaminated, I assumed that once we got to where ever it was we were going, we'd be examined, probably debriefed and maybe inoculated.
That was a cool idea—anti-Zombie vaccine. I wondered if they had developed it yet. Heck, I wondered how long this disease or disorder had been around, come to think of it. And if it came here in a skull packed in manure, where did the manure come from? Were there zombies somewhere else? From the sound of it, we weren't the only ones to be rescued . . .
I wanted to sleep, but the more I thought about things, the more . . . uncomfortable I got. Back when we were down at the hardware store it was easy to not think and just go with reactive reflexes, but up here, with a moment to catch up on a few nagging thoughts, I couldn't help considering that the four of us were now in the hands of the government.
Of course Brass was here, and that helped alleviate a few fears, but still, it was a long time before I completely relaxed. The chopper was too noisy for conversation, and to be honest I was dead tired, so I let myself snooze a bit. Next to me, Ms. Miller did the same, the two of us sort of making a puppy pile up against the side of the plastic. It made it official when Pepito joined us, wheezing and uh, contributing to global warming in his own little doggy way.
I'm not sure how long I was semi-conscious; fatigue and the downslide from adrenaline will take it out of you. All I did know was that when the pitch of the engine shifted, I woke up with a jolt. Ms. Miller was still out, and that was good because I realized I'd sort of . . . had my head on her chest.
Snuggling.
Don't get me wrong—I'm totally about the 'adversity makes allies of us all' school of thought—but then again, I didn't want Ms. Miller to get a mistaken notion about my intentions here. So I tried to sit up without disturbing her and probably would have made it if she hadn't started laughing, which I could feel under my cheek through all the luscious padding.
"If you weren't so damned adorable, Greg Sanders—" she rumbled, and kissed the top of my head. Kissed it!
I don't think I've ever blushed so much—not even when Archie Photoshopped my face onto the A & F Quarterly. I sat up and she smirked at me. "Oh don't worry about it—I'm built for comfort, and anyway, I've got a boyfriend--sort of."
"He's a lucky guy," I told her and meant it. Whoever it was that had Ms. Miller's generous heart had to be a prince among men. We grinned at each other, and she pointed with her chin to the rest of the helicopter.
"Think we're landing?"
"It's possible . . . although I can't tell you where," I shouted back. "I'm not sure how long we've been flying."
"A while," she agreed cautiously. Then the helicopter dipped lower, and I felt the hard bounce of a landing. Across from us, Grissom and Sara were waking up, and I must say that if Ms. Miller and I had been comfy, the two of them looked positively Cuddle City, sheesh! All little smiles at each other, and molded together like they were made to fit---
About time.
Anyway, Grissom got to his feet and tried to look through the plastic for Brass I guess, and I heard lots of other people starting to stir around us in their pens as well. Ms. Miller and I got up; I didn't know about anybody else, but I really needed to pee and hoped whatever briefing they'd give us would be a short one.
They unzipped the pen and two guys in full biohazard suits came in. They were holding rifles, and I kept my mouth shut. A third one with a clipboard stepped in after them, and spoke up; I could tell from his voice he was A) a military dude, and B) scared.
"Are you the CSIs from Vegas?" he asked, and Grissom nodded.
SARA
The floor of a helicopter isn't really the most comfortable place to sleep, but compared to what we'd just left behind, I wasn't about to bitch, no way. Besides, I had some cushioning in the form of Grissom, and believe me, I took shameless advantage of that, right in full view of Greg. Heh—why not? Fighting zombies sort of puts the whole 'dating a co-worker' into perspective, really, and I don't think it was too much of a surprise for Greg anyway. He's pretty sharp at times.
Anyway, by the time we landed, I'd already decided that what I absolutely wanted was a shower and a nap with Grissom. I wasn't really prepared when the first part of it happened against my will; the Biohazard suit with the clipboard caught sight of my forearm and sort of jumped back. "We've got blood on the woman! Get them to Decontamination, Stat!"
