HORROR FROM BELOW

A Brant & Archer Pre-Apocalyptic Zombie Thriller

Book 1

By

JT Sawyer

Copyright March 2020, Horror From Below, by JT Sawyer

Edited by Emily Nemchick

Cover art by EbookLaunch.com

No part of this book may be transmitted in any form whether electronic, recording, scanned, mechanical, photocopying, or otherwise, without written permission of the publisher.

This is a work of fiction and the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, incidents, or events is entirely coincidental and not intended by the author.

Join JT Sawyer’s Facebook page to follow his book research and to get updates on future releases. You can also sign up to be a part of his reading team at JTSawyer.com.

Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

AFTERWORD

Additional Titles by JT Sawyer

About the Author

Non-Fiction Survival Books by Tony Nester (aka JT Sawyer):

Prologue

Dragoon Island, Somewhere in the South Pacific

Hiroshi Kimura had killed before but nothing on this scale. The body count from his experiments had increased so much in recent weeks that it had become necessary to hire extra recruits from Malaysia to assist with the disposal of the disease-ridden corpses. Kimura removed his blood-soaked nitrile gloves as he exited the bio-containment lab in Building Three, deep in the jungle. After passing through a series of chlorine showers while removing his soiled biohazard suit, oxygen tank, and boots, he donned a clean set of garments and chose flip-flops instead of another set of sweaty boots. Stepping beyond the exit door into the intense sunlight, he felt the heat rush in to envelop his exposed skin. Kimura sucked in a deep breath, relishing the pleasant smell of decaying jungle vegetation over the memory of the sterile oxygen that he’d been restricted to breathing during the past two hours of viral research.

He thought of the last test subject, a young man in his twenties with a wispy goatee and shaggy black hair. Earlier that morning, the subject had shown promise early on after receiving the deadly injection of synthesized viral samples formulated in Kimura’s lab three months ago. His dictated notes reverberated through Kimura’s weary brain as he walked along the narrow trail towards his jeep. He saw his second-in-command, Ronny Tengu, step out from his air-conditioned Tacoma while leaving the engine running. The sinewy figure was clad in green khaki pants and a short-sleeved tan shirt, which clung to his muscular frame. He rested one hand on the .45 pistol on his hip while clutching a thick manila envelope in his other.

“Good day, sir,” said Tengu. “I have some news that I think you will appreciate.”

Kimura cleared his throat, then spit on a gray boulder to his left as he walked up. “Nothing good today, yesterday, or last week to revel in.” He glanced back at the research buildings.

“Maybe those street hustlers we keep abducting for you from the mainland have weak constitutions. I can tell my men to focus on fisherman instead—they might have better endurance.”

“Subject 2214 held so much promise. He survived the anticipated increase in his body core temperature and then began exhibiting the usual violent tendencies, killing his fellow inmates through mauling and evisceration. He lasted for three hours, finally succumbing to massive hemorrhaging.” Kimura watched a hawk soar in a straight line over an opening in the canopy. “He reanimated twenty-two minutes afterwards, much sooner than any of the other subjects, giving me hope that this viral load was the answer I’d been searching for.”

Kimura leaned against the jeep, folding his arms as a bead of sweat ran down from his bald head. He spoke like he was dictating his notes, realizing that he felt the need to review his undertakings aloud while knowing that most of his information would drift beyond the reach of Tengu. “Brainwave monitors indicated his cerebral functions were inactive, as I’d hoped, but then he collapsed seven minutes later.” He clenched his jaw, stepping away from the vehicle to smash a small lizard under his flip-flop. “I’ve been on the right track for weeks but just can’t seem to progress beyond this stage and isolate the missing component.”

“I thought you said that was a missing link that was lost to the annals of time.”

“It would seem so—the original research done during the early days of this particular virus was undertaken by an esteemed physician in the Imperial Navy. He had managed to obtain his sample from an isolated monkey population on a small island—amidst the other three thousand fucking islands in this region.” He waved his hands in the air. “I have tried other viral specimens, but that one was rumored to have unique properties that could potentially generate the results I need.”

Tengu thrust his thick hand forward, passing him the envelope. “As I said, I think you will find this of great interest.”

Kimura slowly took hold of it, unlashing the fine string wrapped around the bronze fastener in the center, then raised an eyebrow while glancing up at Tengu.

“I told you I still have some connections back at the agency in Japan. They unearthed this classified document from the archives of the Imperial Navy based upon the information you gave me on that physician on board.”

Kimura slid the contents out, scanning the yellowed papers, which contained typed notes taken directly from Emperor Hirohito eight months before Japan’s surrender.

“The photo—examine the photo,” said Tengu, whispering over Kimura’s shoulder.

Kimura separated out the large black-and-white photo of a submarine docked at the Sasebo Naval Arsenal near Nagasaki. It showed the entire crew of one hundred and twenty sailors standing at attention, with the officers adorned in white uniforms on the far right.

Kimura stood up straight, moving the photograph closer as his eyes narrowed. His gaze intensified as he focused on an officer who was missing his left arm, the white cloth of his uniform pinned up to the shoulder fabric. Kimura felt his mouth go dry, then he looked at the lower right corner, where there was a handwritten date of 1941 along with LAT/LONG coordinates for the final resting place of the sunken vessel.

“Is he the one who did the initial research?” said Tengu.

Kimura felt the blood return to his face as he cleared his throat. The corners of his lips cracked slightly as a faint grin crept out. “Patient zero, yes—the old notes in my keeping revealed he was the one who tested the original virus on himself while their submarine headed towards the eastern Pacific in a last-ditch effort at attacking the Americans on their own shores.” He grabbed Tengu’s shoulder and squeezed it with gusto. Kimura’s teeth showed through his growing smile as a vein in his neck bulged. His eyes were transfixed by the photograph for a minute, then he pivoted around and faced Tengu.

“Not only will you be well-compensated for this tremendous find, but my organization is extending your contract—and this time, it won’t involve sweating your ass off in the jungle.”

Chapter 1

October 29
Two Weeks Later
Point Loma, San Diego

Detective Lindsey Brant exited her blue Crown Vic and scanned the terrain on the beach ahead. Other than a few pesky seagulls trotting along the shoreline and several officers standing watch around the other entrances, the place was empty. It was a windy October day, and the recent tropical storm had spread trash, decaying fish, and driftwood everywhere along the shoreline. Her honey-blonde hair was being tossed around the shoulders of her gray suitcoat as she slid on a pair of amber sunglasses and walked across the vacant parking lot, which had been closed earlier by the first officers on the scene.

This was an isolated pocket known only to the locals in the area, and she liked the fact that this region hadn’t made it into the online tourist guides and become overrun like all of the other outlets dotting the southern coastline. Brant saw a lanky figure exiting his black vehicle out of the corner of her eye and knew from his stride that it was detective Darrell Emerson. His irritated expression wasn’t a surprise, since Brant had called him on his day off.

He tugged on his jacket sleeves as he strode towards her. “My wife said she’s gonna have a word with you at our next barbecue if you keep yankin’ me away from her on my rare time off from work.” He waved his hand in the air, his voice becoming high-pitched. “‘That Brant is always pushing you too hard—even Superman needed a day off once in a while.’”

Brant frowned. “Yeah, I’m sure that’s what she said. More like, ‘I’m gonna high-five Brant for the sweet overtime check that my husband’s got coming our way.’”

They walked down the steps onto the beach, Brant slightly ahead of Emerson. “You saying she married me for my bank account? She’s from an east side, workin’-class part of San Diego, not one of those bubbleheads with the glittery nails and silicone curves from L.A.”

“I’m glad you aren’t known for casting aspersions or lumping people into stereotypes—because one of your strengths has always been your complete objectivity,” she said, dragging out the last word.

He nodded. “Damn straight. That’s why you called me and the rest of the crew today—on my day off; did I mention that?”

She brushed a fly away from her cheek. “This crime scene sounds bizarre. It’s unlike anything we’ve seen in a while, according to the responding officers and the initial interviews they did with the locals.” She trudged through the sand towards her coroner, Emily Hadden, who was already hunched over the splayed victim.

A thick cloud of flies and seagulls was kept adrift by the offshore breeze, but they occasionally descended for a closer look when the wind temporarily ceased. The aroma of saltwater was replaced by the piercing stench of the bloated carcass of a man who appeared to be in his mid-thirties. Brant squinted as she approached, more from the stinging smell than from the sun.

Hadden stood up from her squatting position and gave both of them a nod, then motioned with her blue-gloved hand for them to come around to her right.

“Looks like the vic was playing vampire tag,” she said, pointing to the bite marks and gaping wounds on the Asian man’s neck. “A local runner came across the body around sunrise.”

“Doesn’t look like a shark bite, so what do you make of that?” Brant said as the coroner gently prodded the torn flesh around the trachea with a stainless-steel probe.

“At first glance, I thought it was a dog mauling, but these puncture wounds aren’t deep enough, and the edges are far too jagged. This looks like it was done by another person—reminds me of that case a few years back with that psycho wrestler who bit up his victims.”

“Yeah, the dude who had a thing for chomping off the right ears of his vics before snapping their necks,” said Emerson as he wrung his hands together like he was choking someone. “I heard those ears never did turn up either.”

Brand smirked. “That joke wasn’t funny the first twenty times, Emerson, so can it already.” She removed her sunglasses then knelt down beside Hadden and studied the body, noting the man’s large hands and sinewy arms. She glanced up at the mangled neckline, which showed raw strands of exposed muscles around the shattered clavicle, as if the man had plunged headfirst through a tunnel of razor-wire. She felt the taste of her morning coffee wash away as she swallowed. After the past four years as a detective and double that as a uniformed police officer, the sight of blood didn’t bother her, but the macabre deaths like this were always unsettling because they were seldom motivated by logic or passion like most murders. Is this the result of some deranged lunatic hanging around the beach, stalking people out by themselves? She hoped Hadden was mistaken about the wounds being inflicted by another person but trusted her coroner enough to know that she was seldom wrong about such things.

She cleared her throat. “From his appearance, I’d say this guy’s a regular on the water—surfer, maybe, or fisherman,” Brant said, moving closer and scrunching her eyebrows together while examining his fingertips. “Are those splinters under his fingernails?”

“I hadn’t gotten to that yet,” said Hadden, who grabbed a pair of tweezers and removed some fragments from under the nailbeds, placing them in a clear vial from her field kit. “No ID on him,” added Hadden, tapping the orange life-vest on the man.

“Probably had it on his boat, wherever that’s at,” said Emerson, glancing up at the horizon.

“I already notified the Coast Guard on my way here,” said Brant. She scanned the body, her eyes sifting along the nylon fabric of his shirt, which looked like a cheap import with its single row of stitching along the shoulders. His yellow teeth coupled with cheeks that resembled waxed rawhide indicated someone whose face had spent too many years north of a cigarette. His nose was slightly flattened, and Brant figured, with the overly bulbous knuckles on both hands, that he had been in more than a few street fights. Probably not a surfer—they usually take better care of themselves. “Wonder if this guy could have washed up as a result of the turbulent waters last night. Maybe he fell overboard?” said Brant. “What’s the time of death?”

“Based on the lividity, I’d say anywhere between 10–12 pm last night,” said Hadden, blowing a lock of black hair off her nose. “He’s not very tenderized yet, so he probably floated in the water for a while before ending up here before midnight.”

Emerson smirked and shook his head. “So that’s your technical term, ‘tenderized’—they teach you that at Stanford?”

Hadden bit her lower lip. “At least I went to college.”

“Ouch,” said Brant. “I’d be careful tangling with her—remember, she’s a fencing champ.”

“Yeah, I’ve seen her pretty little costume with the beekeeper’s mask.” Emerson narrowed his eyes at Hadden. “Besides, college is overrated. I received my education in the real world—on the job.”

“Writing tickets to seniors double-parking their golf carts in La Jolla doesn’t count,” said Hadden, who was chuckling.

“I thought you drove a Ford Taurus, not a golf cart. Geez, how old are you, Hadden?”

“Trust me, you’ve got me beat in the age department by a long shot.”

Brant ignored the usual banter of her colleagues. They had worked under her long enough that she felt as if they were her own family. Despite how her staff playfully mocked each other, Brant knew that it was all intended to let off steam from dealing with the worst of humanity in a job that rarely saw them with time off. Since the economy tanked a few years ago, the city had cut a lot of her department’s personnel, and everyone was double-booked with cases. Most of them were homicides or burglaries, but very rarely did any of them involve fatalities of this gruesome nature.

She studied the deceased figure again and then panned her head out to the waves, the whitecaps crashing into the boulder-strewn shoreline twenty yards away. “So, he was fishing offshore, falls overboard, and then gets mauled by someone on the beach who just happens to have the midnight munchies for a dead body?” She looked at the shredded neckline. “But where’s the damn boat?”

Before anyone could comment, Brant heard soft footfalls in the sand behind her and turned to see her other detective trotting up to them. Keith Halsey was a barrel-chested figure who had once been a star quarterback in college before a shoulder injury changed his career, and, right now, he looked like he had just intercepted the ball.

“Hey, nothing else showed up on the vic in the surrounding parking lots, although his wallet was located about a quarter-mile south of here. I called his name in already. Get this—the name on his driver’s license is from someone who died in the seventies,” he said, looking down at the clear plastic evidence bag with the black wallet.

“So, smuggler or dope-runner, maybe?” said Emerson. “Those guys usually roll with fake IDs like that.”

“We also found a busted wooden oar with streaks of blood on it about two hundred yards from here. You’re gonna love this.” Halsey tucked his notebook in his pants pocket. “Our guys combing the beach to the south just found a decomposing corpse with its head missing—and the dude is dressed like a naval officer, with medals and everything. Only it’s vintage-type clothing, like from World War II.”

****

After twenty minutes of walking through the wet sand, Brant and her crew arrived at a knee-high mound of driftwood, tangles of old fishing line, and assorted beer cans. The area was sectioned off with crime-scene tape wrapped around hastily placed rebar stakes. The fair-skinned police officer standing watch stepped back, his sleeve covering his mouth as he pointed to the far side of the debris pile. As Brant stepped on the crunchy substrate of discarded plastic bottles and seashells, she heard the buzzing of thousands of flies crawling over the rotting corpse. The mass of insects momentarily dispersed as she approached.

The body was short in stature, especially in the absence of a head, but still only around five feet tall. The skin was mottled blue and gray with deep ulcerations. The face was covered in large pustules, some of which had been pierced open by the claws of tiny crabs flitting over the desiccated cheeks. The figure was clad in faded white fatigues whose edges were frayed and moldy. On the feet were a pair of algae-covered black leather boots whose laces were long since gone. Most of the flesh was missing from the fingers, with only the bony protrusions remaining, like an electric cord stripped of its outer mantle. Adorning the left shoulder was an inscription of the Imperial Japanese Navy below a nearly threadbare patch of a red sun. Attached to the left breast pocket of the white jacket were two tarnished medals, both of which were inscribed with kanji characters reminding Brant of a Shinto shrine she once visited in Kyoto.

Brant shook her head and clenched her jaw as she scrutinized the crime scene. “This can’t be connected with our other vic—this body looks like it’s been rotting in the ocean for God knows how long.”

Hadden bit her lip as she encircled the body, her head bobbing up and down before glancing out at the ocean.

“What is it?” said Brant.

“Nothing, this just reminds me of a book I once read, minus the Japanese accoutrements.”

“Do I even want to know what you read for pleasure in your free time?” chuckled Emerson.

“Are you kidding me? Hadden doesn’t read books,” said Halsey. “She only reads the crime stats on her lunch breaks like other people study the stock market.”

“Better than the Hardy Boys books you read, hoping to understand investigative procedures,” Hadden said, causing Halsey’s smile to fade while the others turned away to hide their laughs.

“How is this connected to the book you’re talking about?” said Brant.

“It was a horror story based around these well-preserved bodies kept in an underwater lab at the bottom of the ocean that get washed ashore after a typhoon destroys the facility. It was written by a local author, James Archer, and had a ton of realistic science in it. He’s that guy who does all those zombie books and is headlining the big Horror-Con event at the Embassy Hotel this weekend.”

Brant squinted her eyes. “Archer—that name rings a bell. Wasn’t his father on the board of trustees for the hospital several years ago?”

“Yeah, that’s him. He died in a plane crash overseas about ten years back,” said Hadden.

The coroner returned her attention to the corpse, squatting down and brushing away the flies while examining the mangled neck region, prodding her gloved index finger into the yielding flesh. “There are wood splinters in this tissue similar to what was under the other vic’s fingernails.” She moved down to the waist, where part of the midsection was exposed. Hadden lifted up a corner flap of the uniform and studied the rotting epidermis, which was covered in small barnacles, as if they were woven into the fabric. “Crimony—how long has this guy been in the water?”

Brant moved closer, inching up to the round bronze medals while waving away a centipede. She pulled her head back abruptly as her eyes went wide, glancing down at the stamped date.

“What is it?” said Halsey.

Brant’s mouth went dry as she stroked the metal with her gloved finger then looked back up at the others. “The date—it reads 1942.”

Chapter 2

“Welcome to this year’s Horror-Con Festival,” said the bald-headed announcer on the podium at the Embassy in downtown San Diego. Over nine hundred people stood before the stage, the atmosphere charged with excitement. Most were dressed in attire apropos to the event: ghouls, vampires, werewolves, crazed elves, witches, superheroes, ghosts, skeletons, killer clowns, and, of course, zombies, which comprised a third of the crowd.

“We have a record enrollment this year, with over one hundred and thirty thousand people due in attendance over the next five days. This is the epi-center of the horror world—from demons to zombies and serial killers, we have it all. In addition to our usual exhibition area with vendors and author signings, we have a masquerade party tomorrow night and a graphic film festival in the afternoon.”

The man stepped around the podium and raised his left hand towards the red velvet curtain at stage-left. “But you didn’t come here to listen to me. Please welcome our keynote speaker— winner of seven Butcher Awards, an international bestselling author, the master of dread, and my good friend—James Archer.”

The crowd broke out in applause as a man in a finely tailored Italian suit walked out on stage, mimicking a zombie shuffle for a second then smiling and trotting up to the speaker. The two men exchanged hugs and then James moved up to the podium, nodding at the bellowing audience. His blue silk shirt was partly unbuttoned, and he ran a hand through his wavy brown hair. A legion of young female fans was screaming at him from the front row as a line of security guards gleefully served as their wave break. Archer eagerly smiled at the crowd, his grin nearly extending to his ears. Out of all the book signings, TV interviews, and horror conferences that his agent arranged for him to attend, Horror-Con was his favorite, partly because of the raw energy and sheer numbers of his fans that flew in from around the world, but also because it was in his favorite city—his hometown. And the media, businesses, and mayor all reminded him that he was their favorite son, especially when attendance at the event soared to record numbers like it did this year.

“Thank you for that devilishly warm welcome.” His smile quickly faded to a stern face as he lowered his voice while widening his eyes. “I have to tell you that my jet-lag after returning last night from a London book festival has suddenly been replaced with a wave of energy, as if the forces of darkness emanating from within this room have engulfed my soul, unleashing a maleficent storm of such monstrous proportions that it could lay waste to any army of undead that might visit its wrath upon this city.” He leapt off the stage, clutching his microphone, then landed in a fighter’s stance beside a young woman, who shrieked, then giggled. He swept his gaze upon the audience, his volume increasing. “And you, my dark denizens, shall fight alongside me as we take back these shores from the evil wrath on our doorstep.” He swung his head from side to side, narrowing his eyes as the crowd stood frozen in silence. Then he flung his shoulders back, letting out a wicked grin that nearly filled his face. “And one more thing…” Archer flung his right hand in the air like a symphony conductor while screaming into the microphone, “Welcome to this year’s Horror-Con.”

The crowd erupted in raucous cheers and applause as Archer was lifted off his feet by the fans in the first row. He waved off the security guards as he was carried along through a parting throng of admirers to the exit doors. This never gets old, he thought as he was whisked into the hallway and into the flashing cameras of gawking journalists.

****

After he’d finished administering colorfully rehearsed sound-bites to the reporters in the central courtyard, Archer scampered down to the main floor for a two-hour book signing for exclusive fans, who were mostly fluty-voiced college girls. The majority of them were followers of his fifth series, The Hungry Ones, which represented his extremely successful trilogy of books chronicling a young lawyer who is bitten simultaneously by both a vampire and a zombie, becoming a hybrid with abilities in both realms of horror while maintaining his successful legal practice. The series broke new ground and shook up the horror world, not to mention catapulting Archer back into the limelight. However, his fortune and considerable fame had largely been made through his ongoing series of zombie-mystery novels, featuring rugged action hero Mitch Riker.

Archer had his right arm casually resting on the edge of the faux-walnut table as he finished shaking the hand of another female fan whose book he had just inscribed. As she ambled away, he couldn’t help but notice the sleek figure of a thirty-something woman in a tan trench coat slowly sauntering through the crowd before his vision was obscured by the next buxom woman in line. Her cleavage nearly spilled out of her low-cut vampire dress as she leaned forward to hand him a book.

“So, that part where you, ya know, have Mitch rescue those female scientists from the zombies attacking the CDC.” The woman paused, taking in a deep breath while blinking slowly. “That was totally rad.” She clutched the book tighter, pulling it into her chest. “Oh my God, who do you think should play Mitch Riker when your books finally get made into films next year?”

He extended his hand forward, motioning for the book while he glanced at her buttery smooth skin. “Well, I’ve always seen Mitch as an extension of myself, of course, so I’d have to go with Chris Pine or maybe Ryan Reynolds for the protagonist.”

“Oh, yeah, totally—they would be so cool.” She fluttered her eyelids. “What’s a protagonist?”

He scribbled his name without looking, his gaze drifting beyond the vapid figure before him as he saw the woman in the trench coat appear again along the wall to the right as she meandered past a group of men dressed as werewolves. He lost the woman in the crowd as the next fan filled his vision, the wings of her wasp outfit nearly covering the entire table. As he reached out for her book, he noticed movement to his immediate left and turned to see the bright eyes and athletic figure of the trench-coated woman. She was flanked by two men who looked like they had stepped out of the suit section of a Kohl’s ad.

“James Archer,” she said, holding up a badge. “Detective Lindsey Brant with the San Diego Police Department. Can we have a word?”

“Of course,” he said, swiveling his chair toward her with a puzzled look while waving his hand at his fans. “But these ladies are all over eighteen. I don’t know what you heard about what happened at last year’s show, but there’s nothing illegal going on here.”

Brant looked at the scantily clad brunette in her high heels and wasp costume then back at her colleagues, whose eyes had shifted to the long line of provocatively dressed women. “Mr. Archer, can you come with us? We could use a less distracting setting.”

Archer stood up and quickly signed his name in the outthrust book before him, then stood on his toes and yelled out to the eager fans that snaked down the hallway, “I’ll be back later, so come see me then.” He whispered over his shoulder at the crowd, pointing to the three detectives waiting impatiently, “Apparently, the police need my help solving a case.”

Brant’s cheek muscles tightened, and she clenched the badge in her hand. “Mr. Archer, I’d like to have that conversation now.”

“Right…right,” he said, trying to pull his eyes away from his enthusiastic crowd. He reluctantly grabbed his leather shoulder bag off the floor and waved to his disappointed fans, following behind Brant and the two men as they made their way to a small conference room at the end of the hallway.

Upon entering, she motioned for him to sit at the table in the middle, and she took up a position opposite him while the two detectives flanked her like Greek statues. Archer sat down and then abruptly stood back up, reaching across the table and offering his hand to Emerson.

“Hi, I’m James Archer, but you can call me Jim.” Then he did the same to Halsey, who thinly returned the gesture.

Archer grinned, then adjusted the sleeve of his suit. “Yeah, you’re real men, with handshakes like that. Outstanding—I always like to know who I’m dealing with.” He sat down again, leaning the chair back while looking at Brant. “So, the San Diego PD, eh? I used to play racquetball with the chief of police there, Eddie Napalme. It’s been a few years—he still running the show?”

Emerson shrugged his shoulders. “Yeah, sure—you know Chief Napalme? Not likely. Can you believe this guy? He’s a storyteller alright.”

Archer blew air through his mouth, ruffling his lips, and began to speak but was cut off by Brant.

“Mr. Archer, can you sit still and be quiet long enough for us to talk or do I need to come back after your bimbo-induced caffeine rush has worn off?”

Archer leaned forward and crossed his arms, staring at Brant and then at the stern faces of the men. “Uh, yeah, we can talk, sure. I’ve worked plenty of times as a consultant for different police departments, and I’m always happy to help. What’s this about?”

“I don’t need a consultant—just a few answers.” She opened a manila folder and removed several color photographs, sliding them towards him. “This is from a crime scene on the beach, taken this morning near Point Loma. It’s strictly confidential.”

“Geez, you guys still use print photos? Don’t you carry Smartphones?” He saw the irritated look on Brant’s face and lowered his eyes towards the photos. The first one showed the body of the mauled fisherman while the second was of the headless corpse. Archer grimaced, narrowing his eyes. “Eek, these are not what I was expecting to see tonight. I thought you were going to show me photos of some surfer brawl gone bad.” He pulled the picture up closer to his face, scanning the uniform and medals on the latter picture. “Is this guy Japanese? Oh, man, that’s cool. Those medals remind of some that I saw in a museum in Tokyo a few years ago where I was doing research for my fourth book in the Zombies vs. Godzilla series. Cool premise—about this old warlord who gets bit by an infected geisha and then summons…”

Brant loudly cleared her throat while rolling her eyes. “We believe that to be from a Japanese sailor, though autopsy results won’t be in for some time.”

He put the photos back on the table except one, sliding them back towards her. “Whew, I gotta make a copy of this dude,” he said, taking out his Smartphone and activating the camera. “This would be a big hit with my fans.”

“Confidential, remember!” She quickly grabbed the photo and his phone from his hands, slamming them down on the table. “This isn’t a graphic novel or one of your horror books, Mr. Archer. We’ve got two bodies that washed up on the beach and no answers. This is a murder investigation, and it just so happens that it resembles something out of one of your books, Their Flesh Withers.”