"No, I'm not contamin—" I tried to tell them but the first suit with a rifle jabbed his gun at me and started to herd me out. Grissom stepped in, all protective and manly (I'll admit that turned me on a bit, too—) but one sight of his shirt with my smears on it made the Clipboard guy freak out even more and he pointed at Grissom.
"Second contamination! Take them both to the showers!"
"Hey wait a minute—" I heard Greg protest, but the clacking of the rifles being cocked got all of us quiet VERY fast. I still had my Glock but I wasn't going to be stupid here—better to just follow directions and talk later to someone not pointing a gun in our faces.
Slowly Grissom and I stepped forward, hands up and moved down a plastic tunnel. I was starting to get claustrophobic now, not thrilled at feeling like a leftover in a giant Ziploc baggie. One of the rifle toting Bio-boys was behind us, herding us along. We climbed down a plastic-lined ramp out of the helicopter and I barely had time to feel some sunshine coming through the opaque walls before Grissom and I were hustled through another door and into a tile-lined room. There were two showerheads in one little alcove and the rest of the place was about the size of a walk in closet.
The door closed behind us—Rifle Bio didn't come in the shower so I guessed he was the one throwing the bolts we heard clanging on the other side of the door. Right then an amplified voice ordered us to, "Strip down and step under the showerheads!"
I got mad. I mean, what the fuck? Here we'd survived a vicious night by anyone's standards—death, dismemberment, zombies—and now some military honcho was going to order us around? I looked up to see a camera focused on us from the corner of the white, tiled room, and it was only by sheer force of will that I didn't flip it the bird.
Grissom didn't look any happier, and called out to the disembodied voice. "We are NOT contaminated! We'd like to TALK to someone, please—preferably Jim Brass of the Las Vegas Police Department!"
"In due time, Doctor Grissom. For the moment, we're taking the situation extremely seriously, and the best way to expedite it would be to cooperate fully. We're giving you the option of showering yourselves—don't make us use force to do it TO you," the amplified, disembodied voice came back at us.
"Yeah, well who ARE you?" I yelled, getting more and more frustrated—the last thing I wanted after this night from hell was to be watched doing a bubble scrub with my boss.
Notice I didn't say I minded doing a bubble scrub—I just minded being watched—after all, there are some limits for the third date.
"I'm Colonel Isaac Phillips and I'm in charge of the federally mandated emergency protocol for this particular incident, Ms. Sidle. My son assured me that both you and Doctor Grissom are intelligent, competent people who would understand the necessities of our situation. Please don't make this process any more difficult than it already is."
"You're David's father?" I asked, a little blown away by this. Grissom was already unbuttoning his shirt, which was a bit distracting too.
"I am. Now please, scrub yourselves down as quickly as possible and we'll talk face to face afterwards—there's a lot to discuss."
Crap. It didn't look like there was any way out of this, and for a moment I thought I'd rather be facing the zombies. Then Grissom cleared his throat. "We can stand back to back, Sara, and minimize the embarrassment, honey."
I looked over at Grissom, who had his bare spine to me, and for one long second I felt such a surge of love for the man that I'm sure it radiated off me like a thermal charge. Only Grissom would worry about my privacy. Only Grissom would care enough about my feelings to suggest a solution.
Only Grissom.
"Damn it, I love you," I muttered, and started pulling my clothes off.
GRISSOM
Out of all the fantasies I'd ever conjured up of myself and Sara, none of them had taken place in a Decontamination shower, and certainly not under the unblinking lens of a monitor camera. Exotic as a few of my daydreams have been, even I had my limits.
Nevertheless, the sooner we got on with the process, the sooner we could get out and dressed; that was worth the embarrassment, so I finished undressing, moved over to the nearest showerhead, turning it on with a twist of the dial, and avoiding the first blast, which was sure to be cold.
Fact of life—the first ten seconds of any shower are icy.