“You mean my first Mitch Riker book, where he finds that decapitated zombie off the coast of Belize and has to stop the demented scientist on Cannibal Island from creating an army of undead guerillas so he can stage a coup?”

The two men gave incredulous looks at Archer, not even attempting to contain their smirks. “God, you really make a livin’ writing that shit?” said Emerson.

“Well, is it really a ‘living’ if he’s making up stories about the undead?” said Halsey with a smirk.

Archer glanced at the photo again, spinning it around on the table. “Yeah, I can see where you’re coming from with that observation.” His eyes narrowed then darted back up at Brant. “Wait a minute…you’ve read that book of mine? That’s been out of print for years—only my most rabid fans even know about Their Flesh Withers and the follow-up, Masters of Evisceration.”

“My coroner is the one who tipped me off on your work, and I glanced at a copy of hers before heading over here. She suggested talking with you.” She rubbed the bridge of her nose. “Look, Mr. Archer, I’ve just spent the day in the sun slogging around the beaches, trying to turn up clues while being assaulted by every biting insect in California, so I’m getting impatient, and my precinct, unlike the good ole days, doesn’t allow us to slap around our subjects anymore, so just answer the question.”

“We’ll look the other way, boss,” said Halsey with a grin. “That pretty-boy face hasn’t ever been touched before except by creamy lotions, so you could get him to spill his beans by just raising your hand.”

Archer’s expression went flat, and he reached out for the photos, spreading them beside each other. “In my book, the zombies had been submerged underwater for decades by the nefarious scientist to see how long they would remain intact and functional despite the extreme deprivation.” He hesitated and then looked up at her. “As you might know from reading the bio of any of my three-dozen other books, I, unlike other horror authors, had two parents who were physicians, so I had a wealth of practical experience to draw upon for my writing, in addition to having access to some of the best scientific minds in the world for collecting my material. For that particular book, Their Flesh Withers, my father’s later work in cryogenetics provided me with the information around which the story was based.”

“And what did you discover—or rather your late father?” said Brant, folding her arms.

“Well, there’s a fine line between science and science fiction, and we writers like to straddle that threshold to invent alternate but potentially plausible realities. Dad found that if a recently deceased corpse was placed in a refrigerated aquatic environment that was lacking ultraviolet sunlight, had a high alkalinity, and was in the range of 38–44 degrees Fahrenheit, flesh decomposition would be greatly reduced, even over many years. He conducted his research off the coast of the Philippines using medical cadavers, but his work was sound and was critical to my understanding of the decomposition process.” He looked up at the two incredulous men. “My father was hoping to use this data in helping to preserve the bodies of terminally ill patients who were beyond immediate help. He was a scientist, and his approach took a very different direction from the pseudo-science quacks selling life extension formulas and cryo-freeze chambers.”

Archer paused and slid all the photos back towards her, noticing a long scar on the back of her left hand as she reached forward. He looked up at the two men, whose expressions had changed from stolid to inquisitive.

“The science is such that there are only a few places in the world’s oceans where those perfect conditions exist in the ideal combination, but…” he chuckled, puffing out his chest, “my readers don’t care about that. They just want a skilled, manly guy who can plow through an army of undead and save the world.”

“And some busty co-eds without a brain that need rescuing—not much different than the zombies themselves,” Brant said.

“That was just in my first book series, when I was a fledgling, albeit more hormonally driven writer,” he said, clearing his throat. “The women in my other books are tough and resourceful, as well as quite lovely.” He dragged the last word out, glancing at her tan neckline.

“Are there any places in the Pacific, say around the West Coast, where such conditions could exist?” she said.

He bit his lower lip. “I suppose. I mean, I’d have to do some digging around on my father’s old laptop to find out for sure.”

“How long would that take you?” She rolled her eyes, glancing back at the door to the hallway. “I mean, I know you’re incredibly busy here, shaping young minds.”

“I can get right on it after the conference ends on Sunday night.” He leaned forward, interlacing his fingers. “And then I can drop by the precinct and hand-deliver the information to you personally, Detective.”

She pulled her head back. “Emailing is a much better way for us to continue communicating about this.”

“If that’s what makes you happy.”

“Happy? I’m a detective dealing with killers and psychopaths—what’ll make me happy is reducing my intake of TUMS by having the data I need to complete my job.” Brant stood upright, tucking the evidence back into the manila folder. “I’ve got all I need for now, Mr. Archer. Please get me whatever you can find regarding my question about the Pacific.”

“It’s Jim, and it’s been my pleasure,” he said, standing to offer his hand while a boyish grin came over him. “I appreciate all you do to keep our streets safe, and I’m thrilled to help in any way I can.”

Brant gave him a stern look, unsure of whether he was being serious or sarcastic. “Will you be here all weekend signing books?” she said, reaching for the door handle.

“Signings were only going on today. Tomorrow afternoon, I’m giving lectures on the top-ten tips for killing the undead, and then I’m doing a seminar for newbie horror writers.” He waved his outstretched hand towards her. “You should come.”

“I’m not a fan. I only know about your books from my coroner, who reads all that crap.”

“And what about that headless body? Do you think that the real zombie apocalypse is on our doorstep?” he said with a slight grin. “Or was that some kind of bizarre murder victim?”

“If the world’s coming to an end, I’m sure you’ll read all about it on Facebook from your legions of fans. In the meantime, keep this conversation between us. If I find out you are spreading any of this around to garner book sales or impress your hovering pixies, your world will be facing an apocalypse.”

Archer scrunched his eyebrows together, impressed with her directness. “Yes, ma’am,” he said, saluting her as he passed through the exit, briefly pausing to inhale the air while noticing a scent of peach from her honey-tinted hair.

****

As they walked down the red-carpeted hallway to the lobby, Emerson sidled up alongside Brant. “Hadden is more disturbed than I thought if she reads zombie books during her time away from the morgue.”

“She’s different alright,” muttered Brant.

“So, let me get this straight: you and Hadden got all that cryo-genetical stuff back there from Archer’s books?” said Halsey.

“Hadden’s the horror buff who’s got signed copies of all of his books. I just recalled how Archer’s father was connected to the hospital board of trustees and the ripple his death sent though the medical community here. I looked up his obituary earlier. Archer’s father was the head researcher who worked on the ill-fated Lazarus Endeavor for the military a few years ago. His death was all over the news, but you monkeys only watch football, so you probably missed it.”

“So, you’ve never seen his books until today?” said Halsey.

Brant forcefully shoved open the lobby door. “As I said earlier, I’m not a fan. Just the two pages I read had me feeling nauseated from his shallow writing style.” She rolled her eyes. “He used these ridiculous expressions like, ‘she had indigo-denim eyes’ or ‘he strode down the hall like a chiseled Norse God’ and nonsense like that.” She rolled out the words in a dour voice, finally stopping on the sidewalk outside the hotel after noticing that the two men looked intrigued.

She put her hands on her hips and let out a long exhale. “Alright, enough chatting about the horrors involving horror writers. I want both of you to canvas the homes and stores closest to the beach where we found the bodies and see if you can turn up anything further. Maybe residents heard something last night with regards to our first vic. Then I want you to see if there’s anything like this showing up along the coast from here to San Francisco and even down into Baja.” She turned to walk away, catching a glimpse of a life-size cardboard photo of Archer in the hotel window with the title: ‘Book Signing Tonight with Renowned Master of Zombie Disaster, James Archer.’ She squinted and ground her teeth. What a clown. A half-hour of my life gone forever.

Brant looked at Emerson and Halsey, widening her eyes as she thrust her chin out towards the street. “Well, get going. I’m heading back to the precinct. Hopefully, by tomorrow, Hadden will have some autopsy results that can enlighten us about that Japanese sailor—which is another mystery that I’m not even sure how to unravel.”

As she walked down the street, Brant stared up at the drab gray sky, reflecting on how the weather matched her mood. Is there a connection between the two bodies on the beach? They were in such close proximity to each other and both had wood splinters lodged in their bodies. But how could that sailor be so old?

She had built her reputation on solving challenging homicides, but this one left her unsettled. As she got in her car and drove away, she felt better having her hands on something she could control. She wondered how she could get that feeling to persist.

Chapter 3

“You sure about this, Ziggy?” shouted Celeste as the two tan figures walked down the steep trail along Sunset Cliffs with their competition surf boards. “It’s going to be dark soon.”

“This is the best time to be down here, not only ‘cause of the waves but because the local enforcers aren’t down at the beach, throwing their weight around,” said Ziggy, who stopped to look back up the trail to see if anyone was following them. Sunset Cliffs locals had a reputation for being fiercely territorial. They saw this region along the coast as their own and weren’t timid about physically assaulting outsiders to encourage them to surf elsewhere.

“We could just drive further down and go to Garbage Beach instead—I like that area, despite the name. Some good sets there and we might even run into our friends.”

Ziggy reached the bottom of the trail, planting his board in the sand and scanning the beach in either direction. As he’d hoped, the place had cleared out. For a moment, he felt like they were standing on a remote beach in Australia.

“Paradise found,” he said, pulling Celeste in close by her waist as she giggled and let her board fall to the sand. “Especially with you here, babe.” Since moving to San Diego from Monterey two months ago, they had become acquainted with most of the surfing hot spots but had shied away from this area because of its reputation for turf wars among the competition surfers. Ziggy’s co-worker at the Volkswagen garage had assured him that the best time to venture to Sunset was an hour before dusk because everyone had already done the grueling hike out to head home for dinner. Celeste had closed her herbal tincture shop early to make dinner and meet Ziggy, but now their vehicles seemed miles away.

He kissed her then returned his gaze to the tide. “Looks like a good southwest swell is on tap, like I promised.”

Celeste looked back up the trail then out to the ocean. “Let’s just get in a couple of runs and go—I don’t like being down here all alone.”

Ziggy grabbed his board, walking ahead. “Relax, babe. None of the local thugs are gonna make the hike down here at this hour just to bitch at us. That’s more likely to happen back in the parking lot when we return.” He stopped to flex his bicep while balling his fist. “And if that goes down, I’ll have to break someone’s beak.”

“Yeah, now I feel better with that violent image in my head.” She reluctantly kicked off her flip-flops by the trailhead, then she grabbed her green-and-white board, following behind him.

Twenty yards from the sea, Ziggy stopped and stared to his right. “Shit, maybe we won’t be so lucky after all.” He squinted, raising his hand up to deflect the sun as he stared at an approaching figure.

“Looks like he’s drunk by the way he’s moving,” said Celeste.

“More like stoned.”

She narrowed her eyes, partially blinded by the sunlight. “Aw, shit, he’s wearing a uniform. I told you we shouldn’t have come here. We can’t swing getting a hefty fine.”

Ziggy handed off his board. “Just stay here and I’ll talk to him.”

She lowered their boards to the sand and walked towards the shoreline, feeling the cool water flit between her toes. Celeste gazed down the beach at Ziggy but had to avert her eyes from the blinding sun, which was approaching the horizon on the curved section of the beach where she was standing. She knelt down and sifted her hands through the sand, pulling out a few green pebbles and flinging them into the water. The waves drowned out any sounds around her as she reached forward for another handful of stones. As she picked up another clump, her eyes focused on a triangular-shaped piece of foam. She poked the tan object, noticing the decaying black edges before picking it up, causing gummy strands of red skin to fall away.

“Ew.”

She turned it around, and her eyes widened as she made out the shape of a human nose. Celeste shrieked and flung it into the ocean as she darted back a few feet. Hopping to her feet, she heard Ziggy screaming and turned to see him punching the other guy.

“Shit, we need to get out of here.” She began running into the sun, towards the two silhouettes whose forms she could barely make out, then tripped over the surfboards. Sitting up, she shook her head and coughed then heard a crunching sound at her feet as someone grabbed her ankle. Celeste looked up and saw a shambling creature with a bony protrusion where the nose should be. Its eyes were detached from their sockets and wobbled like loose marbles as a thin spool of blood dripped from its purple lips. Celeste screamed, crabbing on all fours away from the enraged beast, but she was unable to break the grip on her ankle. It pawed at her leg then dove onto her, gnawing at her face as she shrieked in agony. Celeste turned on her side, crawling towards Ziggy, but saw him lying on his back. A spray of bright red blood spouted up from his femoral as the creature tore into his flesh. She felt a searing sensation on her neck, like her skeleton was being ripped from her body, then saw the hideous creature on top of her, chomping down on a section of her windpipe as she gurgled out her last breath.

Chapter 4

The next morning, Brant was at the downtown precinct around sunrise. She usually came in early to pore over her notes from the previous day and stare at the images and flow-charts of evidence tacked on the wall behind her desk. She was the only female detective in her precinct, and despite several rivals claiming her fortune was due to the mayor’s need for minority hires, she had worked her way up the ranks through gut-wrenching work on the streets as a uniformed police officer before making a name for herself as a detective.

The rest of the second-floor building consisted of open space with numerous desks, filing cabinets, and computer monitors for the other detectives, who usually came in at 8 am. The chief of police, Edward Napalme III, had his office at the rear, at the opposite end from the elevator. She could hear Napalme inside, talking on the phone, his words interspersed with laughter. After a few minutes of constantly being interrupted by the chief’s cackling, she wandered over to his office. Brant was about to lean in and ask permission to close his door when he sat up in his leather chair and motioned her to come in.

“Yeah, she just arrived.” He pointed to a chair on the other end of his desk and continued talking. “Oh, she’s got a steely exterior, but don’t let that scare you off. She’s my best detective.”

Brant sat down, wondering why she was being complimented. She looked at Napalme, noticing his bear-like hands holding the phone, making it look like a child’s toy. His broad face was slightly red from laughter and from having an Irishman’s complexion that never held up well in the California sun.

“Agreed—it has been too long, my old friend, and I think you’ll be impressed with our 21st century tech advancements here, not to mention what you can learn from shadowing Brant.” The chief winked at her and nodded. “Alright, Jimmy, you take care, and we’ll see you down here later.”

Brant sat up rigid in the chair, crossing her arms and tapping her fingers.

“That was my old pal, Jim Archer. I guess he already spoke with Hadden about her interest in his books. He also commented that he really enjoyed connecting with you yesterday during your exchange—said you were as professional as they come.”

“Connecting, sir? More like flirting on his part. The guy’s a dilettante, not to mention a cradle-robber, by the looks of the women he spends time with.”

“Well, Hadden thinks he might be of use on this one, given his unique background in horror writing and his parents’ medical research.”

“You mean his pseudo-medical background. Archer writes about vampires and zombies. I don’t need a bored playboy with writer’s block following me around the city.”

“Relax. He’s an old friend of mine, and he’s contributed a lot of donations to the police officers’ retirement fund over the years.”

“Actual money or just signed photographs of himself?”

Napalme chuckled. “I wouldn’t have accepted his offer to help if I thought he was going to be a hindrance. Jim’s a brilliant guy who thinks outside the box. He may be an asset on this one, especially given the nature of the crime scene you described.”

Brant glanced out through the doorway and then back at the chief. “I’m not even sure he can fit inside that elevator and get up here with his big head.”

“That’s enough. You had, what, ten minutes with the man. He’s sharp; just give him a chance. He’ll shadow you and see if he can contribute anything.”

“But sir…” Brant was cut off by the outstretched hand of the chief as he interrupted.

“Why don’t you head downstairs and see what Hadden has turned up with the autopsies. I want answers on this one—and fast. I don’t need the media finding out about mutilated corpses washing up on the beach.”

Brant felt like the temperature around her was searing as she rolled her tongue around the inside of her cheek. “Yes, sir,” she said in a low voice, then she shot straight up from her seat and stomped down the hallway to the elevator. She slapped the button and stood still, resuming her arms-folded position while a vein throbbed in her neck. That fucking stooge, pulling his used-car salesman routine on my coroner to worm his way into this investigation. Maybe I could lock him in one of the cadaver rooms for a few hours so he gets a taste of real horror. Wonder if he’s ever even seen an actual dead body up close before or had to sift through the carnage of a bloody crime scene. She let out a labored exhale. The more I am around people, the more I like my cat.

As the elevator doors opened, she passed between Emerson and Halsey.

“Is it quitting time already?” said Halsey, watching her swoosh past him.

“Where are you headed in such a hurry—another crime scene?” said Emerson.

“There might be one after my new helper arrives.” She clawed out air quotes at the latter words.

“Huh?” said Halsey, tilting his head as the doors closed.

“Down to the morgue. I’ll be back up in thirty minutes to go over our checklist for today.”

She descended five levels to the basement. The hallway ahead led to a set of steel double-doors, behind which the three city coroners worked their scientific analysis on the remains of the lifeless victims. Emily Hadden had been assigned to Brant’s team since the young coroner began working for the precinct four years ago, and the two women had developed a working friendship despite Brant’s guarded personality.

Brant opened the swinging doors of the lab and strode over to the metal tables, where the mauled body of the first victim from the beach was laid out. Hadden had come in at 5 am to resume the autopsy and had just finished. She removed her face mask and peeled off her soiled nitrile gloves, tossing them in a metal pan by the side of the table.

“Where’s my latte, girlfriend? You always bring me my early-morning foo-foo drinks,” said Hadden.

“Is it still morning? I was hoping this day was nearly over already.” She folded her arms and stared directly at Hadden. “Besides, you can have your new BFF James Archer bring you one.”

Hadden frowned, waving her hand up. “Wait a minute—he contacted me first. He said you had spoken with him yesterday and that he’d be happy to continue consulting on the case because of the parallels with his father’s research.” Hadden rushed around the table, squeezing Brant’s forearm while emitting a gleeful smile. “And did you know that he’s going to get me an autographed set of his new series?”

Brant rolled her eyes. “That’s all it took to bribe you, isn’t it? You’re pathetic.”

Hadden circled around Brant, smiling as she came back around to face her. “So, is he as cute in person as he is in the magazine photos?”

“If you mean cute in a playground, immature kind of way, then yes, but he’s more like a man-child who wears expensive hair gel.”

“Oh, Lindsey, you met the guy for a few minutes and already found a flaw to shove him into the undesirable category, like every other dude you see on the street. Girl, you gotta go easier on men—especially handsome, wealthy men like him.”

“You’re forgetting other adjectives like pompous and narcissistic. I’m surprised he didn’t have us all wear mirrors around our necks during my questioning.” Brant leaned over the corpse and examined the neck region again. “On to more pertinent matters—what did you find out about the splinters in the first vic’s hands?”

Hadden sighed and retraced her steps back to the other side of the examination table. “Well, they match up with the fragments found in the neck region of the headless sailor, and all the splinters originated from the wooden oar on the beach. I’d say this gentleman here used the oar as a blunt-force object against the sailor after he got bit.” Hadden looked up at Brant. “I am certain that these two were engaged in a struggle that resulted in the sailor being decapitated after he inflicted a mortal wound upon the other vic. The sailor’s DNA shows up in the bite marks around our vic’s neck, and it tests positive for the DNA haplogroup associated with Japanese males, which is the same haplogroup as the first vic.”

Brant clenched her jaw, staring at the body of the first victim. “A struggle.” Her eyes widened. “I initially suspected, with their close proximity on the beach, that they were both murder victims, but I never would have guessed that one had killed the other.” She thought back to the grisly corpse of the desiccated sailor. “The body of the navy guy looks like it’s been rotting in the water for who knows how long—how’s that possible?”

“I know, right? I’m as stumped on that one as you are right now. I can tell you that the vic is a twenty-eight-year-old male, so no mysteries surrounding his age. Emerson told me that his ID was a well-done fake and was connected with someone who died in the seventies, so I don’t have much to go on to obtain his real identity.”

“What about our headless samurai?”

She motioned Brant to follow her into the next room, which contained a row of vault-like doors on the left, each one with a clipboard beside it. She opened the middle door, third row down, and slid out the stainless-steel platform, revealing the refrigerated body of the sailor. The clothing of the corpse had been removed, and only the disfigured body remained, resembling a skeleton with shrink-wrapped skin. The parchment-like epidermis was mottled black and gray and looked more like a slab of decaying beef than something belonging to a person. Brant raised the neckline of her button-up white shirt over her nose and peered at the gaunt figure.

Hadden grabbed the pencil off a nearby clipboard and began prodding at the neck region of the corpse. “You see this flesh right here—it’s like jelly, nearly devoid of any real cell structure to hold the upper layers of skin together like a normal, healthy individual. I usually only see this with corpses that are exhumed in third-world countries, where they don’t use any embalming fluid to preserve the body.”

She moved the pencil down to the torso and poked at a small barnacle clinging to the left pectoral. “And this little guy here—he’s been attached for a few years. This type of barnacle, according to a researcher at Scripps Oceanographic Institute that I contacted, grows phenomenally slowly, like an average of an eighth of an inch every ten years, which would put this particular one at around seventy years of age.”

Brant looked up at her with wide eyes and then back at the barnacles spread around the torso. “So, he’s been sitting at the bottom of the ocean since the 1940s—yeah, right.”

“You did see the date on his service medal—1942.”

“Those barnacles could have migrated over to his body after he was flung in the ocean, probably by some Japanese mobsters out of L.A. The Yakuza have dumped their snitches in these waters before.”

Hadden tilted her head to the side. “Possibly, but why dress this one up in an old navy uniform?”

Brant shrugged her shoulders. “Maybe sending a message to one of the other Yakuza gangs? Hell, I don’t know what to make of this.”

Hadden placed the pencil on the metal table, next to the corpse, and shoved the body back into the chamber, closing the door. “One thing I can say with certainty is that whoever this guy is, he’s been sitting on the bottom of the ocean, semi-preserved, for decades until this past week.”

“You’re kidding, right? Aren’t you supposed to be the scientist here—sticking to the facts? Those barnacles aren’t sure proof of anything other than that they are seventy years old.”

“I’m only relaying what the oceanography guy told me.” She motioned with her thumb over her shoulder. “But that corpse there is from a Japanese male in his mid-twenties who was submerged in the water for decades. The other vic, on the other hand, died from bite wounds received yesterday from that sailor.”

Brant put her hands on her hips, narrowing her eyes. “I’ve heard you, Emily, but none of this fucking adds up.” She flung her arms in the air. “Am I missing something here?”

“I agree—this whole thing is a riddle, but we’ve only just started on this case—and you never know where the rabbit hole will lead.” Hadden scrunched her nose, trying to fend off a sneeze. “Remember that murder case last fall, with that body we pulled from the beach near Chula Vista? He was in a dive suit and had all those lacerations on his back that we thought were stingray marks but turned out to be from the leather whip of that dominatrix in La Jolla who granted her clients their wish of dying at her hands. That case threw us all.”

“Thanks for reminding me of that.” Brant paced back and forth. “Maybe this is connected with the recent tropical storm in the Pacific. Could be a Japanese vessel capsized and drifted over here. Remember there were some boats, and even a huge dock, that floated across the ocean from Japan and washed up in Oregon a few years ago after that nuclear reactor disaster from the tsunami.”

Hadden poked Brant on the shoulder. “Except whatever happened to this guy occurred seventy years ago, Lindsey.”

“Yes, I heard you the first time.” Brant darted her eyes along the metallic ceiling panels then looked back at Hadden. “What about his clothing and those medals?”

“I’ll have the results back on those in a few hours and can tell you more. One thing you might want to do is check with the Maritime Museum and talk with the curator there. He’s a real World War II buff. I’ve consulted with him before, and he’s quite a treasure trove of information.”

“That’s on Seventh and El Dorado, as I recall.” Brant looked at the clock on the wall, feeling as if she had slipped back into another century from all the talk about World War II. “Call me as soon as you get the results on the sailor’s garments, especially why they were so well-preserved.”

“You got it, Lindsey, and don’t forget, you owe me a latte next time you come down here.”

As she headed down the silent hallway towards the elevator, Brant felt a chill rush over her. She let out a deep exhale, wishing for once that Hadden was off track with her findings on the age of the sailor and wondering just where this mystery would lead.

Chapter 5

Thirty minutes later, Brant pulled into the small parking lot of the Chaney Maritime Museum. The building was adorned with a giant sculpted octopus that spanned the roof, its cream-colored tentacles hanging over the edge like caramel runoff. Wedged between the sidewalk and the chipped walls of the building were numerous wooden watercraft adorned with plaques explaining their history.

Brant entered the lobby and walked up to the front desk. She cleared her throat to alert the elderly woman behind the counter, whose back was turned as she restocked a shelf with children’s books.

“Yes, dear, can I help you? Are you with a school group?”

“No, I’m Detective Lindsey Brant. I was wondering if I could speak with the staff historian. I have a few questions on World War II apparel.”

“Oh my, I wonder what all the interest is about? Why, there must be a new movie coming out or something, because that man over there also has some questions and has been talking with Mr. Hoover for some time.”

Brant turned to the distant corner of the large room to see Archer chatting with the historian. She felt a vein bulge in her forehead as she thanked the woman and immediately beelined over to the two men, the soles of her footwear squeaking on the tiled floor from her hasty stride.

As she approached, she saw Archer turn and do a double-take away from a display case of mannequins outfitted in various vintage military uniforms.

“Detective Brant, this is a pleasant surprise. Are you following me?”

“What are you doing here, Archer? Don’t you have some woman’s chest to sign back at the convention?”

Archer shook his head. “Uhm, not until the next book signing actually—and I don’t do bare-skin autographs anymore; the ink in markers can be toxic for some people.”

She bit her lip, shaking her head. “Not because it’s inappropriate or out-of-line though.”

The older man in wire-rimmed glasses leaned forward. “Hello. I can be with you in a few minutes after I finish with this gentleman, although you two appear to be friends, am I right?”

“Not friends at all, no, no.” She extended her hand, introducing herself and pulling out her badge. “I’m sure there’s going to be some overlap on the information you’re providing to Mr. Archer here, and he has a vague connection to my investigation, so please continue,” she said, giving Archer an arctic glare.

Archer quickly looked away from her, stroking his fingers along the exhibit showcase next to him. “Mr. Hoover has been kind enough to delve into great detail on the presence of the Japanese off the California coast during World War II. Did you know that there was an enemy submarine that launched missiles inland near San Francisco and even up near Portland in 1942?”

Brant looked at him, tapping her left shoe on the floor while her face remained taut. Hoover moved closer to the two of them and began the rehearsed but passionate speech that he had given to countless groups before.

“It was actually a small contingent of Japanese submarines. On February 23, 1942, the submarine I-17 moved into a channel near Ellwood Oil Field, an oil storage facility outside of Santa Barbara. It then surfaced and launched sixteen shells at Ellwood before submerging and retreating to the open ocean.”

“And what came of the submarine after that?” Brant said.

“No one knows for certain,” Hoover replied. “It was rumored that it made its way back to the Japanese fleet in the western Pacific or…”

He was cut off by Archer, who leaned in closer to Brant. “Or it may have sunk off the coast here along with another one further north, plummeting into a bottomless trench where it’s remained to this day, perfectly preserved, like the Titanic.”

“Well, that’s not exactly the theory,” said Hoover. “It’s more likely it was torpedoed by one of our own submarines or it simply regrouped with the main fleet west of Hawaii and disappeared into the annals of history after the war ended.”

“Either way, it makes for remarkable material for my research.”

“Mr. Hoover, I was wondering if you could help in identifying some accouterments associated with Japanese sailors from World War II?” She gave Archer a stern look then moved closer to the curator. “There were some vintage war medals and items recently discovered that are connected with a potential murder case, and I’m hoping to get some answers on their origins.”

“Why, of course, by all means, dear,” he said in a grandfatherly voice.

She removed her iPhone and pulled up the tightly cropped images of the service medals and patches without revealing the corpse.

Hoover pulled the phone closer, his eyes narrowing. He expanded the screen with each of the half-dozen photos he scrutinized while mumbling, “One of the medals is for gallant service during the Pacific Campaign that ensued during the year following Pearl Harbor. Whoever this belonged to served on a submarine, most likely near the Solomon Islands by the looks of the backdrop of etched palm trees, which was associated with the region.”

“Wouldn’t all of the medals associated with the Japanese Navy back then be connected with the Pacific? Wasn’t that the only front they were fighting on?” said Archer.

Hoover pointed to a weathered map of the globe that was on the wall next to a display of vintage army rifles. “The majority of their military was stationed on those fronts, correct, but the Japanese amassed a huge network of ships and supply lines that ran from western Alaska to the Solomons, then over to New Guinea as they tried to expand their empire.”

“So, where would those medals you just looked at fit into that picture?” said Brant.

Hoover glanced down at the phone again. “Mmm—well, for starters, these belonged to an officer. The regular enlisted members didn’t receive these. Secondly, one of the medals is associated with a small battle that happened in the winter of 1942 just before the Japanese suffered a devastating defeat at the battle of Midway when we destroyed four of their carriers. That battle was the real turning point in the war for us, as we were able to drive back the Imperial Navy and take the offensive for the first time. After the Japanese suffered such a heavy loss of forces, there was this push by the emperor to disperse the remaining submarines throughout the Pacific to hunt down our carriers. However, there’s also evidence, as noted by the attack on Ellwood and two more up in Oregon, that some of the subs were dispatched towards the West Coast here. It’s likely that those medals belonged to an officer on board one of those very subs.”

“That’s really interesting, wouldn’t you say, Detective?” said Archer as he winked at her.

She shifted her weight back, slightly crunching his toes with the heel of her shoe. He winced, stepping off to the side.

“This has been quite a history lesson, sir,” said Brant. “Amazing how little of that was covered in school when I was a kid.”

Hoover handed her back the phone. “People today don’t realize how close we came to losing the war before it even began, not just because of what happened at Pearl Harbor but because of the Japanese military’s plan to attack our remaining naval assets spread around the Pacific, along with the sweeping assaults that occurred on U.S. territories in Guam and the Philippines. Had they been successful in the months that immediately followed Pearl Harbor, our surrender would have been imminent.”

She looked at the showcase to the right, which was filled with Japanese military regalia and black-and-white photos of carnage on South Pacific beaches, relieved that these images were the only physical signs remaining of the threat of that war. “I sure appreciate your time in answering my questions, Mr. Hoover,” said Brant.

They all turned when they heard the raucous sounds of thirty middle-school kids pouring in through the lobby.

“I can’t thank you enough for sharing your voluminous knowledge of the period, sir,” Archer said, pumping the man’s hand.

“It’s been a pleasure meeting you as well, Mr. Archer. I’m sure looking forward to hearing more about your book when it comes out,” Hoover said, glancing over towards the entrance. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a class of eighth-graders that I have to distract from their own self-importance.”

He nodded at Brant as he walked by, leaving the two of them standing before a glass showcase full of Japanese military artifacts.

“Can you believe that story—a real Japanese sub here on our shores, pounding the coastline,” Archer said, his eyes wide. “I mean, I grew up here and I didn’t even know that.”

“Did you say anything to him about this investigation?”

“Now, Lindsey…” He stopped in mid-sentence when he saw her face flare up. “Detective Brant, I am a professional and can keep my sources and material confidential. I merely told him that I was doing research on World War II Japanese costumes for a potential horror story.”

“You mean uniforms—people in the military wear uniforms, not costumes, Archer.”

Archer moved up to the showcase, pointing to a mannequin clad in white. “Look—that resembles the same uniform from those grisly crime photos you showed me last night.”

She inched forward, studying the display. “Even down to the medals on the left breast pocket,” she said in a whisper.

“So, what happens now? Do we head back to the precinct and assemble before the round table with the rest of the knights?”

She looked at him with wonder. “Pff…you can go back to your little convention with the other lobotomized misfits while I continue putting the pieces together.”

He inserted himself between the showcase and Brant, causing her to step back slightly.

“That wasn’t the deal. Ms. Hadden, your coroner, along with your chief, said my presence would be welcome and that I could start on your team today.”

“You’re not on my team, OK? You’re a consultant, and I haven’t decided in what capacity to use you yet. Besides, aren’t you supposed to be giving lectures at the convention today?”

“That’s later on this afternoon and evening. I never schedule any work before noon.”

She narrowed her eyes and sighed. “You shouldn’t push yourself so hard.” Her phone rang, and she moved off to the left, next to a cutaway model of a U.S. aircraft carrier. The caller ID was from Emerson.

“Go ahead, what do you have?”

“You need to get down to Silver Strand Beach. There was just a 911 call about a few…uhm…people that emerged from the surf.” He paused, slowing his flurry of words. “And get this, the caller indicated they looked like rotting corpses in white navy uniforms.”

Chapter 6

Brant wove her way past the tangle of elementary school children near the lobby and bolted out the front entrance. As she opened the door of her blue Crown Victoria and got inside, the passenger’s side opened as Archer slid in.

“What the hell are you doing, Archer?”

“Can I catch a ride with you to…wherever it is you’re headed?”

“No, drive your own car.”

“I don’t own a car. I mostly rely on my chauffeur. I walked here from the convention center; it’s only a few blocks.”

“Fine,” she muttered. “Get in, but keep your piehole shut.” He inserted himself into the leather seat and buckled in. She gave him a cursory glance then backed out. “No, car, eh? I figured you for the kinda guy who would have a fleet of Aston Martins.”

“A Jimmy Bond car, I like your thinking.” He put on his sunglasses and hummed the Hawaii Five-O theme song until she glared at him.

“When you’re irritated, you do this adorable thing where you scrunch your nose up. You did it last night too, during our talk.”

She sped onto the street with her internal red lights flashing and siren blaring as she glanced at her nose in the rearview mirror. “Why did you worm your way into this investigation, Archer? It’s not for the sake of the victim—you barely even noticed him in the photos. Why are you here? Do you have writer’s block and need a mental enema?”

“You have some really coarse expressions. Do you go on a lot of dates?”

She was silent and made a sharp right turn, causing him to careen into the door.

“I’m doing this because I’m a writer and intrigued by the photos you showed me of the sailor. There was something about the whole thing that…” He paused, staring ahead. “Never mind, it’s only going to give you more fodder for thinking my head is too deep into my fiction.”

“What is it, for crying out loud?” She took another turn and then accelerated down the two-lane street that led to the beach area ahead.

“There was something odd about the sailor that reminded me about a research project my father discussed once. I always filed it away as another one of his cool stories, but maybe he wasn’t just spinning a yarn to an enraptured little boy. Maybe he was…” Archer’s lips froze as the car came to an abrupt halt in the parking lot near the Silver Strand Beach. Several terrified kids were scrambling onto their bikes. Thirty yards ahead they saw five disheveled figures shambling along the shoreline, their tattered white uniforms straight out of the showcase at the museum.

Chapter 7

Emerson and Halsey had just arrived in their vehicle and pulled up alongside them in addition to a black-and-white patrol car with two officers. All of them rushed to the concrete embankment before the beach and peered out at the five figures staggering towards them. The sailors’ faces resembled burnt walnuts, and much of the skin on their arms was missing, with only their ropy red-and-gray musculature showing. Their tattered clothing resembled that of the Japanese sailor from the original crime scene, and each of them shuffled along with great difficulty in the wet sand. The seagulls kept dive-bombing the sailors, picking at their slimy flesh, causing the creatures to flail their arms in the air.

As everyone withdrew their pistols, Brant yelled at Archer to remain in the parking lot, then she led the way onto the beach, towards the nearest creature, which was forty feet away. Its milky eyes were fixated on her, and a faint moan issued from its bulbous purple lips.

What the hell is that thing? she thought to herself while leveling her Glock 23 at the creature’s head. Brant felt frozen in time, as if she had walked onto a movie set. Her pistol hand stood firm, but her vision on the sights wavered. She had to be sure this wasn’t some kind of hoax or prank connected with the imbeciles attending Horror-Con. She stepped off on an angle, drawing the creature away from the parking lot entrance while keeping an eye on the other sailors slowly moving up from the shoreline. God, is that thing real or not? What if we drop these “guys” and then find out they’re some college kids screwing around? But wouldn’t they have already broken character, seeing us rushing up like this?

As the nearest creature staggered towards her, a sleeve of skin sloughed off the forearm, erasing any doubts in her mind. She fought back the churning sensation of acid in her stomach and clenched her pistol as the other officers flanked her with their Glocks outstretched. The wind shifted, sending the putrescent stench from the sailor towards Brant again. Her eyes burned, and she momentarily felt a wave of nausea as the odor of salty, rotting flesh whirled through the air. The creature was now at twenty-five feet, and it began pawing at the air and snorting at her as the seagulls continued their airborne assault. As the sailor furiously snapped its jaws, several of its front teeth dislodged like cedar shingles and fell into the sand.

The other creatures were pushing towards them, forming a single line as they trudged across the sand, crashing through a sun umbrella that had been poised in the sand like an inverted dart.

“What do you want us to do?” yelled one of the patrolmen.

Brant looked again at the oncoming creature, who was now at her safety zone of twenty-one feet, her proverbial line in the sand. She gulped as she put her finger on the trigger. “Drop them. Drop them all.”

Their shots rang out along the empty beach, driving the flock of panicked birds towards the sea. Brant shot the first sailor in the head, most of its skull fragmenting like a coconut struck by a hammer. The other men around her had fanned out and were shooting at the remaining creatures. Emerson plugged a frail beast twice in the chest, which only caused its body to shudder momentarily. His third round struck it in the head, and it fell back onto a green folding chair. Halsey grazed one of the creatures in the temple, shearing off part of its skull, but it kept moving towards him, gnashing the air as rivulets of soupy brains trickled over its eyes. His second shot was in the forehead, which dropped the rotting figure instantly. The officers finished off the last two sailors, whose heads erupted in a pink mist that coated the walls of a nearby sandcastle.

Brant made sure the others around her were out of danger and then moved up to the inanimate creature splayed on the ground before her. It had the same uniform, flag symbol, and insignia of the original sailor. She traced her eyes along the beach, glancing at the other fallen creatures and then out to the Pacific. What is going on? Where did these things come from? She stepped to the side to get away from the downwind breeze floating over the corpse, her mind swirling.

Her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of a child yelling, and then she remembered that Archer was still by the vehicles. She turned and looked over her right shoulder at the parking lot and saw Archer arguing with a kid on a bike who was filming with his upheld Smartphone.

Brant holstered her pistol and retraced her steps. She was sure she was scrunching her nose, and not because of the odor in the air.

“Gimmee the damn phone,” said Archer. “This is a police crime scene—you can’t film this,” he was saying while gesticulating with his hands.

“You ain’t the police, so leave me alone,” said the scrawny teen in a Padres baseball cap.

Archer was hovering around the adolescent, who kept shifting his phone from hand to hand as Archer tried to reach for it. When Brant got to the parking lot, she saw other people from the nearby hotel rushing up on foot, their mouths ajar and heads bobbing at the carnage on the beach.

Archer had just nabbed the phone from the kid as Brant arrived. “Hey, man, you can’t do that. Give it back. Who the hell are you anyway?” said the furious boy who kept circling Archer.

Archer was about to tuck the phone in his pocket but instead handed it to Brant. He glanced back at the insolent youth. “I’m a horror writer, actually. I write about…well…I write about zombies,” he said, glancing at the beach as his face went pale.

“Zombies are pussies, you salty old fuck. Werewolves rock, and one of them could take out a hundred zombies. I hope one comes down here now and tears you a new one.”

Archer held his hands up. “Whoa, easy there, killer.”

The dozen people from the street were flooding into the parking lot, followed by a Channel 12 News van maneuvering between the meandering gawkers.

Brant shoved the phone in her back pocket and moved up to the incoming crowd, holding her badge in the air. “This is a police matter. Do not proceed beyond this point,” she said, keeping the crowd back behind the squad car and her Crown Vic. Emerson ran up alongside her, opening the door of his vehicle. He grabbed the radio and called for back-up and the CSI team before joining Brant in keeping the growing throng of spectators from advancing to the beach.

Archer moved up alongside Brant. “What can I do to help?”

Before she could respond, Brant grimaced as she saw news anchor Katie Cowan striding through the parking lot with her film crew. The woman was dressed in her usual black skirt and matching heels along with a button-up indigo blouse that fluttered in the breeze. Her fire-engine-red lipstick was bright enough to be used for signaling passing planes, and her slicked-back blonde hair was constrained in a tight pony tail that made her cheeks looks like the surface of a rawhide drum.

“Right now, I’ve got to deal with this fashion maven.”

“Katie Cowan, oh, I can take care of her,” he said, moving past Brant towards the incoming blonde.

“Jimmy Archer, what are you doing here?” Katie said with her eyes aglow. “Why didn’t you return my call from a few weeks ago?”

Archer looked back at Brant with an uncomfortable smile, noticing the detective roll her eyes. “Well, Katie, Horror-Con has kept me tied up.”

“Yeah, I’ve heard. I caught a news clip last night about a potential film being made out of your last book. You’re always staying busy.”

He shrugged and let a boyish smile creep out.

She swiveled her head around the parking lot. “Speaking of news, what’s going on here? We heard on the scanner that there was a group of beachgoers being assaulted by some disheveled surfers.”

“Is there any other kind of surfer?” he said, winking at her.

Cowan’s chuckle turned to a scowl as she looked towards the police cars. “Is that Detective Lindsey Brant? What a surprise that that hard-ass is here.” Cowan’s eyes became slit-like. “San Diego’s top cop—the woman has no life; that’s how she got here so fast.” She lowered her voice as Brant approached, coming alongside Archer while motioning her detectives and the officers to continue funneling the crowd back to the street.

Brant had her right fist clenched. “I was just heading this way to field any questions from the media, but I don’t see any actual journalists on site yet.” Brant stood glaring at Cowan, and Archer was certain he felt the air temperature around them suddenly rise.

“Oh, so you two know each other,” he said, stepping aside nervously like a soldier scanning a minefield.

“Unfortunately, I have to deal with tabloid news types like Cowan on an all-too-regular basis,” said Brant.

“Always so smug and in control, Brant—some things never change.”

“Did your producer let you off the leash for a while so you aren’t tied up interviewing circus clowns and little-league coaches?”

“I’m assistant producer now, and I’m seriously thinking about doing a story on burnt-out, divorced cops who can’t seem to ever get a promotion.”

Brant stepped forward but was stopped by Archer, who inserted himself between the two women. He felt like he needed a poncho to shield himself from the venom flying through the air.

“So, Katie, detective Brant was good enough to act as liaison between my new film crew and the city; we’re scouting for locations to shoot one of my zombie movies.” He pointed to the splayed creatures on the beach. “And we were just filming a brief segment here to see if this would be a suitable spot. I guess someone call 911 thinking there was some kind of undead invasion going on.” He let out a burst of stilted laughter, his face becoming less tense as he saw three squad cars pull up to assist with the crowd. “Thank goodness Brant and her people were here or I would have been looking at leaked footage and spoilers online within the hour.” He gave Brant a nervous glance then put his arm on the reporter’s shoulder, motioning her to follow him back to the street. “Now, if you and your crew can clear out of here and keep this quiet, I will give you an exclusive, behind-the-scenes look at the script and a front-row seat on my advanced review team next spring before it’s released.”

Cowan paused and smiled at Archer. “You’re going to have to give me more than your usual sweet-talk, Jim,” she said, flicking her finger across his chin. “How about an interview with you and the lead actors before it’s released?”

Archer nodded with a wolfish grin. “Now, that I can arrange.”

“Then we have a deal, Jimmy.” She let her fingers glide down his right arm as she turned and walked back to the news van, pausing to give Brant a brief glare. “Keep in touch, Jim—you have my number.”

He waved then patted the bulge in his shirt pocket. “Right here on my phone under Vixen.”

With the rest of the crowd dispersing as the increase in officers continued, Archer sauntered back towards Brant, who stood scrutinizing him like a dealer on a car lot. She fluttered her fingers in the air while muttering, “‘Now, that I can arrange, my little vixen.’” Brant shook her head. “Do you know every woman in this city—beyond more than a professional level?”

He gave her a firm stare. “Just the important ones—and especially those with a lot of character.”

She blinked hard, as if she had grit in her eyes. “You can turn off the charm, Archer. I’m not one of your minions that needs wooing.”

“Not wooing at all on my part—just glad to be working with a real pro like yourself.”

“Uh-huh, sure.” She looked at the carnage near the shoreline, wondering if they had actually stepped onto the set of a horror flick. God, where did those creatures come from—and what made them into those maniacal beings?

Brant walked towards the steps leading from the parking lot to the beach, half-looking over her shoulder to see if Archer was following. She paused as she walked down to the sandy substrate, turning slightly towards him. “And thanks for getting Cowan out of here—she’s an immoral bloodsucker, like most reporters.” She didn’t wait for Archer’s response, continuing down and moving up alongside Halsey.

Chapter 8

Six hours later, Brant and her detectives, along with Archer and Napalme, were standing in the morgue, waiting anxiously for some news from Hadden, who had just finished examining the first splattered sailor from the recent assault.

Hadden emerged from the coroner’s lab, her blue apron covered in blood and an amalgam of greasy entrail residue interspersed with tan brain goo. She motioned for them to follow her inside, where they gathered in a circle around the tarp-covered body on the stainless-steel gurney.

“As you have no doubt concluded, the appearance of more creatures can’t be a coincidence. They must be coming from the same source as the first headless body we found on the beach, since they were all dressed in similar navy uniforms—Japanese Navy. What caused them to look like this—and for them to even be ambulatory—is still beyond anything I’ve ever heard of.”

She rested her hands on the edge of the gurney. “The real question on everyone’s mind here is whether this is a real person or something else. As I mentioned to Brant earlier, he is definitely human, and his country of origin was Japan, based upon DNA, just like that first corpse.”

Archer tugged on his jacket lapels while puffing out his chest. “But he died decades ago and then reanimated, so that surely must make him the world’s first—”

“Don’t say zombie, Archer,” muttered Brant, whose smirk seemed frozen on her face.

He glared at her, his shoulders sagging. “Why steal a man’s thunder like that?” He shook his head, trying to regain his composure. “Besides, that’s not the word I was going to use. I was going to say, uhm…” He threw his hands in the air, crunching his eyebrows together. “Dammit, Brant, why would you deprive me of this sublime moment?”

Her smirk slipped into a faint grin as the rest of the group let out muffled laughs.

“Let’s stay on task here, people,” said Napalme, who stood with his beefy arms folded.

The rest of the group moved in closer to the exam table as Hadden removed the black polyurethane sheet over the body of the Japanese sailor from the last crime scene.

“So, this is where things get interesting,” Hadden said, prying back the sheathing of skin along the ribs to expose the organs, which resembled black pudding with cherry swirls. “The internal organs on this zombie,” she paused to glance over at Archer, “are almost completely liquified, except the stomach and kidneys.”

Archer leaned to one side, feeling the blood drain out of his face as he fought back a wave of nausea. Emerson coughed then cupped his mouth while averting his eyes, while everyone except Napalme took a step back.

“That begs the question—are those organs intact because the creatures need to feed, which might explain why they were so intent on attacking people?” said Archer.

“Why the kidneys though?” said Brant.

“Because the adrenal glands supply energy to the brain,” said Archer and Hadden, uttering nearly the exact same words.

The coroner gave him a pleased look. “Very good, Mr. Archer; you know your physiology.”

Emerson cleared his throat. “I think they were trying to assault people because their brains melted away after so many years, and all that was left were their primal instincts.”

“Then how come you don’t attack people more often?” chuckled Halsey as his partner elbowed him in the ribs.

Napalme stepped closer, scrutinizing the eviscerated body like he was a deer hunter inspecting his kill. “Are his innards like that due to some trauma he sustained or from natural decomposition over the years?”

“Hard to say, but if we are subscribing to the theory that this sailor was submerged underwater in some sunken vessel then that setting could have preserved his body and organs until he emerged onto the beach, where the UV rays and O2 levels would have sped up decomposition throughout the rest of the corpse.”

“Like my father’s research in Chile,” said Archer. “The bodies remained in a torpid state, like a dormant insect waiting for the right conditions to emerge.”

“Only what are the ‘right conditions’?” said Halsey.

“That tropical storm we had recently—maybe it kicked up the sub or whatever vessel he was on,” said Emerson.

Brant leaned forward, studying the body. “But we’ve had plenty of tropical storms and even hurricanes during the past fifty years, so why now?”

“Maybe it was a perfect storm—of events, that is; a cumulative series of small-scale actions,” said Archer. “We have had more activity in the oceans in recent years than ever before, from offshore drilling to tsunamis, and now hurricanes connected with global warming. If this guy did come from a Japanese submarine that was sunk off our shores, then maybe it was displaced enough to a warmer bench of sea water that it somehow damaged the hull and enabled these sailors to wash ashore. The temperature at the beach would then be enough to reanimate them into zombies.” He dragged out the last word in a deep voice while staring at Brant.

“That’s a lot of maybes—and real crime-solving doesn’t operate on hunches,” said Napalme. “Right now, I just want to know how to prevent this from happening again on our beaches. Then I need to figure out how to prevent any word of these creatures from leaking out to the press. If this gets on the internet, Homeland Security and the FBI will swoop in and take over our city, shutting down everything. As it is, Hadden’s colleague at the CDC, who is flying in later, has assured us she will keep a tight lid on this, which is a relief.” He looked at Brant and her two detectives. “Pull in more staff if you need to, but I want all of our resources on this.”

Everyone except Archer nodded. He raised up his index finger. “Sir, I’d like to help. I have a contact at Coronado I can call up—he’s a SEAL commander I used as a consultant for one of my books. He might have some insight into the operations these Japanese sailors were undertaking. Plus, his teams conduct their trainings in these waters, so maybe they’ve come across something unusual that may be of use.”

Napalme raised his chin up then exhaled. “Do it, Jim. We need all the help we can get on this one. I appreciate you stepping up like this.” He turned, heading towards the door, pausing as he swung it open. “Now, I’ve gotta go meet with the mayor again to lower his blood pressure so he’s not climbing all over my ass.” He paused, glancing back over his shoulder. “And Brant, you go with Archer so the navy knows this is part of an official investigation.”

Brant let out a deep sigh while thrusting her hands onto her hips. She moved over to Archer, leaning in close by his ear. “One hour, Archer. Get a little foo-foo coffee drink or extra hair gel if you need it, then meet me in the parking lot.”

She walked past him, stopping to scan a new text. A minute later, she turned towards her detectives. “I need you both to get over to Sunset Cliffs. There are two bodies on the beach that were just discovered. Locals are saying it was a shark attack, but check it out and see if it matches our other vics.” She shoved open the door and headed towards the elevator as her detectives quickly followed behind.

Archer narrowed his eyes, watching the two men leave, then turned towards Hadden, who looked away, hiding a coy smile. “They can take some getting used to—those three are like a wolf pack sometimes,” she said.

“The kind that eats their own, probably,” said Archer, moving closer to Hadden. “And what’s Brant’s deal? Is she always a hard-ass with everyone?”

“Just the people she likes, and there aren’t too many of them.” She stared out the door, watching the elevator close with the three detectives inside. “Lindsey lives for the job, and she’s damn good at it—one of the best, in fact.”

“Seems like it’s also eroded some of her humanity. Does the woman have a softer side?”

“She doesn’t let too many people in—but yes, it’s there.” Hadden walked past him, heading towards her office door. She glanced over Archer’s figure. “But if she didn’t like you, she would have already found a way to get you booted from her team.”

Archer heard her words, but they quickly slid off his radar as he reflected on how cold Brant always was towards him, despite her occasional attempts at humor. Unlike most of the women he was used to, Brant was aloof and a bona fide mystery. She was incredibly smart with her deductive abilities, which were only slightly overshadowed by a street-savvy grittiness from being a homicide detective—and then there were those green eyes, like emerald lightning. He wondered if her harsh comments were solely directed at him, then he recalled seeing the old scars on her hands and how guarded she was with everyone. She’s been deeply wounded before, and probably not just by other men—maybe a personal loss of some kind or something connected with a past case? What’s your story, Lindsey Brant? I bet it’s an epic novel.