I kept my attention on the water, trying very hard not to look at Sara, who was undressing off to my left. This was a very difficult thing to do. If I ever get any sort of credit for gallantry, this would be the capper, because ninety nine point eight percent of me wanted desperately to look. Having kissed and cuddled with Sara definitely had me interested in moving further into intimacy, and being naked together was inhumanly tempting.
And then, she put her arms around me from behind.
Oh God—instant hydraulics. This was NOT expected, and I gasped. In response, she giggled, which I found to be both annoying and arousing. "Sara!"
"You're going to need someone to scrub your back—" she told me cheerfully in that throaty tone of hers that was NOT helping the situation upfront.
"Now isn't the time—" I pleaded firmly, only to get a nip on the shoulder that made me quiver. Sara spoke again, her voice lower.
"Sure it is. We've got some privacy—" she pointed out. Puzzled, I looked over at the camera and saw Sara's blouse hanging on it, effectively blocking the lens.
Over the loudspeaker, Colonel Phillips spoke up, his tone NOT amused. "Please cooperate, Ms Sidle and remove the clothing from the lens."
"No. Doctor Grissom and I are going to shower in privacy. If it's that damned critical that you monitor us, you'll have to send someone in to remove it yourself," she snapped back, and I had to agree with her. I picked up the decon foam can and shook it.
There was no answer from Colonel Phillips, and I took that as discretion on his part. Sara pressed more closely to my back and for some reason it was difficult to breathe normally. Then she wrapped her arms around me, fingers stroking my ribs, and things became much more . . . intensely immediate.
Or immediately intense, as the case may be.
Between the hot water, the decon foam and a sleekly beautiful naked woman I was in love with, not only did I get thoroughly cleaned of any zombie-related pathogens, but I also discovered that Sara Sidle is unbelievably erotic when wet. Whatever hesitations I had were quickly overcome by Sara's kisses and talented fingers, and for the first time in my life, I truly appreciated how two people of the same height can use that fact to their mutually . . . upright . . . satisfaction.
Is it possible for a rational man to be grateful for the bizarre events of the night for leading us to this . . . climax? The question is not rhetorical and the answer is yes.
By the time we were done . . . scrubbing, the water had gotten much cooler and a certain prune effect had begun to wrinkle our fingertips. Reluctantly Sara and I turned off the water and she tiptoed up to pull the blouse off of the monitor. I noted that there were folded scrubs and towels in plastic bags on a shelf, and moved to open them. We dried off and dressed, not saying much verbally, but the comfort of Sara's affectionate gaze and the stroke of her cool hand along my cheek spoke volumes to me.
The door opened, and two medical orderlies stepped in, followed by a doctor, none of them in hazmat suits. The doctor was smirking slightly. "Time for a quick medical exam—" he told us. We were poked and prodded, had blood drawn and Sara's scrape was properly cleaned and bandaged.
After that, we were ushered into a small room with a table, chairs and a TV monitor to rejoin Greg and Ms. Miller, who were also dressed in scrubs. I had an unbidden, unreal image of the two of them showering together, but clearly that had NOT been the case.
"Are you two okay?" was my first question. Greg nodded, giving Sara a quick hug.
"Fine. Got to shower and change; they took Pepito off to quarantine. So have they told you anything?" he asked. I shook my head. Ms Miller had hugged Sara too and now hugged me warmly before pulling back and sighing.
"Us neither. I don't mind telling you, Gil Grissom, I'm still scared."
Before I could say anything comforting, the door opened, and two men came in. The first man I didn't recognize, but I did the second—Brass.
GREG
Oh man it felt GOOD to see the Brassman! He looked rumpled and tired, but he smiled and I felt myself relax a little, because whatever happened now, at least I had Grissom and Brass to looking out for us. Sara moved to hug him and he held onto her for a good squeeze before letting her go again. "Hey . . . well, you guys look like you've had a hell of a night."
"That's not even the half of it," Grissom replied, and I could feel the tension unwind in the room. The other man, a white-haired ramrod in a flight suit cleared his throat and held out his hand. Grissom shook it, and I did too as he murmured, "Colonel Phillips. Shall we sit down?"
We did.