***

On the elevator ride back up to the fourth floor, Halsey stepped closer to Brant, who was stuffing a piece of peppermint gum in her mouth. “So, when you’re done babysitting zombie-boy, are you gonna get him to autograph one of his books for your collection too, like our drooling fangirl Hadden?” He chuckled, stepping to the side and fist-bumping Emerson, who was silently laughing.

Brant slid up to Halsey, close enough to touch his nose with hers. “No, but I’m gonna have Hadden put her autograph on a new death certificate if you joke around about this again.”

Halsey pressed his back into the elevator while raising his eyebrows. “Alright, easy, I get your drift.” She swung around, brushing her elbow against Emerson’s ribs, causing his smile to immediately disappear. The elevator doors swung open just as Halsey’s phone rang. He picked up, talking as they all exited. A few seconds later, he trotted up next to Brant.

“That was the Coast Guard—they found an abandoned motorboat about fifteen miles north of here.”

“From our headless fisherman?” said Brant as she sat down at her desk.

“Has to be—the GPS indicates it was within a mile of our vic last night before drifting off. But there wasn’t any fishing gear on board—just diving equipment and a small journal with what looks like some faded coordinates. The ink is all blurry, making the numbers impossible to read, but the Coast Guard captain said it has the same amount of digits that LAT/LONG coordinates usually have.”

Brant tapped her fingers on the side of her laptop. “A search grid—our vic was searching for something out at sea.” She leaned back, looking into Halsey’s puzzled face, then she stared out the windows to the right. Her mind raced over the details she had gleaned from the curator at the maritime museum then down to the bodies in the morgue as she recalled the tarnished bronze service medals of the sailor along with Hadden’s findings. This can’t be going where I think it’s going—there’s no way an ancient submarine just spat out a bunch of World War II sailors on our shores. This must be a bad dream. She blinked hard, shaking her head, then reached for the cup of cold coffee on her desk and took a swig. This investigation is going to turn up concrete evidence at some point that will make sense of everything. Logic will prevail in the end, just like it usually does. She gulped down another mouthful of tepid fluid, hoping she was right.

Chapter 9

“Akimitsu has to be lying on a cement slab down in their morgue,” said Ronny Tengu to his driver as they sat in their black Audi, staring at the front entrance to the San Diego Police Department. “This is why I don’t like using mercenaries, especially from that Yakuza rabble out of L.A., but that’s the way the boss wanted to run this leg of the mission.”

Tengu had briefly worked as a field agent for the Cabinet Intelligence and Research Office, which was Japan’s equivalent of the CIA. After being relieved of his duties due to missing funds associated with a botched mission in Singapore, he became a freelancer, hiring his services out to gangs in Southeast Asia and later terrorist cells. His current boss was paying him three times his normal fees to procure samples of a deadly virus that had purportedly been used aboard the two missing Japanese submarines sunk off the west coast of the United States. Tengu didn’t care about how the virus was going to be used or what his boss’s agenda involved. He was a businessman with a unique skill set, and whatever lay at the bottom of the ocean was nothing more than a transaction to complete. He had hired Akimitsu for his diving abilities, hoping the man would be successful in breaching a small hole in the submarine and extracting a sample of tissue from the preserved corpses inside, but the man hadn’t shown up at the drop site yesterday, and Tengu had to find out if the body found on the beach earlier belonged to his short-lived mercenary and, more importantly, whether the man had been successful in collecting any tissue.

“You think the cops are going to figure out what’s resting at the bottom of the ocean?” said his driver, who only went by Koji, as the man busied himself biting down another fingernail.

“That’s what I’m about to find out. If I can locate Akimitsu’s phone or a sample of the tissue then we’ll know if we need to resume operations or if this whole thing is beyond fucked,” Tengu said, sliding his hand into a large backpack and removing a police uniform. “Pull around into the alley so I can change.” He unzipped the front compartment of the pack, removing a Glock 17 and sliding it into the holster on the police belt next to three small pepper-spray canisters that he had drained and refilled with tear gas.

“Should I activate the rest of our team and get them down here?” said Koji.

“No, I’m planning to get in and out as fast as possible. I have no intention of turning this into a kamikaze mission. I’m not into that shit like our ancestors were.”

Chapter 10

Brant had some phone calls to take care of, followed by a brief stop at the courthouse, which delayed their departure for Coronado for two hours. On their drive to the navy base, Brant drove the unmarked Crown Vic south along Harbor Drive, realizing that traffic was more congested than normal for a Saturday morning. She nodded towards the curb on the right, where a gaggle of twenty-somethings dressed as ghosts and werewolves was waiting to cross the street.

“Your Horror-Con event sure brings out the city’s weirdos,” she said, looking at Archer briefly before speeding up.

“It’s not my event—I’m just one of the panelists.”

“The only one with life-sized billboards of himself and a mile-long line of scantily clad fans waiting for autographs.”

“Well, you’re right—I am one of the more successful writers in the horror genre, and I also have a great agent who has helped keep me at the top with endless publicity and interviews, not to mention helping me procure the movie rights for my upcoming films.” He sidled in closer to her. “And I can get you one of those life-sized images of me when the convention is over if you need to spruce up your house some.”

“It’d only be used as kindling. Besides, I live in a condo. I’m too busy to own a house and do all the upkeep.”

“A two-bedroom condo, I’m guessing. One room for sleeping in and the other for storing all your weapons and detective outfits.”

She frowned, then waved her hand out towards the bustling nightlife on the street. “You do know that the real world is out here, right? Not everyone lives like the characters in your Mitch Riker books.”

Archer glanced at two prostitutes near a dilapidated liquor store whose door was covered in graffiti. “Sometimes I write to escape the sadness of this world by creating a place where people can rise above their suffering and take control of their lives.”

“Through slaying zombies,” she said, raising an eyebrow.

“The undead are only metaphors for the negative forces and personal fears that people face each day. If I can throw in a few dashing protagonists that people can identify with and fill their quest with adventure then I’ve done my job.”

“So, you’re a pseudo-philosopher too, wow—such a multi-talented guy.” Brant had to admit that she was mildly intrigued by Archer. He was so far out of the norm of people she was used to dealing with: cops, hookers, coroners, fellow detectives, judges, mobsters, lawyers, and professional thieves, though she saw little distinction between the latter two occupations. The only male figure that she had dared to take a risk on outside of her work circle was her ex-husband, Darren McCall. He was a battalion commander at the fire department four blocks from her precinct, and their short-lived marriage was shattered seven months after the wedding when she walked in on Darren and a nubile young firefighter scorching the sheets in their condo bedroom. She felt like Darren was someone she could finally let her guard down with, and the resulting blowtorch to her soul almost caused her to quit her job and move to Tibet, one of the few countries left without the infrastructure for fire stations. Halsey and Emerson were there for her during her darkest hours, reminding her that there were at least two men left in the world with integrity. That was all she had room for in her life, and she had no intentions of ever allowing any more fissures to develop along the stone encasement surrounding her heart, though she did recognize the fleeting presence of physical desire floating across her radar when the right man was present. However long Archer was to remain on her team, she needed to keep his flirtatious nature at bay by reminding herself that he was a child in a man’s body, regardless of how physically attractive that body was.

After turning onto Coronado Bridge, she glanced down at the tarnished silver ring on his finger, which bore the inscription of U.S. Navy Hospital Corpsman. “You get that on eBay or from one of your drooling fans?”

“My father, actually—he was a medic years ago,” he said, rotating the ring slowly around his finger and casting his gaze at the floor.

“I’m sorry. That was callous of me.”

“Yeah, well, I’ve gotten used to it during our short time together… Archer, what the fuck are you doing here? Archer, don’t touch that! Nobody asked you, Archer! Archer, I don’t want you on my team even though I know you are brilliant and could lend tremendous insight into this case but I’m too stubborn to say so.”

She emitted a partial grin. “Uhm, you can check three of those four comments as being spot on. The rest is your writer’s imagination.” Brant glanced down at the ring again. “So, what’s the story?”

He let out a sigh. “The media always portrays me as just a trust-fund guy or an entitled playboy-philanthropist, either because my parents were both physicians or because I have a bunch of bestsellers, a beachfront house, a yacht, and a few films to my credit, but that’s not who I am. There’s more to me than what the tabloids print.”

She snickered. “Yeah, I guess I had you all wrong.”

He looked out the window at the sky. “I would trade everything I have just to spend five minutes with him—with my father—just one more time.”

She let her eyes float over his face, noticing his pained expression. “How did he die?”

“After he retired from his medical practice, he and my mother went on a trip to Belize while I was off on a motorcycle trip across Europe. They always liked it in Latin America—the culture, the beaches, the wealth of indigenous knowledge that was still intact. When I was a kid, we used to stay in this little bungalow a few hundred yards from the beach. It was owned by an old friend of my dad’s from the navy.” He flexed his arms. “The raw wildness of that place made me feel like I was in a Tarzan movie.” He inhaled deeply, tapping a finger on the armrest. “One morning, Dad went on a private charter to visit a village he had been to years ago when he was with Doctors Without Borders. On his return flight, the single-engine plane he was in crashed in the ocean just after take-off.”

“God, that’s horrible.”

Archer balled his fist. “That’s life, isn’t it? Not all of us make it to the end.”

He rubbed his fingers along his temples then looked out at a low string of cumulus clouds to the west. “The official report said it was pilot error. My mom never bought that story. She had a friend who used to work for NTSB who did his own investigation, which indicated it was indeed pilot error, but the crash itself was indicative of someone who took the plane into an intentional nosedive for some goddamned reason, which corroborates what some of the witnesses observed.” Archer leaned forward. “The investigator said there was absolutely no reason for that to happen. We’ll never know though, since only pieces of the wreckage were found, and the few witnesses on that tiny airstrip are all gone now.”

“They died of old age?”

“Not sure. I went to that island a few years ago to track them down and ask them myself what they saw, but it’s as if the jungle swallowed them up—nobody in the surrounding villages knew anything about them.”

“There are plenty of pretty isolated areas still left in those parts though, and not a lot of government census or record-keeping, from what I understand. Maybe they’re still around.”

“Yeah, I guess.” He let out a deep sigh, rubbing his chin. “That’s what I keep telling myself too, but…”

Brant’s phone rang, the screen illuminating and showing it was Halsey. She tapped on the speaker, her face scrunching into a concerned look.

“What do you have?”

Halsey cleared his throat, his voice monotone. “So, those two surfers at Sunset Cliffs were indeed mauled to death, but not by a shark—they’ve got the same bite pattern as our first vic. But Brant,” he took in a deep breath, “there’s really not much left of them. Looks like someone used them in a game of tug-of-war.” Halsey’s voice sank. “The guy’s face is completely gone, along with his legs, while the woman… She’s, uhm, only got her torso left. Must have gotten attacked just around sunset last night, according to Hadden.”

“Any signs of the creatures that did it, assuming they were the attackers?” said Archer, leaning closer to the phone.

“Who the hell is this?”

“It’s Archer,” said Brant.

“Ah, the department’s gopher.”

Archer chortled. “More like bloodhound.”

“OK, enough,” snapped Brant as she narrowed her eyes at him then turned her gaze back to the road. “Back to Archer’s question—where did the creatures go that killed the surfers?”

“Well, that’s the kicker—they’re around a mile south of their vics, cut into about a hundred pieces. It looks like they stumbled onto a drug exchange going down between some cartel types who hacked the shit out of them with their machetes just after we tracked them down.”

Archer moved his hands in a series of karate chops. “Oh man, that’s so awesome. Some tattooed drug kingpins dueling with an army of zombies on the beach under a full moon—you can’t make that kind of shit up.”

“It sounds like you just did,” said Brant, giving him an incredulous look. “All I heard were the actual facts: dope runners, machetes, and an attack similar to our other site.”

“I like my version better. It has more panache.”

Halsey could be heard sighing. “Hey, Archer, do me a favor and help lower my blood pressure by clicking off the speaker mode and handing the damn phone to Brant.”

“It’s OK,” said Brant. “We’ll head over to your location when we’re done at Coronado. In the meantime, press the cartel guys to see if they’ve heard of anything bizarre going on down the coast or into Baja, apart from the usual slayings between their rivals.”

“You got it,” said Halsey, signing off.

Brant gripped the steering wheel with both hands. She liked mysteries, but not on such a gruesome scale. “What if these sailors keep washing up all over the place—not just around San Diego?”

“I’d be more worried if their victims come back to life,” said Archer as he grimaced.

“That’s only in the movies and your books.” She tightened her grip on the steering wheel, giving him a sideways glance as her lips tensed. “Right?”

Chapter 11

The dripping of water on the tiled floor in the next examination room was the only sound penetrating through Hadden’s psyche as she re-examined the corpse of the Japanese sailor. Like most cases she became immersed in, her compulsion to know every detail of the crime consumed her, keeping her at work long after everyone else had left for the day. Hadden was the youngest of three children from Ohio. She had graduated a year early from high school and immediately dove into her studies at Stanford, where she graduated at the top of her class, along with catapulting to the top of the university fencing team. Her coach had said she had a shot at the Olympics if she continued with her training, but her passion was in poking and piercing the bodies of the dead rather than the living.

While most of her colleagues from medical school had become primary care physicians or pathologists, she had always been drawn to the macabre world of the deceased. It began in first grade, when she was walking to school with her friends and found a dead mouse in the soccer field. The mystery of how it perished was coupled with a desire to know what happened to the life force within the diminutive rodent. Her brother, Ben, said it had melted into the dirt and would turn the nearby ants into Cadillac-sized predators, while her best friend, Jenny, who was a devout Catholic, uttered a faint prayer to keep the greedy red fingers of Satan away, since he would clearly want to possess the lifeless body and cause it to wage war against her family like the ones in their attic did last summer. As for Hadden, she suspected that the faint speck of blood on its nose was due to poisoning because it resembled the same claret color on her cat’s sniffer after it ate a dead rat that had consumed the green pellets placed by her father under the backyard deck.

Satisfied that her deduction was far superior to her friend’s heathen assumptions or her brother’s outrageous fantasies, Hadden buried the poor creature under a flat rock then walked away, confident that science was the only tool to probe nature’s mysteries. She reconfirmed her passion for probing the riddle of death during her first cadaver dissection. While several of her classmates passed out next to her, she felt her heart leap with excitement, wondering what she could learn from the lifeless figure before her. Seven years and hundreds of cadavers later, she was still fascinated to see what trail her autopsy would lead her down and how her findings could be used by the detectives four floors above to help solve a murder case.

As she stood over the splayed-open chest cavity of the Japanese sailor with a pair of forceps, she probed the organs and lungs, which resembled the blackened heads of decaying mushrooms. “How did these creatures stay functional all this time?” she whispered, used to talking to herself.

The monotonous dripping in the next room continued, and she wondered if one of her assistants hadn’t completely turned off the spigot on the wall after hosing down the floor with disinfectant.

She stepped back from the desiccated sailor, lifting her face visor and peering into the window of the adjacent room.

“What the hell?” she said, staring at the back of a uniformed police officer who was examining the headless figure on the gurney.

She put down her scalpel and headed through the swinging door into the hallway and back into the other examination room.

“Excuse me, but you do not have permission to be down here. This is my subject, and you are tampering with an active…”

The man turned his body so she couldn’t see his face as he busied himself probing the man’s clothing and personal items, which were sitting on a table next to the victim.

“Officer, did you hear me?” She took two steps forward, then the stocky man swung around and rushed at her, slamming her into the wall. She felt her teeth clatter against each other from the violent impact and saw her dislodged face-shield crash to the floor. Hadden’s eyes widened, her heart racing as the enraged face of the Asian man filled her vision. He slid his hands around her neck, and her mind raced over the amount of force it took to crush a human trachea. She slammed her fists against his forearms, but it did nothing to halt his fierce attack.

Hadden thought that the overhead lights were dimming, then she realized that the blood flow from her carotids was diminishing. Soon she’d be unconscious or dead, she thought, her mind replaying figures on oxygen rates. All of these medical statistics raced through her foggy brain, then she remembered her brief combative training with Brant. She pawed at the man’s fierce grip, remembering how the thumb was the weak link. She grabbed the right digit and ripped it back until she heard a popping sound, then she drove a finger into his left eye. The clinch around her throat lessened, and she gulped in a breath of air, reaching down and grabbing something from the front of his belt as the man groaned, trying to reach for her wrist. She pulled back, staring at the black cylindrical object in her palm as if it was an ancient artifact. Then she remembered. Gripping it tightly, she whipped the tip towards the ground, releasing the telescoped segment of a metal baton.

The man rushed at her again, but this time she was ready and launched into a fencer’s pose, parrying his incoming fist and driving the tip of the baton into his solar plexus. He gasped, backpedaling as she issued a riposte, swinging down in an arc on his left bicep. The man collapsed on one knee, yanking something off his belt and tossing it on the floor between her legs. Hadden saw a sudden burst of yellow gas hiss out from a round canister then felt her eyes begin to burn. She coughed, backing out of the room through the swinging door as the man darted past her for the stairwell.

The smoke alarms pierced her ears as the sprinkler system activated. Hadden’s throat was searing and her vision obscured as she crept along, pressing her shoulder into the wall to find her way to the chemical exposure shower. She staggered inside the tiny chamber, closing the door and yanking on the chain above to start the flow. Hadden lowered her head, gagging as the warm water sprayed over her head. She opened her eyes slightly, trying to flush the chemicals out, then slid down to the floor.

She heard someone at the shower door and clutched the tactical baton, trying to muster enough strength to stand.

“Hadden, are you OK?” said the comforting voice of Napalme as he opened the chamber.

“Did you get him?” she said, coughing out the words in a hoarse voice as she looked up at him with bloodshot eyes.

“Get who?” Napalme put his beefy hands under her armpits and hoisted her up as the water soaked both of them.

“He was dressed like a cop; Asian guy.”

Napalme looked down the hallway towards the open door to the stairwell, then he heard the smoke alarms ringing out through the rest of the building as an emergency alert flashed on his phone. He helped Hadden to her feet then headed for the exit, pulling out his Colt 1911. He wasn’t sure how many attackers were in the building or what was going on upstairs, but he knew he had to get Hadden outside. After that, he would rain down hell on the bastards who dared to set foot inside his hallowed halls.

Chapter 12

Once they had cleared the security checkpoints near the entrance to Coronado Naval Station, Brant drove up to a series of white administration buildings, passing by a group of personnel who were running in formation towards the east side of the island.

“This base is like a small city—they even have their own Starbucks and Five Guys burger joint here. They’ve got around thirty-five thousand people at this site alone from what I recall,” said Archer, who could still see the line of hotels and bars in San Diego a few miles to the east.

“Funny, but in all these years of living here and working cases, I’ve never been out to this place,” said Brant.

“Probably not much reason—the navy has its own investigators, NCIS.”

Brant scrunched her nose, looking at Archer as the car came to a stop. “Yes, I am well aware of that—that’s one of the main reasons I don’t come here.”

Exiting the vehicle, Archer pointed to the third floor of the closest building. “That’s where Commander Eckert’s office is. I was out here probably two years ago, interviewing him for details about naval vessels and the SEALs for my book, Undead Commando Carnage. Heck of a guy—but he never glances away from you when he’s talking.” He stared into Brant’s eyes with an intense gaze. “Always gives you this icy look, right into your soul, as if he’s debating whether to kill you and then eat Rice Krispies out of your skull.”

“Sounds like you’ve never sat across from the attorney general before.” She brushed a strand of hair from her forehead, opening the door and flashing the temporary visitor permit and her badge towards the armed security guard at the front desk. Once he had cleared them, he motioned towards the elevators in the hallway opposite their location.

They both reached for the second-floor button at the same time, touching fingers then abruptly pulling their hands back. Archer moved closer to the panel and tapped the button until it lit up, then he turned towards Brant.

“I was talking to an epidemiologist once—guy had worked on ebola in Africa, just a super cutting-edge researcher—and he gave me the idea for this deadly virus that could be transmitted from everyday surfaces we interact with, like elevators, door knobs, coffee mugs…”

“You mean the flu. You spent time interviewing a scientist to discover how the flu can be spread?” she said with a chuckle. “That sure is nifty.”

“Not the flu, Brant—you didn’t let me finish.” The elevator doors opened, leaving Archer with a frustrated look as Brant exited.

“You know what I think, Archer? You don’t like it when it’s quiet. You haven’t shut up since we left the precinct, and even the thought of a brief silence in an elevator gets you rattled.”

They walked down the hallway, passing the closed doors of offices on either side.

“Not true—I relish silence when I have time for it. I even have a meditation room in my house.”

“Bet that’s covered in cobwebs.” Brant stopped at the last door on the left, knocking then entering after she heard the deep voice of a man indicate they should come inside.

A lithe figure dressed in navy whites, with a low crop of salt-and-pepper hair, stood up and walked around his desk to greet them. “Welcome. I’m Commander Raymond Eckert.” He extended his hand out to Brant, then to Archer.

“Good to meet you, Detective.” He motioned for them to sit down then slapped Archer on the shoulder. “Great to see you again, Jim. I sure enjoyed that last get-together we had on your yacht.” He winked at Brant while nodding back towards Archer. “This guy can grill up a mean mahi-mahi, not to mention being a helluva storyteller. That tale about you passing out on a flight and then waking up three days later in a brothel in Panama still gets me.”

“Full of surprises, isn’t he?” said Brant.

Archer bit his lower lip, looking nervously at Brant, feeling his face turning red. “There’s a whole backstory that goes with that brothel and why I was even there in the first place.”

“I bet,” said Brant, re-focusing her attention back on Eckert, who was perching on the edge of his desk.

“So, what can I do for you, Detective? Jim tells me you’re working a case that I might be able to help with, assuming it falls outside of naval jurisdiction.”

Archer shuffled his chair closer to the desk, the grating sound stifling Brant’s response as Archer raised his voice. “Here’s the thing. I didn’t want to get into all the details on the phone, but was there ever any record of Japanese submarines in these waters during World War II?”

Brant slid her chair up an inch beyond Archer’s, brushing his elbow hard enough that it slid off the armrest. “We have a murder investigation underway that may involve a deceased Japanese sailor from 1942. He washed up on the beach by Point Loma yesterday, along with a mauled fisherman. Anything you can tell us about Imperial Navy vessels in this area during that time would be of great help.”

Eckert looked at Archer then back over at Brant, raising his eyebrows. He turned and walked back around to his leather chair. “A dead Jap sailor, eh?” He rubbed his chin. “Hell, I thought you were going to say it was one of my guys involved in an altercation back in the city.” He leaned forward, removing a pair of reading glasses from a black case and sliding them on as he began tapping on his keyboard. “And it’s been confirmed that this fellow was who you’re saying he is?”

“Yes, my chief medical examiner finished her autopsy earlier this morning.” She looked out the window beyond the desk, still wondering if this bizarre murder case was really happening. “It would appear he’s not from our era.” She removed her phone from her jacket pocket and scrolled down to the photos from the crime scene then slid it over towards Eckert. “This is the guy as we found him.”

Eckert pulled his gaze away from the laptop, then pressed the iPhone closer to his face, scrutinizing the image. He dragged his fingers across the screen, enlarging the photograph. “Asiatic Pacific Campaign—at least, that’s what I think those faded characters probably say.” He looked up at Brant. “My first wife was Japanese, and I spent some time living over there years ago.” He pressed the phone up to his face again. “This guy looks like he was an officer by what’s left of the uniform. Question is, why the hell was he decked out in his dress uniform and medals if they were on a mission out here?”

Archer sat upright. “The curator at the maritime museum in San Diego told me there was at least one case where a Japanese sub shelled the oil field outside of Santa Barbara during World War II. Were there any subs this far down the coast that you know of?”

Eckert carefully placed the iPhone down as if he was holding a delicate artifact then pried his eyes away from the image. After a few minutes of typing on his keyboard, he stopped and stared at the screen. “I’ve gone through the declassified documents on enemy naval warship sightings off the California coast from 1941 until the end of the war and only came upon one other mention besides the Santa Barbara attack.” He spun the laptop around then sat back in his chair. Brant and Archer saw a grainy black-and-white image of a large submarine immersed in choppy waves.

Archer pressed his index finger against the handwritten notes scrawled along the bottom of the photo. “Nikotero, I-56, B-3 Class-type cruiser.”

Eckert swung his chair around, peering out at the harbor. “That’s the same type of sub that was responsible for sinking the USS Indianapolis off Palau in the Philippines. Those vessels were specially fitted with large amounts of torpedoes for suicide runs compared to other subs.”

“What was it doing out here then? I mean, why come all this way and not unleash their arsenal on our shores?” said Brant.

Eckert got up and walked around, standing between Archer and Brant as they all stared at the image. “There was also some rumor I remember from my naval academy days about the Japanese trying to complete their crude bioweapons program and possibly outfitting their subs or destroyers with missiles that could deliver a payload to our ground forces on islands in the Pacific. Maybe that I-56 was headed here to deploy those when it was sunk.”

“What? How do you know that it was sunk around here?” said Archer.

Eckert pointed to the string of numbers and letters at the end of the handwritten notes. “That’s the Lat/Long and the code that a naval commander uses on his notes, at least back then, for recording what became of the enemy vessel.” Eckert tapped the screen. “And that son of a bitch was sunk—or at least it received a critical hit and then went into a downward descent, according to sonar data, which is recorded the same way.” He dragged his finger over to the last two letters, which were capitalized: M.R.

“Those are the initials of the commander of the destroyer that recorded those notes and sunk the bastards. Not sure offhand who that is, but I can look him up.”

“And what about that?” said Archer, pointing to a typed numeric code visible in the far-left corner of the image.

“No clue—definitely more recent by the date stamp. That’s from 2002,” said Eckert.

“Why would someone in recent years be interested in this particular photo?” said Brant, seeing the same perplexed look on Archer’s face she was sure she had.

Eckert shrugged his shoulders, returning to his chair and spinning his laptop back towards him. “Probably some archivist or military historian back in D.C. They’re the ones who catalog this material.” He busied himself with typing, alternating his demeanor from one of frustration to one of relief as he navigated through the navy database. A few minutes later, he scribbled down some notes on a piece of paper while the printer beside his desk turned on.

“You’ll have to forgive the chicken-scratch—I’m old school and prefer writing things down still.” He removed his glasses and stood up, arching his back then handing the paper to Brant. “That’s the address for Muskem Rydell, the former commander of that destroyer. He’s gotta be pushing into his late 90s by now, but the navy has that as his last known residence—up near San Clemente, an hour north of here.”

He leaned back, grabbing the paper from the printer and handing it to Archer. “Here’s the photo of the sub—thought you might want something to digest for your next book.”

Archer heartily shook Eckert’s hand. “You’ve given me plenty, believe me.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Brant, extending her hand. “I appreciate you seeing us so late in the day.”

“My pleasure, Detective.” He walked them to the door, holding it open as they exited. “Jim, you never explained how you’re connected to this case—is this for research for another series?”

Archer gave Brant a sideways glance. “Not exactly—more of a consultant-slash-tagalong under the vigilant eyes of Detective Brant.”

Eckert gave him a firm nod, partially grinning. “Well, which one is it, Jim?”

Brant pivoted and walked away, snapping her fingers for them to head to the elevator.

As he turned to follow her, Archer leaned back over his shoulder towards Eckert, raising one hand up to block his lips while mouthing, consultant.

Chapter 13

After dropping Archer off at the Embassy for his afternoon presentation, Brant drove back to the precinct. On her way there, she received word from Chief Napalme of Hadden’s encounter with the intruder in the morgue. She had briefly spoken with Hadden to make sure she was alright and was deeply relieved that her friend had survived the assault thanks to her training. What is happening in my city? First those creatures come out of the ocean, then the two surfers over here get chomped to death. Now someone is posing as a cop, infiltrating our precinct. Christ, am I reading one of Archer’s pulp-fiction books?

Pulling into the east end of the parking garage, she saw a squad car and two officers standing by the barricaded entrance to the precinct along with dozens of her colleagues standing before Napalme, who was issuing orders. The precinct was being inspected by SWAT for any other potential intruders or any devices that could have been left behind while the rest of the officers were busy searching the surrounding streets for signs of the man who attacked Hadden. She heard the buzz of an incoming text and read the message from Emerson, which indicated their vehicle was on the second level above her. Brant pulled out and drove up the ramp until she saw them near the southeast corner of the lot.

She got out of her car and moved up next to her detectives, who were standing by their Crown Vic. As she approached, Halsey yelled at the three goons inside to get out and line up with their backs against the car, making sure they understood the consequences for scratching up the paint job with their handcuffs. The dope-runners looked like they had employed more than a few tattoo artists, given the amount of ink on their bare appendages and necks.

“We’ve been holed up here for a few hours, waiting until the precinct is cleared,” said Emerson. “These are the three guys who hacked up those sailors on the beach late last night. These dudes were so wasted on coke that they spent the rest of the night passed out in the sand a few feet away from the carnage.”

Halsey grinned then let it turn into a yawn. “Those are the kind of easy manhunts I enjoy.”

“Anything new for me?” said Brant.

“I’ve got two squad cars at Sunset Cliffs, keeping access to the beach closed off. We’re going with the shark attack story for now, if any locals ask.” He ran through the men’s names, pointing to the ringleader, standing closest to the back door, whose name was Robert.

Brant stood before the tallest drug-runner, who was dressed in a white tank-top with dried blood splotches on his chest. He tilted his head, tracing his eyes up her legs to her breasts then to her face. “So, home-girl—you the one tuggin’ on your boys’ leashes?” he said, looking at the two detectives and grinning. “And you call yourselves hombres?”

Brant slid forward, dropping her heel onto the delicate bones on his instep until a few cracked. The man winced, his knees buckling. “It’s gonna be hard to run next time when you see the cops coming, Robert-o. How about you just answer my questions so you’re not crawling on all fours for the rest of your days.”

“Hey, bitch, this is police brutality,” said the shorter man next to Robert.

“Not yet,” said Halsey.

“I already answered a shitload of questions earlier,” said Robert.

“Yeah, but not mine,” said Brant, leaning in next to his ear. “Do you know anything about an Asian guy running around the city posing as a cop? Is he connected with the Triads that your crew is always getting into turf wars with?”

“Nah—the only Asian dudes I talk to are at the Chinese takeout in El Cajon.”

She slid her heel over his other instep. “You can do better than that.”

He cowered, lowering his head. “I already told you, Detective. I don’t know anybody like that. The only guys with the balls to do somethin’ like that would be the Yaks outta L.A.”

“Yakuza don’t usually venture down this far,” said Emerson.

“See what you can find anyway when we can get back inside the precinct,” she said, stepping away and motioning for Emerson to come closer.

“Where’s Archer?” he said.

“Dropped him back at the horror convention—said he had to do a book signing or something.”

“You mean James Archer?” said Robert, poking his head up.

Brant and Halsey gave each other curious looks.

“Oh, man, that’s my homey—used to read his books in juvey. Must have gone through Cannibal Kings like five times with my boys.” Robert thrust his chin up. “Man, you tell him he needs to get those translated into Spanish. I’ll do it for him—you tell him.”

Brant eased out a tiny grin. “Yeah, I’ll give him your cell number. Maybe he’ll look you up later down in your holding cell.”

“Really?”

She shook her head, pulling Emerson aside by the open door of her vehicle. “I’ve got to run up north to interview this retired naval commander from World War II. I’ll be back in a few hours.”

“Whereabouts?”

“San Clemente.” She ducked down towards the cup holder to retrieve the piece of paper with the address, then re-emerged with a scowl on her face. “That filthy dog!” She bit down on her lip. “Archer must have snagged the paper just before I dropped him off.” She got back in her car, slamming the door and firing up the engine. “Son of a bitch must pay.”

Chapter 14

“Blasting the bastard with a bullet to the head is still your best bet for killing a zombie—and the larger the caliber, the better,” said Archer as he stood on stage, looking out at a crowd of two hundred attendees in the conference room. Nearly all of them were in cosplay mode, dressed as decaying corpses, rabid goblins, vampires, blood-spattered survivors of one apocalyptic world or another, or supernatural creatures from assorted B-movies.

On the table next to him was an array of stage-prop weapons, ranging from Beretta pistols to swords and Kalashnikovs to pitchforks and spiked baseball bats, along with a tactical blade, meat cleaver, hammer, chainsaw, Phillips screwdriver (better penetration than a flathead), tire-iron, banjo, machete, ax, fork, rebar, knitting needles, shiv, and an eight-ball in a sock.

Archer put a plastic Glock back on the table then turned to face the audience. “I have time for a few questions before I wrap up.”

A buxom redhead clad in a deranged clown outfit raised her hand. “In the fourth book in your Mitch Riker series, Mitch killed a zombie with a frozen carrot through the eye that he got when they were fighting inside that Denny’s walk-in freezer—wouldn’t he have just used an icepick instead?”

Archer’s mind sifted through a mental barrage of action scenes from his Mitch Riker books, unable to recall that particular scene. Who remembers that kind of stuff? Get a life, woman! “Well, an icepick would be a great choice and offer plenty of longevity, though frozen carrots retained their structure fairly well in my penetration tests during weapons training. Which I’ve never really done, but she will eat that up.

A thirty-something man dressed as a horned demon in a red cape stepped closer, shouting at Archer. “You ever gonna do anything other than zombies? Seems like the genre is pretty saturated now, with the TV shows and endless graphic novels. How about a supernatural thriller involving possession?”

Archer pondered the question, thinking about the bizarre series of events associated with the corpses on the beach and about how much new material from the crime scenes would be making it into future books. “I think it’s safe to say that the zombie genre still has plenty to offer, and I am currently working on a new take that will reinvigorate that realm considerably.”

People nodded their heads in approval while whispering amongst themselves about possible plot lines and characters, while the werewolf contingent just folded their arms and sneered.

Archer saw an Asian man in a black suit slip through the back of the crowd and make his way to the door, his obvious lack of costume causing him to stand out. He hadn’t seen the person enter but figured he was associated with the host of the event. Archer returned his gaze to his eager fans, selecting one last person for a question.

“Yes, the damsel in distress in the third row.” He pointed his microphone to a leggy woman decked out in a slinky Dracula outfit complete with fishnet stockings and heels. “What dost thee command of me, temptress?” he said in a deep voice, mimicking an English accent.

“There’s some rumor that you are filming a zombie movie on the beach near here and caused quite a stir with the locals. If that’s true, do you need any extras—on or even off the set?” she said with a coy smile.

Archer gave her a boyish grin. “Very kind of you, my lady, but we are only scouting locations at this time, hence the commotion on the beach earlier that you’re referring to. Our make-up guy is a little too good sometimes with the stage blood, which really gave the crowd on the beach a scare. That must mean we are on track with our visual effects.” Archer liked his bogus description far better than the grisly reality of what unfolded earlier on the blood-spattered sand. He blinked hard, trying to shake the horrific images of the shattered heads and decomposing corpses.

He glanced at his watch as a means of hinting to his audience that his lecture was over, then he leaned forward and took a bow before returning to the microphone. “I thank you for coming tonight, and I am especially grateful for your interest in my books and all things undead. You are the fans that make all this possible and inspire me to continue writing.” He raised both hands. “I bid you farewell.”

As the crowd applauded, Archer walked to the edge of the platform, handing the microphone off to one of the stage hands, then trotted down the steps to the exit that led out to the side hallway. He turned to the right, walking past a rolling cart filled with folded tablecloths and stacked chairs. An intense prickling sensation shot up his arms, emanating from a stabbing pain in his neck. It felt like someone had twisted a red-hot screw into his flesh. He collapsed to the ground, feeling as if his skeletal system had just been ripped from his body. The Asian man from earlier was standing over him, tucking a stun-gun back into his coat pocket before hoisting Archer up. He felt like a casual observer, feeling his limp body being cast over the man’s shoulder, followed by the cold rush of air as the rear exit doors opened. Bobbing along as the man trotted, Archer heard the roar of a car’s engine as it squealed to a halt. The back door opened, and he was placed inside, his head resting on the leather seat as the Asian man slid in next to him. The man yelled something in what sounded like Japanese to the driver, then the car sped off.

“This can’t be good.” He slurred the words out like he was on his ninth shot of tequila. “Is this about those publishing rights for the Tokyo market, ‘cause you have to go through my agent for that.”

“No, Mr. Archer,” the man said in a heavy accent while yanking his black tie free from his collar. “This is about something far greater than you or I.”

“You mean it affects the driver too?” said Archer, his words clearer but his mind still foggy. The effects of the stun-gun were exacerbating his normally wry wit.

The man used his tie to wrap up Archer’s wrists in a firm knot then removed a folded photograph from his pocket.

“You know, digital photos are more eco-friendly.”

The man pressed the black-and-white photograph towards Archer’s face. The image showed a line-up of Japanese sailors standing on board a submarine docked near a port. There were a dozen men in front dressed more prominently than the others whom Archer assumed were the officers. “Family photo?”

The man held the photograph back, jabbing his finger at an officer on the far right who only had one arm, the sleeve of his uniform folded neatly at the elbow. “The sailors that you and the detective discovered on the beach—did any of them look like this man, with only one hand?”

“By the time that last shootout ended, all of those guys were missing body parts.”

“Look again.” He shoved the photo at Archer. “This man was a physician, dressed slightly differently than the rest and with a facial scar on his right cheek. He would have stood out from the others.”

“Are you one of those salvage divers who’s looking to cash in on a submerged World War II treasure? Did this guy have some spoils of war stowed on board?” Archer cleared his throat. “Either way, the answer is no. The sailors I saw all had their apple-pickers intact.”

The man yanked the photo away, tucking it back into his jacket then snapping something in Japanese at the driver, who began accelerating.

“You met with the base commander at Coronado earlier—I want to know what he told you.” The stocky figure used his free hand to rifle through Archer’s pockets.

“Yeah, sure. He, uhm, informed us about how close L.A. came to getting cratered by enemy submarines back in the forties and about why Japanese women make great wives, though I’m not sure you’d be of any interest to them.”

The man grabbed Archer’s chin, squeezing firmly. “What else? Surely, you and the detective didn’t go all that way for a history lesson?” He removed a folded piece of paper from Archer’s pants pocket.

“How the hell do you know so much about us? I guess salvage diver is out.” Archer pressed himself up into a seated position, his vision becoming clearer. He could see they were headed north on the I-5, just past Mission Bay. He wanted to dive out the window and into the waters below like his daring character Mitch Riker would have done after kicking in the head of the bad guy next to him, but Archer knew salt water gave him terrible ear infections, so he dismissed the idea.

The man’s jacket hung open, revealing a suppressed Bersa .380 pistol.

“That looks just like the kind of gun James Bond uses, only his is a German Walther PPK, not Argentinian, though some people would argue that there’s a familial connection of sorts between the two countries going back to World War II,” said Archer, staring at the gun as he tried to wriggle his hands free from the tie.

The man patted his jacket beside the pistol while grinning. “‘Blasting the bastard with a bullet to the head is still your best bet’; isn’t that what you said, Mr. Archer?”

Archer felt the sides of the vehicle pressing in against him as his mouth went dry. He swiveled to the left, trying to reach for the door handle as the man rushed forward, clamping his hand around his lapel and cupping his hand over Archer’s mouth.

Chapter 15

Brant flung open the lobby door on the ground floor of the Embassy Hotel, pushing through a crowd of a thousand attendees, who were clad in a medley of homemade and store-bought Halloween costumes. She marched to the security desk, asking to see the supervisor, who promptly escorted her towards the last known location of Archer.

She opened the door of the large conference room and went inside, noting the table full of props on the stage.

“Do you just leave those out all night?” she said, looking over the plethora of fake weapons.

The balding figure, who was a full foot shorter than Archer, gave her a puzzled expression. “No, these should have been packed up by Mr. Archer by now. I know a lot of this stuff is from his personal collection, so it’s not like him to just leave these sitting around.”

Brant walked towards the exit door, opening it slowly and stepping into the service hallway. She saw a toppled pile of plastic cups spread on the ground next to a fallen chair, along with scuff marks in the ruby-colored carpet.

“Can you verify that Archer is in the building?” she said to the portly guard.

“I’ll check.” He grabbed the radio off his belt and then walked away as he spoke to his staff. Returning a minute later, he approached Brant, who was standing by the open door that led to the alley. “Not only has no one seen him in the past hour, but he was absent from the panel discussion that just ended.”

She pointed to the ground by the loading ramp. “And those look like fresh rubber marks.” Brant’s face grew taut as she glanced up at the security camera above her head. “I need to see your footage—where’s your command post located?”

The man swung around faster than she thought he was capable of, motioning with his pudgy hand for her to follow. “Second floor—I’ll take you there myself.”

***

Twenty minutes later, she burst through the doors of the security office just in time to intercept Halsey as he entered the hotel.

“Did you find Archer?”

“Abducted at the rear of the building by what looked to be an Asian perp who then drove off with him.” Halsey tried to keep up with her as she headed for the street. “I already called in the make and plates of the car he was in. Napalme is getting our helo crew up in the air to see if they can spot it.”

She got inside her car, nodding for Halsey to join her. “It looked like they were heading north onto the I-5 according to what I could glean from the security cam angled out back.”

“We’re not going to catch up with them—they’ve got at least a thirty-minute lead on us.”

Brant thrust her foot down on the accelerator, weaving through traffic towards the entrance ramp to the interstate. Hang on, Archer.

She bit her lip, trying to ignore the fact that he had grown on her during the past two days. Forget about it. You don’t need that kind of hassle anymore—the kind that comes with men who pretend they’ve got their act together, and one who’s a pen-monkey at that. As she sped onto the freeway, she pulled her shoulders back and took a deep breath. He’s an intelligence asset, nothing more. She had no trouble focusing on that fact and shoving away any sentiment she might have. Her bitter divorce last December still felt like an open wound in her soul. Adding to that was her intermittent string of horrible relationships with men over the years. Her work was the only constant in her life, and her near-obsessive attention to detail and quest for justice were the things that drove her to excel. If it weren’t for Halsey and Emerson, she would have given up on men long ago. Being raised by a wallowing alcoholic father had imprinted on her psyche that men were weak and not to be trusted to follow through on their promises. At thirty-four, Brant wondered if her tiny condo was going to be her only other refuge from the world besides her office at the precinct. Will my work be my life now? Is that all that there is?

“So, how did Archer get hold of that navy commander’s address off you?” said Halsey with a quizzical expression. “Is he a purse-snatcher too?”

She frowned, angling her head down towards the armrest. “He must’ve grabbed it from the cupholder after we left Coronado. I pulled it out to memorize the address, not thinking Archer would be brash enough to take it and try to look the guy up on his own.”

“So, you weren’t figuring he’d tag along with you after his lecture tonight and head up to San Clemente?”

“Oh, please, I wasn’t going to swoop in like his chauffeur and retrieve him from his bimbette gathering.”

“Has he been any help on the case so far, or are you just keepin’ him around for company?”

“More like a festering thorn in my side.”

“Archer reminds me of my wife’s sister’s second kid, Jake—pesky little bugger who always likes to put his toe over the line to see where he stands with everybody.”

She shook her head. “You couldn’t have just said my sister-in-law’s kid or my wife’s nephew? You always do that shit—draw things out; even in your homicide reports, which are always five pages longer than Emerson’s.”

Halsey cackled, waving his finger at her. “I know what you’re doing, Brant. You like to subtly draw attention away from yourself when being questioned by turnin’ up the heat on whoever is in close proximity.” He leaned across the arm rest. “All this talk about Archer has got you triggered, so now you’re trying to put me in the hot seat about my reports—which, by the way, are longer than Emerson’s because he’s a mook who doesn’t have my complex vocabulary.”

“I do no such thing,” she said, trying not to act flustered. “I just think Archer might serve as a lens for getting another take on things—when he’s not a thorn in my side.”

“Lens —uh-huh, sure.” Halsey shrugged his shoulders, turning his head away while grinning. “You say so, boss, but I think he’s piqued your curiosity—good-looking, successful guy like that—and he specifically requested to be your little sidekick.”

“He’s a consultant, not my damn sidekick, and I’m not even sure that he’s worth his weight yet.” She gave him a predatory glare before returning her eyes to the highway. “Don’t you have to call Hadden and check on the autopsy results instead of playing armchair psychologist?”

Her irritation with Halsey wasn’t from the nature of his comments but from his ability to read her—something that only a few people in her tightly sequestered world could do—and right now she was feeling like she was under a spotlight. She slid her finger over to the air-conditioning dial and cranked it up while Halsey reached for the phone in his jacket just as it rang.

He clicked it onto speaker phone after seeing it was Chief Napalme. “Our helo located the car Archer was in. It’s abandoned next to a playground near Rose Canyon.”

“And Archer?” said Brant.

“Looks like he’s tied up to a rocking horse, but he’s slumped forward, not moving at all.” Napalme paused, tapping on his laptop. “I can’t enhance the footage I’m receiving from the chopper. I’ve got paramedics and a squad car enroute, but you’re only ten minutes out from his location. I’m sending you the exact coordinates.” They heard Napalme’s somber voice reverberate through their vehicle. “And I hope you’re not too late.”

“So do we, sir,” said Halsey, looking up at Brant’s taut face as she gripped the steering wheel and punched the accelerator. We’re coming, Archer.

Chapter 16

Archer felt nauseated, and he wasn’t sure if it was from the chemical odor lingering in his nostrils or from the rocking sensation of the pink seahorse he was taped to—his history of motion sickness rising to greet him. Either way, he felt his stomach threatening to hit the eject button on lunch as he tried to slowly undo his duct tape shackles. He glanced up at the parking lot, where he could see the black Audi, its door ajar. He couldn’t remember much about what happened during the drive to this location other than the face of the deviant who had kidnapped him. Why me? Why does everyone seem so interested in me these days?

He saw a brilliant flash of white in the distance and heard the familiar sound of rotor wash as a helicopter circled back towards him. God, I hope that isn’t Katie Cowan with her film crew.

A second later, a Crown Vic pulled into the parking lot, screeching its wheels as it came to a halt. He saw Brant and Halsey bolt out and sprint towards him, their guns drawn. For a moment, he could swear that the radiance emanating from Brant’s eyes surpassed the overhead spotlight. “Thank heavens, you’re alright,” she said, rushing up alongside him.

He motioned to her to free his hands. “A little help here, please. I’ve got this itch on my back that’s killing me—unless you want to take care of it?”

The light in her eyes was quickly erased as she whipped out a folding knife and held it near his wrists. “Don’t move or you might get cut, real bad.”

Once he was free, he stood up, peeling off the tape from his extremities.

“This isn’t going to get out to the media, is it?” said Archer, thrusting his finger at the pink seahorse. “My critics would have a field day with this. I mean, why couldn’t I have been tied to that huge lion over there instead?”

“The two Asian guys from the hotel did this to you?” Halsey said as he continually scanned their surroundings.

“You had surveillance on me?” He looked at Brant. “Was I being used as bait for a sting operation of yours or something?”

“I think you’re overestimating our interest in you.” She folded her arms, turning to see the police car and ambulance screeching to a halt by her vehicle. Halsey trotted over to relay Archer’s status. A second later, a black Crown Victoria pulled up, and Emerson emerged, clad in his tactical vest.

“The Asian men—we saw one of them carry you out of the hotel after zapping you with a stun-gun. I’m assuming they’re not fans of your work.”

Archer frowned. “Ha-ha—or maybe they’re fanatical devotees.” He finished peeling the last of the duct tape from his wrists and flung it on the ground, then he wobbled to his right, his eyes fluttering while his face became pale. Brant rushed forward to grab his arm before he collapsed, then eased him down to the grass.

“I remember the guy in the back shoving a wet rag over my face that smelled like kerosene and Manischewitz.”

Brant knelt beside him, moving closer to the side of his head while sniffing the air around him. “Must have been chloroform.”

“Dude had a wicked little pistol in a shoulder holster, with a suppressor on it.” He held his index finger up to his temple. “Thought he was gonna put a cap in my dome.”

She flared an eyebrow while gently removing an overlooked strip of duct tape from his forearm. “That saying is like ten years old—nobody uses that anymore.” Brant saw her two detectives approaching and quickly scurried back a foot from Archer, acting like she was scanning the ground for evidence.

“Medics want to know if Archer needs anything,” said Emerson.

“Nah, he’s good,” said Brant, waving them off as Archer gave her a concerned look.

“You’re not a doctor—what if they slipped some radiological poison in me or put a GPS kill-switch in my spinal cord?”

“Then you’re really screwed and beyond anyone’s help,” she said, holding back a grin. “So, what did they want with you?” She extended her hand out to Halsey, who was carrying a water bottle. He flung it to her, and Brant unscrewed the cap, giving it to Archer.

“The little bastard who tasered me was the interrogator. Looked like the lead actor from this Kung Fu movie I used to watch as a kid—Renegade Death Blow. He wanted to know what we talked to the commander at Coronado about. He knew his name, in fact—and yours.”

Brant darted her eyes around the playground then back up to Halsey and Emerson. “Wonder if this is the same guy Hadden saw in the infirmary?”

Archer patted his suit pocket then did the same to his pants. “He took the address I had of the navy commander up in San Clemente.”

“That you lifted from my car—you mean that one?” said Brant, her eyes becoming slit-like.

He emitted a faux smile. “Yeah, that’s it, I’m pretty sure, Detective.”

Halsey and Emerson gave each other sideways glances, then Halsey squatted down to Archer’s right. “Why would these guys be concerned with that information?” Halsey said.

“And how did they even know about it in the first place?” said Emerson.

Archer sat up on his knees then stood, resting his hand on the seahorse while sucking in a deep breath. “I feel like my head is the size of a bowling ball.”

“Looks like one too,” said Emerson. “But that’s nothing out of the ordinary, is it?” He lightly slapped Archer on the shoulder, causing him to wince.

“Easy, man. I was just tasered, beaten up, drugged, and left for dead in this park.”

“He beat you?” said Brant.

“Well, he shoved me back into the seat when I tried to lean forward.” Archer held his palm up. “But he had giant hands like a gorilla.”

“A five-foot Asian guy had mitts that big, eh?” said Emerson, rubbing his chin.

“Alright, let’s go easy. I’m going to get him back to my car,” said Brant. She glanced over at Halsey. “Stick around with the two officers and comb the playground, then get forensics down here to dust the seahorse and other equipment to see if anything turns up.”

“There have to be hundreds of prints from all the kids that frequent this place,” said Halsey, sweeping his hand out around the park. “That’s going to be an all-nighter.”

“That’s why Emerson is going to stay and help you.” She walked alongside Archer, holding on to his elbow.

“You heading back to the precinct then?” said Halsey.

“San Clemente—we need to talk to that retired commander more than ever now. I’ll call the captain on the drive up and notify him of what we learned and see if the PD up there can send a few officers to stake out his house, since the Asian guys have his address.” She felt the need to find the two assailants and to see how they were connected with the case. She figured she would debrief Archer further on the drive north rather than waste precious time returning to the precinct and going through hours of him rehashing his story to Napalme. Not to mention that she took it as a personal affront that someone dared to meddle with her case.

“That’s an hour away—you sure Archer doesn’t need a trip to the ER?” said Emerson.

She stopped in mid-stride and turned to Archer. “What do you say, Archer—an ambulance ride back to the big city or a nice drive along the coast to interview a retired commander about a mystery sub?”

He grinned, his speech slightly slurred. “Well, I used to know the head ER nurse at the county hospital—this lovely brunette with perfectly chiseled cheekbones and eyes like creamy jade that…”

She continued walking, pulling his arm. “Just be quiet and get in the car—and let the adults in your life make the decisions for you.”