Colonel Phillips began speaking. "I'm sure you have a lot of questions, and I'll be happy to answer what I can, but before that, let me tell you what we do know and what the situation is to the moment. I've been assured that as employees of the state, you've already signed your SF-312s, so what I'm about to tell you is covered under that agreement. Ms. Miller, thank you for signing yours in this last hour."
She nodded, looking a little wary and I gave her a wink just to reassure her. Colonel Phillips sat up a little straighter, if that was possible and started talking in earnest now.
"The particular biohazard that the four of you encountered yesterday is a particularly virulent pathogen that's been endemic to parts of China and Korea for the past centuries. It's a virus, but with the capacity to mutate constantly, and for hundreds of years it's infected sections of Asia. The United States first encountered it during the Korean War, and some of our top pathologists and Biohazard people have been working ever since to develop a vaccine against it. It's been code-named Resurrection Virus, and naturally all information about it is considered Top Secret.
"In the past ten years, military intelligence has learned that the north Koreans were experimenting with Resurrection as a possible bio-weapon—naturally this has been a threat that we've been keeping a very close eye on for the past three years in particular. We've planned out our emergency plans for any full-scale attack involving Resurrection Virus and we put part of that into action last night when the first reports came in from the area south of our facility.
"Naturally we assumed it was a deliberate attack, but as we worked our way in from the outermost cases, it became clear that the point of origin was the shopping center in North Indian Springs. Since this didn't seem to be a target of any significant military or patriotic significance, we've hypothesized that the contamination was accidental, the result of an imported specimen undetected by Customs."
Grissom and Ms. Miller nodded in confirmation; Colonel Phillips relaxed a little. "Can you tell me anything about it?"
So Ms. Miller spoke up, telling the colonel exactly what she'd told the three of us earlier about the bag of manure and the skull. I was fighting yawns at this point because it was WAY past my bedtime and I was hungry to boot. I perked up when Ms. Miller talked about running into us and how brave and smart we all were, and listened to Grissom pick up the narration about the rest of our little adventures, but I was fading fast.
I was on the verge of dozing off when Brass started talking about how he'd been stopped from coming into Indian Springs and how David had gotten through to Colonel Phillips and arranged for the rescue in the Chinook. Then Sara spoke up, and her voice was very quiet. "What will happen to the store? If you can't tell the public the truth---"
The colonel turned on the TV monitor and we saw the footage behind the news anchor; a blazing inferno rolling thick thunderheads of smoke into the sky. Ms. Miller gave a little gasp. "Oh my God—Manly Hammers!"
"Necessary, Ms. Miller, and believe me, nobody is as sorry about it as I am," the colonel murmured. "We thoroughly searched the buildings for any other survivors like yourselves and found none. This is being reported as a gas main explosion, and the federal government will move through a few dummy insurance corporations to offer the victim's families some compensation for their losses."
Ms. Miller started to cry. This was the first time, and I took her in my arms while she sobbed, feeling that she sort of spoke for us all in that moment. She'd known those people, worked with them and knew their names—
"Have you stopped the spread of Resurrection?" Grissom asked quietly, "this time?" He had that cutting edge in his voice, and I expected the colonel to get mad, but he didn't. He nodded slowly.
"Yes. And well put, Doctor Grissom. This time. This was an accidental infection, but next time we may not be nearly so lucky."
00oo00oo00
So here we are, six months later, still doing what we do at crime scenes, and doing it well if I'm permitted to brag a little. Of course, Brass and I are keeping the smoldering hot Grissom/Sidle romance a secret nowadays, which is kind of fun, and wonder of wonders, we have a new Community Liaison person who does the scout tours and educational visits to the schools.
I call her Trudie Jane nowadays instead of Ms. Miller, and sometimes after work I go over to her place and have a beer while Pepito makes himself comfortable in my lap. Sometimes we talk about work, and sometimes we go to the movies, but we never go to see the zombie ones.
And--
Every now and then when the nightmares get bad, I come over and hold her until we fall asleep.
END