Chapter 17

La Jolla, Nine Miles North of Downtown San Diego

“Bro, how many kegs are we gettin’ tonight?” said Brent Turner as he carried two grocery bags of frozen hamburgers, buns, and condiments into the backyard of his friend Derrick Smiley’s three-story estate overlooking La Jolla Cove. Actually, it was Derrick’s father’s house, though Brent spent so much time there in high-school that it felt like a second home. He didn’t come from money like Derrick; instead he was awarded a frisbee scholarship to UCSD for his championship abilities. As treasurer of their fraternity, he was able to overlook the Halloween party’s expenses, so this was going to be a party to remember. Since Derrick’s father was overseas on a business trip, the two college sophomores figured the decadent mansion would be a better fit for a Halloween bash than their run-down frat house.

“Not enough beer is the answer every time I hear that question,” said Derrick Smiley, the three-term president, who sported a white suit coat and jean-shorts while going bare-chested. He smiled, nodding his head towards the makeshift bar assembled next to the kidney-shaped pool. “But then we’ve got plenty of tequila to compensate—and that shit is the real deal from across the border.”

“You’re crazy, heading down there in your Beamer.”

“Hell, I didn’t go—sent the two new guys. Figured it’d be a continuation of their initiation, especially if they had gotten their car jacked and ended up in the crosshairs of some dope-runners in east Tijuana.”

“And who says you’re not a thoughtful guy,” said Brent as he lifted the heavy lid to the barbecue and clicked on the auto-ignite switch. After cranking up the five burners, he lowered the lid and pulled out the three dozen frozen hamburger patties, stacking them on a metal table next to the grill. Brent walked over to the dartboard hanging on the side door of the detached garage, plucking out six darts. “When’d you tell everyone to show up?”

“Seven, but I told Amy and her girls from the swim team to come a little early so you and I can, ya know, get a little mermaid action on.”

“I like your thinking, my man.” Brent finished launching the last dart into the board then walked over to the miniature golf clubs in the corner, extending a long putter out from his crotch while grinning. “I’ve been known to sink a hole-in-one more than a few times.” He leaned back, glancing over at Derrick, who was busy laying out the lounge chairs around the pool. “Amy—is she the one from your English class with the silky red hair and big mangoes whose software you were browsing a few nights ago?”

He raised his eyebrows twice in a row. “No, that’s another Amy.”

A loud crash from the sidewalk to his right caused Brent to drop the putter. He looked at Derrick, who only shrugged his shoulders as he walked closer. Both of them cautiously moved towards the six-foot-high cedar fence, then Brent unlatched the rickety gate and stepped out.

“Look at those fuckin’ drunks—trick-or-treating hasn’t even officially started and they’re already wasted,” said Derrick, staring at five guys dressed in tattered navy uniforms, the flesh hanging off their rotting faces. They shambled along, grunting and snapping their jaws at the two frat boys. “Nice make-up job. That’s some dope special effects you got goin’ on there, fellas.”

Brent stared at the cavern-eyed sailor twenty feet away, who was picking himself up from the knocked-over trash cans. “Hey, you zombie dickheads. How about clearing out of this street before you cause an accident.” He leaned towards Derrick, whispering, “Don’t need any cops coming around here with all the blow we got on the kitchen counter.”

The tallest figure picked up its pace, racing towards the gate. Derrick stepped forward, lowering his stance and giving a double-handed shove into the chest of the sailor. “Back off, bitch.” He felt the cartilage and bones in the ribcage collapse while the surface underneath made a swishing sound. The sailor plummeted back onto the sidewalk, crushing the freshly planted magnolias. A viscous discharge of pus-filled fluid blew out the right eardrum as the sailor’s head impacted the ground.

“Holy shitballs—you see that?” said Brent, who stepped back inside the yard to retrieve the stainless-steel putter. He rushed forward, swinging the putter in the air and yelling, “You heard my friend—get the hell out of here.”

The second sailor pawed at Brent’s face, its cracked yellow teeth snapping as rivulets of crimson saliva leaked from its lower lip. Brent stuck the end of the putter into the sailor’s right shoulder and shoved him away, then swung in the air above it’s head.

“Don’t make me hurt you, tough guy.”

He backed up as the figure rushed forward. Brent gave him a vicious blow along the left temple, causing the sailor to shriek as brittle bone fragments and brain matter spewed out before it slumped to the ground.

“Is this supposed to be a joke?” yelled Derrick, backpedaling towards the gate but missing and slamming his shoulder into the end post. Another enraged sailor darted for him, thrashing its blood-encrusted fingers at his face. As its open jaws gnashed wildly at his face, several teeth splintered apart, dropping onto the lawn. Vacant black eyes stared at Derrick as he grimaced and dropped to one knee while sending his right fist into the solar plexus of the thing. His knuckles tore through the rotting fabric of the white uniform, piercing the skin and penetrating deep into the spongy innards then busting out the backside near the vertebrae. “Jesus, what are these fuckin’ things?”

“Derrick—Derrick Smiley, is that you?” said an older woman’s voice across the street. He saw his rotund neighbor, Ann Capstick, waving her cane in his direction as she stood on her porch, yelling at him in her canary yellow bathrobe. She was the neighborhood prude, a retired Shakespearean playwright who had little to do with her time except scrutinize other people’s lawns and attend city council meetings to push her agenda for more regulations. Derrick had been on the receiving end of the finger-pointing Gestapo through most of his childhood, and he was pretty sure that even Satan had a photo with a red X over her face tacked up at the entrance to hell.

She stepped off her porch, bellowing at him. “You best not be throwing another one of your soused-up pool parties while your father’s away. Get your elven-skinned friends to leave or I’m calling the police.”

“Yeah, call the cops, you crazy bitch. Please, call them!” He withdrew his entrail-covered hand from the creature and shoved the beast down. The stench of the pudding-like goo on his fingers was making him gag. He felt a raw mix of tequila along with his dinner of crab cakes churning in his throat but held back the urge to vomit. The flailing beast rolled on its side just as another sailor leapt onto Derrick, biting down hard on his right ear. The end of the lobe tore free as he shrieked and drove the maniacal freak off him with a kick to the chest.

“This is not in the least humorous, you three-inch fools,” shouted the old woman as she toddled across the street in her faux-fur slippers, her cheeks red. “I’ve had it with you and your boorish ilk denigrating the serenity of this neighborhood, Halloween or not.” She hobbled across the sidewalk, limping along with her cane. Capstick suddenly stopped, raising the sleeve of her forearm to her nose. “Oh my, your villainous smell offends my nostrils.” She stepped back, holding her cane out while looking at the grisly creatures spread out on the lawn, then seeing Derrick’s earlobe disappearing into the hungry maw of the sailor at his feet.

Capstick’s eyes widened. She moved forward, smashing her cane into the disgusting beast’s skull. It moaned as it collapsed, its cranium splitting open and spilling out a slurry of blue-gray paste. Derrick scurried back, looking for Brent as both men tried to force their rubbery legs upright. The remaining two sailors clamoring towards them diverted their attention to the large woman, spinning around and tackling her to the ground. She screamed, flailing her cane as the beasts tore into her flesh, her carotids spewing a crimson stream, like an inground sprinkler suddenly activating at a golf course. She struggled to move, chortling out a bronchial gasp as her face went pale.

Brent and Derrick bolted into the backyard as the two creatures pulled themselves away from Capstick. They got partway inside then stood up, trying to run for the patio door. Both men crashed into the table with the frozen hamburger patties next to the barbecue grill, causing Brent to nearly burn his face while Derrick careened against the garage.

The gangly creatures rushed inside the yard, staring at Brent as he desperately reached back for some kind of weapon. He picked up a frozen patty and spun around, flinging it with expert accuracy honed from his years of frisbee mastery. The half-inch-thick beefy projectile struck the beast in the forehead, causing it to stagger back. The other creature alongside it stopped, sniffing at the air, giving Brent enough time to fling another meaty disk across the lawn into the temple of the second sailor. It shook its head, trying to refocus its gaze.

Brent leaned over, scooping up an armload of patties and commencing with his bovine assault. The next sortie of burgers broke noses, shattered orbital sockets, and crushed tracheas, but the creatures still kept coming, and Brent knew his ammo supply was finite. As he flung his last patty, he felt like the immense yard was shrinking. Then he saw a blur of motion to his right—red, yellow, green, and blue as slim projectiles began filling the torsos and heads of the disheveled sailors. Derrick was hurling darts with the fervor of a javelin expert.

Brent hopped over towards his backpack on the ground by the grill, removing three of his weathered Kan-Jam Ultimate Frisbees, feeling like he’d just grasped an electrified disk. He focused his gaze upon the first creature’s head, which resembled a pastel pincushion, and let slip the frisbee from his coiled arm. It struck the creature in the left side of the skull, collapsing the bone and sending the beast into the swimming pool. Brent hurled his last frisbee, but the creature’s swaying movement caused the projectile to drop low, slicing into the flimsy tendons and muscles of the neck. The head partly separated from the neck, flopping back off the shoulders as the creature staggered forward and collapsed onto the searing lid of the grill.

The two men stood dazed, staring at the macabre scene as their bodies twitched from the adrenaline racing through their veins. Brent stepped over the battlefield of spent burgers, walking past the sizzling corpse on the barbecue while raising his palm up to his mouth. Derrick moved up alongside him, grabbing a beach towel off a lounge chair and pressing it to his mangled ear.

“What the fuck just happened?” said Brent.

He glanced down at his blood-stained white jacket with wide eyes. “Tell me this isn’t a hallucination from that designer coke we got off those three Mexican dudes earlier.”

Derrick glanced back towards the gate. “And what about Capstick? God, she’s dead—they killed her. I always hated that old cow, but why’d she have to die on my dad’s lawn?”

Brent rested his elbows on his knees, still trying to calm his breathing. “I don’t think we’d be here right now if she hadn’t come over. She gave up her life trying to save us.”

Derrick flared an eyebrow. “I wouldn’t stretch it that far.” He removed his phone from his pocket with a trembling hand as he tapped in 911. “But I’ll feel less guilty relaying that version to the police—and the HOA.”

Chapter 18

Brant hung up her phone and placed it back on her console. “That was the chief. He said there was another attack, this time at some frat guy’s party south of Torrey Pines.”

“Anyone hurt?”

“One fatality—an older woman, a neighbor, who tried to break it up, and one of the guys got bit on the ear.” She let out a long exhale. “I told Halsey and Emerson to head over there and assist with the crime scene.”

He leaned his head back, massaging his neck. “I keep wondering if I’m going to wake up from a nightmare that’s right out of one of my books.”

“Yeah, that’s two of us.” She looked at his appearance. “I know you don’t feel too great right now, but I need answers, and this retired commander is the only lead I have. If these creatures are all coming from some sunken submarine, then he is our best bet for pinpointing that location. After that, I’ll notify Commander Eckert, and they can take over that end of the case if it seems appropriate.” She took a deep breath, struggling to form her next words and issue them in a polite tone. “Your insights from what you’ve already gathered and your unique knowledge might be of continued help after all.” She looked over at him then back at the highway. “Your head OK?”

“Still a little woozy—reminds me of this time when I was a judge at a martini-tasting event in Denver called the Colorado Kool-Aid Experience, which was actually a fundraiser for an ostrich rescue group in Africa, and we—”

She fluttered her hand by his face. “I don’t need another colorful story. A simple yes or no will do.”

“Just the facts, ma’am. That’s the kind of person you are—no embellishment. You mostly date robots then?”

“I don’t date these days. Not enough faith in the opposite sex to warrant any interest.”

He rubbed his temples, still trying to clear his head. “Yeah, I heard the reporter back at the beach say something about your recent divorce—no such thing as a good one, I know.”

“It doesn’t stop those afflicted with love from becoming fools.”

“Now you’re the philosopher.” He looked out the window, his eyes lowering. “‘Where there is great love there is great pain.’ That’s what the priest said at my father’s funeral when I was younger. I realized then how it is the one emotion that shapes our perspective on the world and also the one that can shred it—at least until we find a way to heal ourselves.”

She gave him a sideways glance, clenching the steering wheel. “Pretty deep, Archer; and here I figured you for just a half-baked word-slinger.”

“Just saying that it’s very easy for a person to shut themselves off from their capacity to feel by pouring themselves into their work, especially a gritty line of work like dealing with criminals who only serve to remind you of the worst of humanity.”

“You’re barking up the wrong tree, playin’ shrink with me and—”

“Whoa—relax, Detective. This isn’t an observation entirely about you—just something I’ve noticed about cops in general. Take Halsey and Emerson—the only time they crack a smile is when they are making some wise-ass comment about a perp or crime scene, or anyone else who enters their sphere. I know there’s more to those guys than that, but they have this need to divert attention away from themselves so no one can see beyond their stony exterior to their pain.” He interlaced his fingers. “I get it—it’s a necessary defense mechanism in your line of work, but it should be one that gets hung up on the coat rack with your pistol at the end of the day.”

“Says the guy who never stops thinking about horror stories and death.”

“But the keyboard is my therapist, and I can get out the internal mayhem where others might let it eat them up or cause them to shut out the world.” He pre-emptively raised his hand towards her. “Again, not you.” He turned away, muttering, “Mostly.”

“I’ve got my own ways of releasing stress.” She put up an outstretched hand. “And no, I don’t care to share with you.”

Her phone ranged, and she picked it up, fielding a call from Halsey then setting it back down on the console.

“The local police are at the home of Muskem Rydell, and there aren’t any signs of the two Asian guys in the area.”

“That’s a relief,” said Archer.

“Who names their kid Muskem?” said Brant.

“Probably a Cajun from the Deep South, like Louisiana or one of those states. Folks there are pretty down-homey.”

She glanced at him, shaking her head. “You ever been in the swamplands of the southern U.S., or have you just taken a Google cruise there?”

“Oh, I’ve traveled a fair bit in my time.”

“I don’t mean to vineyards for wine sampling tours. Do you actually venture off to the places you write about in your book or is it largely from online research?”

“Depends on the book. Like in The Cask of Azombieando, which is about an insane doctor in Italy who takes in arthritic pickpockets then uses them in his undead experiments, I felt the need to walk the cobblestone streets in those small hamlets around Tuscany to get a feel for the visual fabric of the region, so I did a month of research there.”

Brant snickered. “A month in Tuscany, eh? Boy, the things you suffer through for your readers.”

“It’s not all about slaving away at the keyboard, Brant. There’s real time pounding the pavement for answers, just like with what you do.”

She rolled her eyes. “Sure there is. Now, back to reality—let me handle questioning Rydell. I don’t want you to turn this into a three-hour history class, so let’s just stick to the details surrounding the sinking of that Japanese submarine and his recollection of their presence in the region.”

Archer raised up his left hand and saluted. “Aye aye, skipper.” He leaned in closer to her. “But aren’t you intrigued by what that sub was really doing here? I mean, besides trying to lob missiles at our cities. That photo the Asian guy showed me of the one-armed physician and the fact that we now have undead Japanese sailors washing up on our shores must mean they were undertaking some biological weapons program that went astray.”

“Of course I’m intrigued—that goes with the—but I just need information on the sub, its location, and what he knows about whoever scribbled their notes on that photograph in 2002. That person could be the next breadcrumb in this case.”

As the car turned the corner into the residential neighborhood, they could both see two squad cars parked on the right near the last house on the lane. Brant slowed, bringing the Crown Vic to a halt beside a large catalpa tree whose branches hung over the curb. She turned off the engine then glanced over at Archer. “You sure you’re feeling OK?”

“Great, let’s do this,” he said, holding up a fist while shifting his eyes from side to side. “I got your six.”

“God, I hope not.”

Chapter 19

Chief Napalme looked out at the street lights below his fifth-floor office at the precinct, wondering if he would have enough men to contain the impending disaster that was on his city’s doorstep. In his twenty-six years of working as a public servant in law-enforcement, he had never encountered anything like this current case. The undead landing on his shores and attacking people, a possible Japanese submarine from World War II, along with a mysterious Asian assailant whose agenda was still unclear. This is the stuff of science-fiction novels, horror movies—and James Archer books. He looked at his watch, examining the date again. He wondered if he would wake up tomorrow and find that this was all a Halloween-related nightmare.

He heard his phone ring and looked at the caller ID but already knew in his gut who it was. “Mayor Steenberg, I don’t have anything further since we last spoke three hours ago.”

“This city’s clock is ticking, Eddie. By midnight, I will be forced to activate the National Guard. We can’t have this city infested by a bunch of disease-carrying sailors.”

Not much different than most naval ports around the world, thought the former marine.

“I understand, sir, but I’ve got Brant and her team on this, including Archer. If anyone can defeat this threat, they can. They just need more time to put the pieces together.”

“I’ve already spoken with the director of the CDC. He and the President believe that a region-wide quarantine needs to be in effect, including closing off the beaches completely to the public.”

“That’s over a hundred miles of shoreline, sir. There’s no way even the National Guard can keep every teenager or vagrant out of that area.”

He heard Steenberg seething. “Why couldn’t this be limited to the east side of town? I’d have no problem razing those slums and the dregs in it—more like a colony of sewer rats, and probably all unregistered voters who can barely spell their names in the ground with a stick.”

Napalme fluttered his eyelids, wondering what the citizens of San Diego would say if they knew the pudgy politician with the coconut-white smile on the highway billboards was a devotee of his own brand of eugenics. Maybe they’d stage a coup and remove his lard-ass.

“How are your people doing with running interference with the media on what’s happening?” said Napalme.

“That’s the only good news—no pun intended, Chief. They think all the reports are connected with Halloween pranks gone overboard or with Horror-Con. There is one reporter though, Katie Cowan with Channel 12 News, who got wind of something on the beach yesterday with those sailors that Brant and her crew put down. Fortunately, Archer masterfully redirected her, saying something about it being connected with one of his films, but she was also seen loitering around the frat guy’s house, so it’s not long before she figures out that the sailors are…are…” Steenberg paused, his heavy exhalations making it seem like he was on an evening jog. “What the fuck are we calling these things? Zombies, zeeks, undead illegals?”

“Just ‘undead’ for now,” said Napalme, scratching the back of his head.

“Anyway, my inside contact at Channel 12 News says Cowan thinks there’s a connection and that they are crime scenes, not movie locations.”

“That’s just great! We don’t need the media fueling panic. Cowan is that bungling lunatic who did the scathing news segment on our department last spring, casting Brant as incompetent.”

“Leave her to me. I will throw Cowan a bone that will help ease her curiosity. That should buy us some time.”

“Neither of us can afford widespread panic in this city on an already chaotic holiday night.”

For once, he agreed with the mayor. As he hung up, he looked back out at the window, pressing his balled right fist onto the window. Get a move on whatever the hell you are doing, Brant, so we can wrap our fuckin’ hands around this.

Chapter 20

Walking up the rickety porch steps to Rydell’s house, Archer saw an older man sitting motionless on a rocking chair to the right, his puffy face barely visible in the shadows. “So, are you two da reason I got the cops giving my place a lawn-job?” Despite his years of living along the California coast, Muskem still had a gooey-thick Southern accent.

Brant smiled. “I’m Detective Lindsey Brant and this is James Archer. We were hoping to talk with you about your experience commanding your destroyer in World War II.”

Archer stepped closer, extending his hand. “Muskem Rydell, I presume?”

The man drew out his nod, as if he was going to fall asleep. “You betcha, young fella.”

“Muskem—is that a Southern name?” Archer said, glancing over at Brant, who wrinkled her nose.

“Sure is. I’m from Mississippi, ya see, but my dad’s side was all Cajun, from da bayous outside of New Orleans.”

The old-timer rocked the chair forward, using the momentum to half-stand, then clutched Archer’s forearm and pulled himself straight. “Always happy to talk about the war, especially to a lovely lady.” He smiled at Brant, pointing to the front screen door. “Let’s go inside—my personal nurse is gone for a few hours so it’ll be quiet. Besides, this breeze out here is chillin’ my ass.”

He hobbled through the entrance as Brant held the door. As they walked through the dining room, Archer couldn’t decide if he felt like he was inside a museum or a mausoleum, given the slew of vintage items adorning the walls coupled with the unnerving silence that came with the thick walls of the old house.

“So, what can I do for ya two?” Rydell said, easing himself onto a well-worn couch in the corner.

“We’d like to inquire about sightings of Japanese submarines off the coast of California during World War II. We were told by a commander at Coronado that you had direct knowledge of such matters,” said Brant, who sat down in a kitchen chair across from Rydell while Archer sat on a footstool to the man’s left.

The navy veteran let his eyes float around the faded stucco on the ceiling. “Ah, so long ago, but sometimes it seems like only last week.” He fiddled with his fingers. “Not often I get such youngsters coming around ma house askin’ about those days—last time was probably ten years or more, actually. He was a detective like you—or maybe a federal officer. I can’t recall.”

“Really? Asking about what, if you don’t mind me inquiring?” said Archer.

“He was this pencil-necked prick with a hook-shaped scar on his cheek. Looked like one of those cartoon villains out of a Superman magazine. He kept grilling me on the I-12 Japanese submarine we sank in ‘43 southwest of here. Said he wanted to know if the one we eliminated had any bodies that floated to the surface.” He shook his head in the negative. “I told him no and then gave him an approximate location of where the vessel was last spotted before we unleashed our payload on ‘em. After that, he left.” Rydell rubbed the parchment-like skin on his cheek. “Seemed like a long way to come for just a two-minute interview—but then them boys outta DC have never been known to have much under their wigs.”

“Why would he ask you about the bodies?” said Brant. “What could be gleaned from that besides identifying the nationality, which you already knew was Japanese?”

“My guess is that it was probably connected with the enemy transmission we intercepted just before we sank that vessel.” He lowered his voice, his eyes darting around the room. “My radio officer picked up comms chatter from the sub about the crew being infected with some virus they had been injected with before they arrived out here. Those Nips were given orders by their imperial commander to use any of their remaining artillery on the U.S. shoreline. Then, when they were depleted, they were told to surface, releasing their infected crew on the beaches to spread the disease in a kamikaze mission.”

Archer felt his stomach tighten as he clenched the edge of his wooden chair. So, they were involved in some primitive bioweapons program. Maybe the sinking of the sub buried the formula, which is why that Asian guy who washed up on the beach was after its whereabouts.

Rydell tried to sit upright but only managed a partial slump. “But that never made it into the official logs at the time, and it has been kept out of the history books. My commander then, Admiral Bentley, didn’t want it known by da rest of the world that a lesser race like the Japs had a greater grasp of science than our guys. Plus, the President ordered him to lock away the recording. I was a pretty young fella back then, in my mid-twenties at the time, and I wasn’t even supposed to be in command, but our CO had his appendix burst and was out of commission, so I stepped in as acting commander for a few weeks, hoping nothing ugly would rear its head in our waters.”

He scratched the tip of his right ear. “Anyway, I felt the need to concur with the admiral, and he said that the recording of the transmission should be preserved just in case there was ever an outbreak of some kind. This was before anything like the CDC existed, so where Bentley put that tape is beyond me, but I wondered afterwards if that dumbbell from DC had come across it and begun an investigation.”

Archer and Brant gave each other grave looks, as if an arctic chill had penetrated the room. Archer rubbed the back of his neck, then he slowly reached into his pocket and pulled out the photograph that Commander Eckert had given him. “Is this the same vessel you sank?”

Rydell floated his deeply furrowed fingers over the contours of the submarine. “Yes, that’s her.” He let out a sigh, staring out the window as if he were back on his destroyer. “We were doing a routine patrol off the coast near Catalina Island that day. I was down in the mess hall, talking with one of da negro cooks about addin’ some Cajun flavor into da menu when I got the call from my XO that an enemy sub had been spotted to the south.”

He clutched the sides of the couch. “Can you imagine our surprise at seeing a Nip sub right off the goddamned coast of San Diego? We didn’t know if there was a fleet of vessels out there, all set to unleash hell, or if it was just that one, but there was no way I was going to let them slip past my ship.”

“Was this by San Clemente Island or further out by San Nicolas?” Brant said.

“Due south of San Clemente Island. They were makin’ da run for more open waters. Them bastards knew we were comin’ and submerged before we could get a fix on ‘em with the big guns. Mind you, this was in the days when sonar was pretty crude—hell, the whole damn destroyer was just a big slab a steel held togetha by a few tons of bolts. We didn’t even have air-conditioning, so it was hotter than my aunt Clara’s kitchen after she made porcupine pie.”

Archer flared an eyebrow. “Wonder why that dish never caught on in diners.”

“Anyhow, I issued da order to pursue the sub, and when we got another fix on our sonar, we dropped all of our remainin’ depth charges. The surrounding waters looked like Poseidon himself had just let one rip.”

“And you sank the sub?” said Brant. “Were you able to confirm that?”

“No way a vessel coulda survived that poundin’, Detective.” He leaned forward, squinting like he was looking out on the ocean. “We got ‘em. In fact, one of our spotters—a midshipman, Tyberius Rosales, who was some kinda Polish-Mexican mongrel but had a helluva eye—he found some fragments of metal floatin’ on the surface a few hours later. That was enough for me at the time, but it could be that the sub just had some hull damage and sank to the bottom, where the crew later died once their oxygen ran out.”

“Anything else? You said there weren’t any bodies, but were there any other signs of debris from the insides of the ship?” said Archer.

“Actually, there were in fact bodies all over the place—every goddam dolphin, whale, shark, octopus, manta ray, sea bass, sting ray, eel, you name it. We could’ve fed the entire U.S. Navy with all the seafood floating around that day. Dat’s something they never show you in all those lefty Hollywood films when the bad guy’s vessel gets hit with depth charges.”

“Shame, it sounds like the toll on sea life was devastating,” said Archer, his eyes lowering.

“Still makes me sick to look back on it, and it’s why, to this day, I can’t bear to watch The Little Mermaid or Finding Nemo with my great grandkids.” He looked at some old photos on his fireplace mantle then stared at Archer. “I still think about dat mission and its impact on the sea life—but before you start feeling sorry for our aquatic kin, just think of the toll on our country, and even da outcome of the war, if those Japs had succeeded with their mission to our shores.” He put his immense hand on Archer’s knee, squeezing hard. “Think about that real good, young fella, the next time you’re bustin’ apart the shell of a succulent crab and scooping out that sweet white flesh. Sometimes things gotta die so you can live.”

Archer’s lips went flat, and he slid his chair back a few inches. “Yeah, of course. I, uhm, surely will.” He gave Brant a sideways glance, nodding his chin towards the front door.

She stood up, shaking Rydell’s hand. “Thank you for your time, sir. This has been very helpful.”

Archer extended his arm out as far he could without stepping any closer and gave a perfunctory smile.

Once they were on the porch, Brant stopped to scan the surrounding homes and street beyond the two squad cars, wondering if the two assailants who had abducted Archer were somewhere in the shadows. As Archer moved up alongside her, she gave him an appreciative nod.

“You’re not bad at conducting an interview. I don’t spend much time on the ocean, so your question about the location between the two islands was—”

He interrupted her, standing more upright. “Brilliant.”

“No.”

“Clever.”

“No.”

“Ingenious.”

“I was going to say useful.”

“Oh.” He frowned, lowering his eyes.

She stepped off the porch, walking to the front gate as Archer followed along. He thrust his thumb back towards the house. “I think this guy was also commander-in-chief of the good ole boys’ club, with all of his derogatory comments about his crew. It’s people like that who were probably the reason behind the military implementing mandatory briefings on bigotry.”

“Did he just rattle your cage, Archer?”

He tugged on his shirt sleeves, pulling his head back. “I’m just not used to interviewing card-carrying rednecks out here.”

“Really? You need to get out more then. The world’s not all comprised of your hoity-toity bestselling author buddies and their wives with the three-carat diamond rings.”

His facial muscles quivered. “Stereotype, much, Detective? Now you’re sounding like Jim Crow back there.”

“Oh, please, I’m not being racist.” She walked towards the front gate while glancing back at him with a wry smile. “I’m just good at pegging people who are easy to profile.”

Brant stopped to talk to the lead officer and thank him for his help in watching Rydell’s house before heading back to her vehicle, then getting inside while Archer did the same.

“So, these officers gonna hang around here to keep an eye on Rydell for a while?”

“That’s up to their police chief, but it’s probably not a bad idea.”

Archer thought back to Rydell’s comments about the intercepted transmission as he balled his fist. “All these years there’s been a biological time bomb sitting on the floor of the ocean, waiting for the right cascade of events to bring it out of the depths. God, how could that just have been swept aside after the war by the admiral?”

“At the time there would have been no way of even sending crews down to search for that wreckage, especially given how depleted our nation’s resources were back then.”

Archer opened up his fist, wiping his sweaty palm on his pant leg. “And my guess is that the President had no intention of revealing to a war-weary population that there had been a Japanese submarine with infected sailors right off the coast of California. For all he knew, Rydell had sunk the vessel and that ended the threat.”

She looked over at Archer, her face growing rigid. “Until now.”

***

Johnny Tengu and Koji were standing in the living room of an empty home for sale down the street from Rydell’s house, watching and waiting. Everything was unfolding as Tengu had planned, with Archer showing up at the navy vet’s place along with a strong police presence.

“Are you sure this is going to lead us to him?” whispered Koji, who was hidden in the shadows next to the large living room window.

Tengu paused in between chews of his clove chewing gum. “He has to show himself now that the detective and Archer are on site. With that GPS tracker embedded in Archer’s jacket, we’re going to practically have a hand-drawn map to where the facility is located.”

“That’s assuming he will take Archer and the woman back there. What if he doesn’t?”

“He has to. Archer is way too connected with this whole operation. He just doesn’t know it yet.” Tengu spit his gum onto the carpet and peered out from the edge of the window as Brant and Archer walked to their car. “Besides, that government site is a secondary target. My first priority is still obtaining tissue samples from patient zero—wherever the hell that one-armed freak is at—and that may be happening sooner than expected now, given the new development with the submarine according to the last transmission from my employer.”

Tengu removed the handheld GPS scanner from his back pocket and turned it on, then he headed through the kitchen to the side door, where their stolen vehicle was parked. Time at last.

Chapter 21

Brant retraced their route through the circuitous streets in the tightly confined neighborhood, which was a blend of modern housing wedged between 1960s tract homes.

“That was some food for thought,” said Archer, jotting down notes in a small leatherbound journal he pulled from his suitcoat.

Brant was silent, her eyes fixed on the street.

“That’s the kind of guy who could fill a few books with all of his experiences, if you can get past his crusty mannerisms.” He looked up from his journal at her taut face as she took a hard right turn, causing him to slide into the door.

“Can’t wait to get out of San Clemente, eh?”

She took a left turn at an intersection, just catching the light as it turned red. Brant’s knuckles were turning white as she clenched the steering wheel, glancing again at the rearview mirror. “We’ve got a tail. They waited until we were away from the house with the police cars.” She nodded, taking another right turn. “Black Lexus two hundred yards behind us.”

“Those Asian guys again?”

“Let’s hope not.”

She nodded down to the console. “My phone—call Emerson. Have him patch me through to the police chief here.”

Archer hastily grabbed the device and pressed the activate button, speed-dialing Emerson, whose name was listed from his last call. Archer pressed the phone to his ear then pulled it back, staring at the screen. “No service. How can that be? We’re in the damn city, with cell towers all over the place.” He pivoted in his seat, staring over his shoulder at the Lexus, which was gaining. “Unless they don’t want us to call out.”

She squinted her eyes. “That’s absurd. How could they—” She slammed on the brakes. The tires squealed, and they both swung forward in their seats as a garbage truck pulled into the two-lane street, blocking the way.

The Lexus stopped directly behind their rear bumper, the headlights flooding through the interior. Brant unbuckled and withdrew her Glock as two figures moved in from either side just as something shattered through the glass of the driver’s-side rear window. Brant and Archer hunched forward, covering their faces as a fine green mist filled the interior. Brant felt like her head weighed fifty pounds. She reached for the door handle, yanking on it, but her arm seemed to be made of Jell-O. She felt herself slumping into the steering wheel, the horn sounding as her chest pressed against it. Then the blaring sound grew dim as her sagging eyelids shut.

Chapter 22

Archer felt a warm breeze waft across his face as he looked up at the stars overhead. He was surprised at how crisp the Big Dipper seemed and thought about the last time he saw it with such clarity, in the Anza Borrego Desert east of San Diego, far from the effects of city lights. He heard a woman moan and turned to see Brant lying on the truck bed next to him, her eyelids starting to flutter. Archer sat up on one elbow, brushing her honey-blonde hair off her face.

“This reminds me of a dream I had about you, only without the headache I have now.”

She pushed his hand off her, shooting up and blinking her eyes hard. “Where the hell are we?”

“In good hands, I assure you, Detective,” said a gravelly voice to her right. Archer felt his heart skip a beat; he had been unaware that there was a man standing so close. His face was in the shadows, but Archer could see that he was very fit, with deltoids that resembled two grapefruits.

“My apologies for the snatch-and-grab. It was necessary to handle things this way.” He stepped forward into the light emanating from a nearby warehouse. Archer sat up, seeing the face of a man in his late thirties, with cropped black hair and three days of stubble. He had a sickle-shaped scar on his right jaw, and his green t-shirt was clinging to his pecs.

“Mitch Riker,” whispered Archer, in a partial delirium.

“What?” said Brant, pushing herself upright.

Archer bit his lip, turning red. “God, did I just say that out loud?” He rubbed his cheeks then sucked in a deep breath.

The spry figure moved forward without making a sound. “Name’s Bauer. Clive Bauer.”

“Whew—I thought you were going to say your first name was Jack, like in that TV series,” Archer said with a grin.

Clive gave a firm nod. “Yeah, that character was based on my brother. He was always the black sheep in the family, though we don’t keep in touch much these days.”

“What, no kidding, really?” said Archer, his mouth hanging open.

Clive smacked Archer hard on the shoulder. “Just shitting you. I vaguely recall that name from some hack show on counter-terrorism. I haven’t watched TV in years.” He stroked his chin. “Probably since Jalalabad, when me and my guys were waiting for the SEALs to arrive so they could help us take down OBL—though we were only there to observe from a distance, according to the official report from Langley. I can’t tell you how many terrorists over there have had their heads suddenly split apart from me observing them from a fucking distance.” He looked up at the stars, tucking his hands into his pockets. “But then I’m getting off track, ain’t I, and we’re not here to talk about our government’s nefarious undertakings, as enlightening as that sounds, are we?”

Archer and Brant gave each other a worried look, wondering what circus they had just been whisked off to and who the ringmaster was. They both slid forward, easing themselves down off the tailgate onto the sandy ground. It looked like they were standing in the middle of an abandoned airstrip somewhere in the desert. Archer could see a series of dilapidated Quonset huts next to a large warehouse that had several SUVs and trucks parked near the entrance. The windows were lit, and he could hear the sound of people talking inside. To his right was a low range of mountains, their jagged tops resembling a warped hacksaw. He was pretty sure the veil of illumination beyond the mountains was from the lights of San Diego.

“Do you realize you’ve abducted a police officer?” snapped Brant, feeling her side for her pistol.

“Easy, Detective. We’re on the same side.” He rested his meaty forearms on the side of the truck. “You want answers about the nightmare that has come to your shores, and I’m here to provide those.”

“Who the hell are you exactly, and what is this place?” said Brant.

“Let’s just say I’m with a branch of our government that doesn’t officially exist on the logbooks. We were formed to investigate reanimation serums and technologies in the event our enemies ever create a virus that creates real-world zombies, though if you’ve ever been to Berkeley, you’ll wonder if that time has already come.”

Archer flared an eyebrow. “A branch of our government—sure you don’t mean a twig? That’s some pretty esoteric stuff you just rattled off. How much of a threat can that be? I mean, I’ve spent the past decade researching and writing about such stories and have never gotten wind of any type of threat like you’re describing.”

Bauer waved his hand towards the warehouse. “And we’re the reason why no one has ever heard about those threats.”

Archer studied the man’s chiseled face, once again noticing the comma-shaped scar on his cheek. He leaned in closer to Brant. “Remember Rydell talking about some dude with scars from DC coming to interview him?”

“That’s right, Mr. Archer. Rydell provided me with the rough whereabouts of the sub. After that, my team spent much of the next six months reconnoitering those waters until we found it. It was located on an extremely deep bench that we figured was secure enough not to be discovered by pesky salvage divers and history buffs, most of whom now suspect it was located many miles to the north based upon false intel and stories we propagated.”

“So, you’ve been down to the sub?” said Brant.

“No, our head research scientist was sure that it was a tomb with infected Japanese sailors, and after what happened with the first Japanese sub we examined in the Pacific—the one that shelled Santa Barbara and Portland in ‘42—we figured the sub resting in the waters west of San Diego wasn’t going anywhere. Thankfully, its hull was still intact, so it posed no problem. Plus, it could serve as an emergency repository of the virus until our agency developed a cure. Something must have changed all of that in recent weeks, leading to the appearance of those undead sailors on your beaches.”

Brant put her hands on her hips, stepping closer to Bauer. “You’ve known about this all along and just kept silent! What if these things had killed a bunch of kids on the beach? Were you just going to sit back and watch it all unfold?”

“Honestly, Detective, I didn’t think something like this would ever happen. That vessel had been contained in one location for over half a century. Our recent thermal scan of the submarine indicated that someone placed charges along the front of the hull and breached the inside enough to gain entry to one sealed-off chamber in the vessel. That must have unleashed the first round of creatures you encountered on the beach.” Bauer rubbed the back of his neck. “Problem is, the water pressure in the submarine from that first explosion destabilized the vessel last night, causing it to slide off the bench it was on and plummet four hundred meters, completely rupturing the hull.” He gave them both a hard stare, speaking calmly, as if he were reading a news clipping. “Within the next few hours, there are going to be close to a hundred zombies on your beaches.”

Brant balled her fist, her jaw clenching. “I’ve got to warn my people so they can—”

“I’ve already been in touch with Chief Napalme. His SWAT teams are on standby. We’ve got about two hours before the tide carries in those cheese-faced freaks. With things escalating in the past few hours, my team and I are coordinating with the SEALs at Coronado to get some helos over the ocean and start sniping ops.” He scratched his chin. “Not sure about the whole Posse Comitatus thing with the SEALs in this type of situation. I mean, it’s not like we’re shooting our own citizens or even on our own soil, technically.” He slammed his palm onto the truck. “Nah, I’ll deal with that shit after the storm, like always.”

Jesus, this guy must have been hit by a bat in the head when he was a kid. “So, the first submarine also had an infected crew?” said Archer.

“Yes, that’s right. Until his untimely death a few years ago, our head researcher believed that the virus found on board the I-5 Nikotero submarine was formulated using some type of pathogen found in the jungles of the Philippines, but there are over 2,200 islands over there, and he spent the better part of ten years trying to track down its origin, given how deadly it was. He needed to locate the mother source in order to formulate a vaccine.”

“Why not locate patient zero on the submarine?” said Archer. “Rydell told us that his radio officer intercepted a Japanese transmission about the crew getting injected with a virus that they were going to unleash upon on our shores.”

“We thought of that too,” said Bauer, “only there was no way we could scour the insides of the sub, trying to identify patient zero amongst 130 hungry zeeks waiting to chomp on the first diver who entered the porthole. Not to mention that those poor creatures have been in a state of near-suspended animation all this time down in those frigid waters, and one mistake with breaching that sub could have released all of them. Then who knows where they’d end up?”

“How about San Diego for starters,” said Brant with an irritated look.

“But their appearance has only been limited to that region,” said Bauer. “A hull rupture could have meant that the bodies were dispersed throughout the ocean, possibly ending up in Hawaii, Mexico, or Seattle, which would make containment of the situation even more dire.”

Archer thought back to the Asian man who abducted him and the photograph of the one-armed officer on the sub. Was that patient zero? Was someone trying to locate him so they could restart work on the mysterious virus? He thought of telling Bauer this but still wasn’t sure what they were doing here and what Bauer’s intentions were.

“We’re on a timeline, so we need to get moving.” Clive turned and moved a foot closer to him. “Jim—can I call you Jim?” Archer opened his mouth to respond but was cut off. “Jim it is then.” The lanky operator folded his arms, pressing his well-defined biceps out. “Jim, you are the reason we are all here.” He tilted his head, focusing one eye on Archer. “Your esteemed father’s research is the common denominator that we share—helluva scientist from what I have heard.”

“My father—what? How…how do you even know anything about him or his work?”

“Wait, Archer’s father is tied into what’s happening in San Diego with those undead sailors?”

“Sort of—but in a big way.” Bauer rested a hand on Archer’s shoulder. “You see, he was our head researcher and one of my mentors.”

Bauer’s hand suddenly felt like a two-ton steel plate, and Archer’s breathing constricted like he had just cracked through a hole in the ice of a frozen lake. How is this possible—my father involved in all of this? Why would Mom keep this from me all this time—unless she didn’t even know. He felt his stomach coil in knots. So, his death in that plane crash—maybe it wasn’t an accident. If he was connected with an off-the-books agency like this, who knows what enemies he made over the years. It felt like a brilliant flash of white light was illuminating his mind, allowing him to see across a broad expanse of formerly unreachable territory. Archer felt the tension in his shoulders start to ease, and he sucked in a deep breath as his gut told him to listen to what Bauer was saying.

Bauer swiveled around and started walking, leaving Archer and Brant staring at each other as he headed towards an immense warehouse. “It’ll be easier to explain if you just follow me inside and see for yourself.” Clive paused and glanced over his shoulder at Archer. “And Jim, I think you’ll be astounded at what your late father was able to accomplish in the realm of cryogenetics, building off of what the Japanese started during World War II.”

Archer leaned against the truck for a second, catching his breath.

“You OK?” said Brant.

He swallowed hard. “Ask me again in an hour. I think this night is going to keep filling up with surprises.”

Chapter 23

“The security perimeter is neutralized and the target is acquired,” said Koji into his ear-mic as he lay prone on the desert floor, three hundred yards from the abandoned airfield. Spread out around him in the nearby boulders were a dozen other heavily armed mercenaries. “Subjects are entering a warehouse, and Bauer is with them.”

The voice of Tengu replied, “Good; destroy their lab inside and kill Bauer. Any of his research staff are a bonus, but get the intel connected with the father’s research.”

“Copy. Are you enroute to the primary target?”

“Twenty minutes out. The creatures should be floating to shore in great numbers now with the rising tide.”

“Godspeed to you.”

“God?” Tengu laughed, his voice lowering. “When we have patient zero, even God will be unable to stop the coming plague.”

Chapter 24

As they entered the immense warehouse, Archer saw a half-dozen men and one woman who were clad in white lab coats. They were sitting at computer cubicles inside an eighty-foot-by-eighty-foot glass chamber that extended to the ceiling. In the center was a steel box resembling a small storage unit. It was covered in rust, with a round entrance bordered with jagged edges, as if the door had been blown off. Archer craned his head, getting a glimpse inside, and saw what looked like a periscope and several work stations with sonar monitors.

“What you’re looking at, few people outside of this circle have seen. That was the bridge from the first Japanese sub that was sunk in the Pacific. We managed to separate and salvage this compartment from the rest of the badly damaged hull back in 2002.” Bauer moved up beside Brant. “There were also four perfectly preserved bodies of sailors on board, all of whom had succumbed to the virus. In fact, they looked much like the creatures you shot on the beach, Detective.”

“How would you know that?” she said.

“We hacked into the SDPD database and examined the crime-scene photos after we heard about the first incident. We’ve been keeping tabs on everything: you, Hadden, Napalme, and everything you’ve all been doing to handle the situation.”

Archer shot a glance at Brant, whispering, “He probably knows everything about us, including extremely personal details—like how many people we’ve slept with.”

Brant frowned. “He’d have to hire extra staff to gather all of your numbers.”

Bauer shook his head. “You guys always like this on the job?”

“I’m the only one on the job here. For Archer, its playtime that he thinly disguises as book research.”

A female technician in a white lab coat came to the window, pointing to a small room off to the right. “We’ve got everything set up like you requested, sir.”

Bauer gave her a slight nod then waved at Archer and Brant to follow him. They walked into a short hallway that connected to an observation room. The lights on the other side of the thick glass flickered on, revealing the remains of three sailors, whose bodies were strapped to gurneys. Their muscles and tendons were clearly visible on their extremities, while their ribs shone through a delicate veil of remnant tissue. The skulls showed patches of bone matter, while their eye sockets were nothing more than cavernous orbs, making the entire face resemble a melted candle.

The macabre scene reminded Archer of a human anatomy mannequin that his mother brought home for Halloween one year to dress up in a lab coat out on the porch. He remembered being afraid to go outside for a week. This time, he was both fascinated and terrified as he studied the cadavers, unsure if he had finally lost his sanity and crossed into the realm of science-fiction.

“This is where your father’s research on cryogenetics all started,” said Bauer. “He was able to make great strides here during the first year because of the intact and reanimated corpses he had access to, which later tied in with the work he performed off the coast of Chile.” He raised his hands up. “Before that, it had all been theoretical—but hell, your father was so brilliant that his research, even on paper, was ahead of its time.”

Archer felt a surge of anger and betrayal rush through his veins, upset that he was hearing about this secondhand instead of from the man he adored and trusted—the loving father that had been torn away from him. How come Bauer got to spend ten years working with him! Why am I finding out about this through a stranger? Why did Dad keep so much from me?

“These were the original creatures that were salvaged out of the first sub. They are contained in an oxygen- and temperature-controlled chamber to preserve their bodies. Or at least semi-preserve; as you can see, their skin sloughed off long ago.”

Brant slowly moved towards the window, narrowing her eyes as she peered inside. “Are they still capable of…” She paused, staring at the gruesome musculature and raw features. “Can these still move like the ones on the beach?”

“Yes, but barely—they have been kept in this state of suspended animation for so long that there is very little left of their cerebral functions. They would struggle to even lift a hand, let alone attack someone.”

Archer felt his throat go dry. “And my father was involved in doing all of this?”

“Yes. Pretty astounding what he was able to accomplish, wouldn’t you say, Jim?”

Archer slowly turned around, glowering at Bauer. “My father would never agree willingly to something like this—experimenting on monsters in some off-grid lab. He was a good man, interested in saving others—that’s why he was down in Chile. I recall his work there, and it was sanctioned by the medical college, who thought it could lead to breakthroughs in preserving terminally ill patients for future cures.” He flung his hands in the air. “Not this—creating a house of horrors.”

“I understand your frustration at—”

Archer clenched his fists and advanced towards Bauer. “You don’t know shit about what I’m feeling. And why the hell did you bring us here, anyway? So you could wave around your hands at your bizarre accomplishments? So I would feel some sense of pride in my father’s work?” He thrust his face into Bauer’s as his voice deepened, yelling at the man. “And by the way, your dad worked for the spooks and is intimately connected with the events of the past forty-eight hours. Why, you’ve got some catching up to do on his past, Jimmy boy.”

Brant grabbed his right arm, gently tugging him back. “Easy, Archer.”

Bauer hadn’t moved an inch, but he relaxed his shoulders and softened his intense gaze, which caused a similar response in Archer.

“I can see now that this is too much to take in at one time, but I need you to put aside however you feel about this place and about me. I’ve got more pressing matters––like getting to the beach to take care of the inbound zombies.” He turned towards the door, motioning for them to follow.

They walked down a narrow steel corridor with elephant-gray walls that resembled the inside of a battleship, passing through a small communications room staffed with four men engaged in chatter, then they turned right and headed down a flight of steps into another corridor as he headed towards his personal berth to retrieve his tactical gear.

Archer heard a deafening explosion that shook the floor, causing books to fall off Bauer’s desk. A second later, the emergency sirens on the wall began blaring.

“What the fuck was that?” shouted Bauer as he grabbed a tablet off the table. He tapped on the security footage, which showed a group of Asian men in black suits attacking the guards at the rear entrance. “Breached—how’s that possible? This is one of the most off-grid, secure facilities in the West.”

Archer stared at the facial images of the men storming into the warehouse. “Those kinda look like the guys who kidnapped me earlier.”

“What? When?” said Bauer.

Archer looked up at the ceiling. “Just after my presentation at the hotel—probably five hours ago.”

Bauer yanked him forward by the jacket, patting his arms and legs down. “Probably a GPS tracker embedded in your clothing or your skin.”

Archer stepped back, brushing off his neck and arms like they were covered in mites. “My skin—where?”

“I don’t have time to find out where all the bugs are on you.” He grabbed a handheld device that looked like a calculator then flicked on the green light and wanded it around Archer’s body. “This will kill any trackers in you, but get out of those duds right now.” Bauer pointed to the pegs on the wall, which were covered with military BDUs, then he darted over to a corner locker, punching in the code. He removed two ARs, handing one to Brant along with three magazines, which she stuffed into her jacket pockets while Archer quickly disrobed.

“This place has a self-destruct mechanism in place. If the main lab is breached then this whole facility will implode into the ground.” Bauer rushed up to the desk to glance at the tablet again. “My people are holding them off so far, but I need to get Dr. Archer’s research data out of here.” He looked at the younger Archer, who had just finished zipping up a brown pullover fleece and cinching the belt on his pants.

They slowly followed Bauer out into the hallway then darted upstairs.

“Brant, you take Archer and high-tail it out of here through the side escape exit, which is fifty meters behind you, then head to the northwest quadrant of the airfield. I’ll be along shortly.” Another explosion rocked the building, slamming Archer into the wall as a section of roof to his left collapsed. The rubble filled the hallway, sealing him off from Brant, whom he could hear coughing on the other side.

Archer choked from the drywall dust in the air as he stood up. He peered back through a fissure in the rubble and could see Brant and several guards in a fierce shootout with five men in black masks.

“Lindsey!” He clawed at the chunks of cement, unable to make more than a fist-sized hole, then he heard Bauer yell at him.

“This way—we have to head out the north passage.”

“We can’t leave her,” Archer snapped back with wild eyes.

“There’s no alternative. She’s a fighter, and my guys are in there with her.”

Archer turned away from the heap of debris just in time to see a multi-pronged blade heading towards his face.

Chapter 25

Bauer swiftly sidestepped, using the stock of his rifle to deflect the incoming ninja star headed for Archer. The shuriken embedded itself in the wood by Archer’s left ear as he let out a gasp.

Just as quickly, Bauer tore the weapon free of the board and whipped it back at the incoming assailant, striking the man in the right eye. Bauer sprung forward with a smashing left hook that sent the shrieking attacker into the wall. A crushing elbow strike to the trachea dropped the figure to the ground. Another mercenary entered the room, his folding AK sweeping inside the corridor. Bauer grabbed the barrel, swinging it upward then driving the stock into the cloaked face, crunching the nose. Bauer yanked the rifle free and drove the butt into the sternum, then he deftly flipped the AK around and fired two rounds into the stocky figure’s head.

Archer’s mind was reeling with a cocktail of excitement and fear, wondering if Bauer was some super-soldier with enhanced reflexes. God, this guy really is Mitch Riker.

Bauer pivoted around, waving for him to follow. “Let’s go, Jim. We need to get the hell out of this place before it blows.”

“Yeah, sure, you bet.” Archer was certain he would follow Bauer down into the tunnels below Hades to battle legions of fire-breathing demons if the man asked. Archer grabbed a Springfield 1911 pistol off one of the bodies then trotted behind Bauer, who flowed like water through the narrow passage.

They darted through two more smoke-filled corridors, veering left into a small office. Bauer rushed to the corner, kneeling down and placing his thumb on a biometric scanner attached to a small safe. Archer felt time constrict as he stared at an old photograph on the desk. It showed him and his parents standing on a sailboat off the coast of Belize. It was the last time they were all together before his father’s death. Archer felt his eyes tear up as he stared at familiar paintings and personal objects adorning the tiny room that must have served as his berth. However upset and confused he had been earlier about his father’s past, he now felt like the man’s gentle hand was resting on his shoulder. Archer choked down a breath of air then reached out and removed the photo from its glass frame and gently slid it in his BDU pocket.

Bauer shot up, clutching a handful of flash drives and old journals and stuffing them into a shoulder bag on the desk. Then he rushed to the door, scanning the hallway in either direction. He looked back at Archer, who was dragging a sleeve across his face.

“He never stopped talking about you, Jim. And all of his work trips were planned around your schedule so he wouldn’t miss anything important in your life.”

Archer tried to smile but felt a tear stream down his cheek. He glanced at Bauer, wondering what kind of honest relationships a man like him could ever have in his line of work. He swore that if he ever had kids, he would never lead a double-life like his father’s. Bauer’s eyes widened, then he hopped back from the door, thrusting the shoulder bag into Archer’s chest.

“Hold on to that for a minute, will ya.”

Bauer unslung his AR and drop-slid to his knee, shoving the muzzle of his rifle into the hallway and squeezing off a hail of rounds to the right. Archer heard several thumping sounds followed by groans.

“Let’s go, Jim.” Bauer stepped into the hallway, quickly removing his phone and snapping photos of the two goons’ faces before firing off another round into each forehead.

Archer jumped a foot to his right from the unexpected sound. “Jesus—was that necessary? They were mortally wounded.”

“Not mortally enough. What if they notified their team about our position, or if they had some hidden IED strapped to their balls and scratched an itch down below while we were walkin’ away?” He turned towards Archer with a wild stare. “Then we’d be mortally fucked, wouldn’t we?”

Whoa, this guy can really flip the switch to psychotic kill mode in no time—he’s nothing like Mitch Riker.

They both heard a series of footfalls in the passage to the right, then saw Brant and one of the scientists from the lab emerge. Archer felt some of the tension in his neck drain away as he looked at her. He was sure Brant gave him a millimeter of a nod.

While Bauer got a SITREP from the young man, Archer moved up next to the detective.

“You OK?”

“I will be once we’re out of here,” she said with a heaviness to her eyes. “There were a lot of dead bodies back there, on both sides.”

He looked into her eyes, staring down at her neck, then her breasts. She gave him a disgusted look, pushing him back. “Really, Archer—do you ever stop ogling women?”

“Wait, no, it’s not like that this time.” He pointed to her blood-spattered shirt. “I wanted to make sure that wasn’t yours.” He shot his hands up, raising his voice. “Honestly, I have no interest in your breasts.” Archer lowered his eyes, pressing a hand to his temple. “That did not come out right, at all.”

She canted her head, biting her lower lip as Bauer moved up next to them. “Breasts? This is what you two are talking about at a time like this?” Bauer pressed his face closer to Archer’s. “Is there something tactically relevant about the detective’s body that I should know about, Jim?”

Archer rubbed his chin. “Well, actually—”

Brant jabbed him in the ribs with the butt of her rifle. “Shut up already, Archer.”

Bauer grunted out his approval at Brant’s comment then pushed them both aside, heading down the corridor at a trot. “We’ve got ten minutes before this place looks like a crater on the fuckin’ moon, so get it in fifth gear, people.”

Two minutes later, they burst through the steel door near the east end of the building and sprinted towards a Blackhawk helicopter near an abandoned Quonset hut. Bauer could see five of his operators on board, their rifles sniping the last few mercenaries darting out from the main entrance of the warehouse. Nearing eighty yards from the helo, they passed by a cluster of blue fuel barrels. Suddenly, a masked merc jumped out, wielding a large blade that was headed for Brant’s neck. Archer raised the 1911 up and fired off a wild round, striking the killer in the hip. Bauer paused, spinning around in time to place two precise rounds into the man’s temple. The group paused momentarily to consider how close Brant had come to getting clipped. Archer stood frozen, his hand shaking as he stared at the dead body then back at his smoking pistol.

“First time you plugged a guy, Jim?” said Bauer.

Archer licked his lips. “Course not—just mostly on the written page.”

Brant gave him a hefty nod, the most chin movement he’d seen from her yet. “Thanks, Archer.”

The gunfire coming from the Blackhawk ceased, and all that could be heard was the whir of rotor wash and the automated voice blaring from the warehouse speakers as the final countdown began.

Bauer shoved the three people with him forward. “Move your asses!”

They sprinted for the open door of the helicopter, diving inside as the bird lifted off.

The explosion rattled the whole frame so hard that Archer thought they were going to spill out the sides. He pulled himself up onto the bench, strapping himself in as he felt his stomach churn from the turbulence. The pilot veered hard to the right as a blood-orange mushroom cloud erupted, engulfing the entire airfield.

Bauer clenched his jaw, shaking his head. “We lost a lot of good people today.” He looked at the shoulder bag still slung over Archer’s chest. “At least we got the critical intel on cryogenetics—that will allow us to continue what your father started.”

“But where?” said Brant. “Your research infrastructure is gone.”

Bauer pointed his finger out to the west. “We’ve got another site, nearly completed, that will be up to speed with what we planned to do next.” He grinned. “And that one is OSHA approved.”

Chapter 26

Katie Cowan was sitting in the back of the Channel 12 News van parked down the street from the Horror-Con convention. She had just finished a chocolate-chip cookie and was inspecting her powder-blue blouse for any crumbs.

“Think we’ll get any leads tonight on that story about the werewolf-tag game going on at the hotel that the mayor’s office told us about?” said Axel, the wispy twenty-five-year-old cameraman sitting in the passenger’s seat up front.

“Nah, that sounds like a sham story to keep me off the scent of what’s really going on around here.” She pulled out her compact mirror and opened it up, scrutinizing her bright red lipstick before touching up the corners of her mouth.

“The real story involves zombies or something along those lines, as in people getting murdered by crazed sailors who are probably jacked up on some new designer drug. I spoke with some locals down at the beach where James Archer said he was supposedly scouting for his film, and it sounded like Brant and her circus monkeys were there to cover up what happened rather than to assist Archer.”

She took her black high-heels off and rubbed her soles. “Then there’s that case of the frat guys up in La Jolla. Apparently, they were attacked by five maniacs dressed like the undead.” She raised her hands in air quotes. “One of ‘em got bit on the ear while their neighbor was mauled to death, according to what I could glean from the scanner. But the mayor brushed that story off as a mushroom trip gone bad.” She flung her head back, shaking her long blonde hair. “What a crock—unless the ‘shrooms are somehow more potent now than when I was in Catholic school.”

Seamus Griswold, the rotund sound guy who was sitting in the driver’s seat, looked back at Cowan in the rearview mirror. “I never got the whole interest people have in the zombie thing—they’re just so stupid, plodding along, looking to munch on someone’s brain. They don’t have super-strength or special powers like vampires or Lycans.” He glanced over at Axel, smacking him on the arm. “Now, vampires are bad-ass, and those sexy outfits the female vamps wear—holeeey shit. Mmm, those vamps can suck on me anytime.”

Cowan rolled her eyes, unsure if the real cretins were the ones attending the conference or the boot-lickers Channel 12 hired for her field crew.

“You want me to run inside the hotel and see if I can get any word about the tag game?” said Seamus as he watched three women clad in Dracula outfits entering the lobby.

Cowan pulled her hair back into a loose ponytail. “I told you, that story’s bullshit. The real one is happening on the beaches around our city. I bet that’s what’s going on with the closures at Point Loma and Silver Strand, where the cops have erected barricades. They’re saying it’s because of shark sightings, but I called a contact of mine at the oceanography institute, and he didn’t know anything about it.” She looked out the window at the moon cresting a highrise apartment. “My calls to the chief of police, Eddie Napalme, haven’t been returned, and that usually means he’s running interference for Brant or one of his other detectives.”

“Brant—she’s the one you did that feature on last spring, just before I started, right?” said Axel.

“You bet I did! That self-righteous bitch—she’s probably at home right now, polishing her old Girl Scout medals. Seems like whenever I get a great lead on a story, she’s there to put up a roadblock, in one way or another. Do you know how many assignments of mine she has tanked over the years?”

Seamus leaned over towards Axel. “Cowan’s piece on the detective was dope. I was the one who selectively edited the woman’s sound bites to suit what the boss-lady back there wanted. Some of my finest work, bro.”

She ground her teeth. “I should’ve pushed her over Sunset Cliffs last spring when I saw her wallowing after her divorce. I’m pretty sure she had a hand in designing the succubus costumes you see for sale, modeling them after her original.” She crunched the empty Styrofoam cup next to her. “No wonder her firefighter hubby was letting one of his female staffers ride his pole down at the station—even he couldn’t stand Brant after only seven months of marriage.”

Cowan’s phone crabbed forward on the armrest, and she felt her heart rate spike even higher. She scanned the message, licking her bright lips, then tapped out a ‘THX’ heavy with exclamation points. “Just what I thought—Napalme is up to something. Apparently, there have been sightings of a SWAT vehicle driving around Imperial Beach.” She thrust her right foot onto the floor like she was accelerating. “Let’s go, boys. Exposing whatever the PD is up to, and their lack of accountability in this city, could be my ticket to the top.” And maybe I’ll get enough source material to do another special feature on Detective Brant.

Chapter 27

Napalme was standing on the roof of a newly constructed apartment complex, his SWAT team flanking him on either side with their suppressed sniper rifles fixed on the shoreline. He held up his thermal imaging scope and scanned the beach, which had been section off with barricades and barbed wire plastered with shark warning signs.

Two hours earlier, he had received a call from the SEAL commander at Coronado, who connected him with agent Clive Bauer. Both men confirmed Napalme’s worst fears—that the undead creatures encountered by Brant’s team earlier were part of a first wave. A hundred more were inbound for San Diego beaches, and the tide seemed to be pushing them towards the regions near Point Loma and further south towards his location at Silver Strand Beach. Every officer in his department was on the streets adjacent to the beach entrances, and he hoped the SEALs would be able to eliminate the rest of the zombie flotsam heading east.

“The mayor has to be shitting his pants—again,” said the lanky sniper next to him, who had a thick wad of tobacco between his lip.

Napalme smirked. “Thank the Almighty above that his plan to drop the bodies in Tijuana afterwards was dismissed by the SEALs.”

“Would’ve been worth it just to see the looks on the cartel guys down there when they woke up tomorrow,” whispered a black operator.

“So, the navy is going to use one of their garbage scowls to pick up the freaks?” said the sniper next to him.

“And deposit them where?” said a man on the end.

“That’s for the navy to figure out,” said Napalme. “I don’t want to know so long as they don’t ever wash up on our shores again.”

He heard the sound of steel grating and looked to his right, where a young woman in a cherry-colored bathrobe had stepped out onto her ninth-floor balcony in the apartment complex twenty feet away. She sat down and laid out a line of Peruvian powder that she heartily snorted. When she was done, she flung her head back then stared in shock at Napalme, glancing at the white police lettering on his vest before muttering a curse.

“Tell you what,” shouted Napalme. “We need someone to walk the beach for us to act as bait. You can either do that or you can get your ass back inside, flush your stash of nose-candy down the toilet and then get to rehab by week’s end—your choice.”

She stood up, grimacing while clutching the front of her crimson robe. “Rehab.” The woman slid back inside, slamming her door shut and closing the curtains.

He turned back towards his men. “See, fellas—hearts and minds can be won with the right type of persuasion.”

“Wonder if that will work on these creatures,” said the stocky operator kneeling next to Napalme, his attention fixed on his scope. “We’ve got our first tango coming out of the surf.”

“Make that two,” said the man on the end.

“Three,” whispered another.

Napalme glassed the beach, seeing several more creatures emerging in their raggedy white outfits. The pus-filled pockets on their corpulent faces matched with what he had seen in the morgue. He took a deep breath, reflecting on the unprecedented nature of what they were about to do, then looked down the line at his men.

“Engage.”

Chapter 28

Brant could see the ocean in the distance as the helicopter arrived over the eastern edge of San Diego. She glanced back at Archer, whose face was tinted a shade of teal as he sat with his droopy eyes transfixed on a bolt on the cabin floor.

“Don’t enjoy flying much, eh?” she said, sidling up next to him.

“Or rollercoasters.” His voice was barely audible as he pressed one hand against his stomach.

“We’ll be landing soon and then—” She was cut off as he grabbed her arm.

“Get me a bag—now!”

Brant’s eyes went wide as she searched the side panel on the door then saw Bauer shove a plastic bag from Ralph’s grocery store into Archer’s outthrust hands just as he began vomiting. The violent contractions of upheaval lasted for a full minute before Archer sank back into the bench, his face turning white.

“Damn, buddy, that was some cargo you unloaded,” chuckled Bauer. “I betcha that pizza you had in tenth grade came up.” The other operators laughed along with him. Brant reached into her jacket pocket and removed a Kleenex, handing it to Archer, who peered longingly at the ocean.

“Shit, boss, that could be trouble,” said the pilot, pointing down to a white van pulling into the parking lot near the beach.

Bauer leaned out the open door. “Channel 12 News is here—how did they get wind of what’s going on?”

“There’s a particularly foul bloodsucker they’ve got on their staff who’s good at sniffing out stories,” said Brant, peering over the edge and seeing Katie Cowan in her usual skirt and indigo blouse as she emerged from the van with her crew.

“They’re just gonna draw people to the beach and risk getting bystanders mauled to death once those creatures wash ashore,” said Bauer.

“Maybe we could slow her down a little,” said Brant with a wolfish smile. “Can you ask your pilot to lower this bird a little?” Bauer nodded and barked out the order.

Brant leaned back towards Archer, plucking the sagging grocery bag filled with technicolor yawn from his grip. As the helo descended, the news van came into view. Brant clutched the soupy mess, steadying her hand and narrowing her eyes before she casually let it slip from her grasp as the roof of the van came into range. The goopy grenade exploded, sending its payload onto Cowan’s chest. The newswoman shrieked, teetering sideways and tumbling into a patch of briars.

A roar issued forth from the operators inside the helo, as if they were sitting in the bleachers at a football game.

“Damn, that was some boss marksmanship, Brant,” said Bauer, extending his hand to fist bump her. “Good job.”

“Thanks.” She grinned, looking back at Archer, who seemed to have melted further into his seat. “I, uhm, had some help.”

Chapter 29

“There are the SEALs—by the wastewater treatment plant, like they indicated,” shouted Bauer above the rotor-wash as the pilot descended towards a narrow strip north of the Point Loma tide pools. “Those squids were smart to make that their staging area, since it’s off the beaten path and the city controls who comes and goes.”

He and his five operators did a last-minute check of their sniper rifles and night-vision scopes then readied to disembark. He looked over at Archer, who had more color in his face and was sitting upright. “My guys and I will probably be gone for several hours sniping those pus-bags in the ocean, so you and Brant stay with the bird.”

As the Blackhawk set down forty yards from the SEALs’ three helos, Bauer and his team jumped down and trotted across the sand.

Brant moved up next to Archer, resting her AR across her legs. “You sure look better—how do you feel?”

“Some Alka-Seltzer and a good book and I’ll be all set.”

They heard their helicopter power down as they watched the other three birds lift off. Archer could see the distant lights of Nazarene University further up the peninsula. The wastewater treatment plant was devoid of all but its critical personnel, who had been asked to seal themselves inside for what they were told by SEAL Commander Eckert was a joint training drill with DOD personnel.

The smell wafting off the saltwater mixed with the gasoline odor from the helo engines was making Archer feel like he was going to slip back into his former state of nausea.

“I need to step outside and walk around,” he said, unbuckling then climbing down from the cabin.

He searched the night sky for the Blackhawks, but they had already melted into the night. Brant hopped out and walked alongside him until they came to a small generator shack that was silently humming.

“You think this will put an end to it all?” he said.

“I hope so—we’ve been lucky so far in containing this thing.”

Archer felt her elbow press against his. He wanted to slide his hand down over hers but hesitated, repeating a line from one of his books. There is no perfect moment to seize what you want—just do it.

As his hand crept closer to hers, he saw a glimmer of movement to his right. He turned his head, squinting into the moonlight. A tangle of eight ragged sailors had just emerged from the surf, and they were making their way into a storm drain that led towards the treatment plant. He strained his eyes, studying the last figure, who only had one arm.

He sharply tugged on Brant’s sleeve. “Please tell me you saw that?”

Chapter 30

Bauer sat across from Commander Eckert as both men readied their suppressed sniper rifles at the scattered string of undead sailors floating in the waves fourteen miles offshore. Most of them were thrashing their limbs, while others simply bobbed in the surge, like kids on a boogie board. Once the helos descended, the sound of gunfire reverberated in the wind. There were two operators on either side of the open cabin doors, each of them anchored with harnesses that attached to the floor.

“Who was in the other bird back at the beach?” said Eckert, shooting a creature floating next to a whitecap.

“Two civilians—a woman detective and a writer.” Bauer steadied his muzzle, plugging a floating zombie in the neck.

Eckert gazed up from his night-vision scope. “Brant and Archer?”

“Yeah, you know ‘em?” He fired off another round into a creature’s jaw.

“I’ve known Jim for a couple a years. They both came to my office yesterday evening—had some questions regarding the Jap sub that was sunk west of here.” He sneered. “You know, the one that’s hemorrhaging zombies that your agency knew about all along.”

“Jim is a helluva guy, it seems.” He casually squeezed off a round from his bolt-action rifle.

“Yeah, I heard his old man had an IQ that was off the charts.” Another zombie’s head blew apart.

“I imagine Jim is pretty special too in that department—he just doesn’t know what he’s entirely capable of yet.” Bauer paused, reflecting back on something the senior Archer had told him about his son. “But in time, who knows what he’ll accomplish.”

“How do you figure?” Eckert shot a creature in the chest then refocused and punched a round through the ear.

Bauer looked out at the inky horizon. “Just a feeling that he’s got a bright future ahead in more than just the publishing world.”

Chapter 31

Brant and Archer ran back to the helicopter, leaning in towards the pilot, who was doing an instrument check. Archer insinuated his head between the seats. “You need to contact Bauer right now and let him know that patient zero just headed into the storm drains that connect with the city.”

“You sure?” said the startled pilot.

“Yeah, one-armed guy in a white uniform, moving like a drunk on the Strip in Vegas.”

The man tapped on his ear-mic, trying to connect with Bauer then relaying the message.

The man leaned back towards Archer. “He said to hold tight and that he’s on his way. He’ll be here in ten minutes.”

Archer peered back at the storm drain. “And what if that creature gets away in the maze of tunnels by then?” He hopped down, staring at Brant. “Look, one thing that no one has mentioned is that patient zero is the root of the virus. He infected the others, so if he makes it into the city and bites someone—”

Brant’s eyes widened. “Then the virus will spread into the human population.” She climbed back into the helo, grabbing a small pack filled with AR magazines then jumping back out. “You still got that 1911 you had earlier?” she said, looking at his waist for the pistol.

“You mean the one that saved your bacon back at the airfield?”

“My bacon? Should I call you Muskem now?”

He began trotting off with Brant then abruptly turned around and raced back to the Blackhawk. He removed the shoulder bag with his father’s flash drives and notebooks, passing it to the pilot. “Make sure Bauer gets this.” The pilot gave him a firm nod then told his second-in-command, whose nameplate read Jansen, to accompany them.

“If things get bad inside before Bauer returns, you haul ass back here and we’ll get airborne.”

The co-pilot came around by Archer, racking a round into his AR then following the two down the beach.

Archer looked at the two rifles in the group along with his pistol, wondering if it would be enough.

Chapter 32

“We need to get back to Point Loma—Archer located patient zero. Apparently, he and Brant made the decision to pursue.”

Eckert shook his head. “Negative—you said yourself that we have to reduce this herd of zombies by sixty percent so the SWAT guys can take care of the rest that was ashore; otherwise some of them could slip through.”

Bauer shouted above the constant din of gunfire, “I think you mean pod of zombies, since they’re in the water. Besides, some of them have already slipped through, and patient zero is priority number one right now.”

Eckert clenched his jaw, racking a new round into his rifle. “You’re forgetting about Posse Comitatus—we can’t initiate military action on our soil.”

“And you’re forgetting that me and my guys aren’t with the military, so just drop us off.”

“You spooks always like to bend the rules.”

“There are rules?”

Eckert licked his lips. “Alright, we’ll take this bird back while the rest of my guys finish the fucking job in the other helos here—and you better be right about all this.”

Right, wrong—I’m not a Greek philosopher. That’s what Bauer restrained himself from saying, instead replying with a curt, “Copy that.”

Chapter 33

Archer followed Brant as he led them into the square confines of the immense storm drain that opened onto the beach. There were faint service lights lining the tunnel, but they were barely bright enough to illuminate the ground.

“Stay by me and watch your muzzle control, Archer. Nobody wants to get shot in the ass tonight.”

“Righto.” He stayed on her heels as Jansen came up the rear. They walked for five minutes, coming to a three-way intersection that was unlit. A second later, they heard a flurry of sound coming from the junction to the right. Brant raised her hand in a fist.

“What does that mean again?” Archer whispered.

“Stop!” she whispered with grit in her voice.

Suddenly the sound shifted. The echo chamber created by the tunnel made the noise difficult to triangulate. It wasn’t coming from the right but from a wide passage above. They all glanced upward as three figures poured out of the passageway. Archer looked right into the faces of three chunky raccoons that hissed at them then trotted into the darkness.

“Wonder if the sailors would try to eat them or if they’re too gamey?” said Archer.

“Be quiet,” whispered Jansen. “I see something up ahead.” The co-pilot removed his high-beam flashlight, shining it to the left.

“Tactical flashlight—I could use mine right now,” said Brant.

“How come everything is ‘tactical’ these days: tactical knife, tactical boots, tactical watch? Why isn’t my phone or wallet considered tactical?”

“Zip it, Archer, before I perform a tactical move on you,” muttered Brant.

“Promise?” He snickered.

“There,” whispered Jansen, pointing down to a slurry of muddy tracks with flecks of sloughed-off flesh sprinkled around the ground. They walked on either side of the corridor, following the trail until they came to another junction. Archer caught movement of something fifty yards ahead.

“Up there,” he said, his voice echoing off the cement walls.

Jansen’s flashlight illuminated the silhouettes of the eight creatures Archer first spotted on the beach. They slowly turned and began shuffling towards them, their blood-soaked mouths hanging open.

Chapter 34

Eckert’s helo pilot pointed to the opening of the storm drains as they approached the beach. Bauer strained his eyes at the sight of a half-dozen guys trotting towards the entrance.

“Are those your men?” he snapped at the SEAL commander.

“No—maybe Brant called in some of the department’s SWAT guys.”

Bauer lowered his night-vision scope, peering at the individuals. “Those look like the same dudes who attacked my facility in the desert earlier.”

The men disappeared into the tunnel as the helo set down on the beach. Bauer and his five operators disembarked while Eckert remained behind. “Good luck, Agent Bauer.”

He didn’t respond and only darted towards the cement tunnel, wondering if Archer and Brant had enough firepower to hold out until they arrived. “Be smart, Archer—I can’t afford to lose you now.”

Chapter 35

“The one creature with the missing arm is in the middle,” shouted Archer. “Take him out first—he can’t get away.”

“I’ll try,” snapped Brant, pressing her shoulder against the edge of the tunnel to steady her rifle sights. The passageway filled with the sound of moaning and dragging feet as the procession of sailors shambled towards them.

As Brant fixed her front sight on the one-armed creature’s head, she heard a sharp noise behind her then felt the splinter of concrete above her head as a bullet embedded itself in the wall. She turned and saw a group of six men in black rushing in from behind them, noting the lead figure looked like the guy in the hotel’s security cameras who had abducted Archer. More of these guys—didn’t we just leave this party? The brief spray of gunfire ceased, then she saw the men lower their rifles and withdraw their knives. Either they’re old school or they need patient zero intact. I sure as hell hope it’s the latter.

***

Archer looked back at Tengu and his men, who were running in from his left, then he glanced at the approaching horde of zombies to his right. Suddenly the tunnel behind him was looking like their only option for retreat. Jansen flicked off his flashlight then ducked into the empty corridor as Brant and Archer slowly retreated with him. Jansen shrieked then thrust his hands onto Archer’s shoulder. Archer spun around and saw arterial blood spewing from the co-pilot’s neck as a crazed zombie greedily tore into the soft flesh around his jugular. Jansen dropped his flashlight into the slurry of mud and blood, then he collapsed to the ground. Archer saw two more creatures staggering towards him.

“Shit, where’d these freaks come from?”

He felt Brant push him aside, followed by the sound of gunfire as she dispatched the beasts in quick succession.

“There could be more down this way—probably came in before the other group.” She scanned the far reaches of the tunnel, unsure if she saw something or not.

Archer gazed over her shoulder at the mass of zombies and rogue killers coalescing in the junction. “Looks like this is our last stand,” he said.

She nodded at him. “Then let’s make it a good one—what do you say?” Brant handed him her Glock then raised up her rifle, unleashing a volley of bullets into the crowd ahead. Archer felt his hands shake from the adrenaline, but his vision became razor sharp. He raised up both of his pistols and began shooting as images of Wild West shootouts darted across his mind.

The passageway filled with the deafening sound of gunfire from both of them as zombie heads and limbs splintered apart, spraying the walls with blood, bone, brains, and viscera. Brant swung her AR to the left, sending a hail of bullets into the men in black, their bodies getting riddled with a rain of 7.62 rounds. She dropped out her empty magazine and deftly inserted another, then flung a new Glock mag to Archer, whose pistols were depleted.

Archer fumbled with swapping out the fresh one as Brant unleashed another wave of lead hell upon the crowd, not discriminating between sailors and assassins. Archer saw the one-armed physician coming into view from the right side of the tunnel. He noticed the face of his kidnapper rushing up to the creature with a knife, grabbing its head as he began slicing at the flesh. Archer steadied his breathing, centering his front sights on the rotting skull of the zombie as he fired off a flurry of four rounds. He saw three powder-marks in the cement beyond, but the fourth bullet impacted the throats of both of his targets. Johnny Tengu stepped back, clutching his neck as the creature pawed at him with his one arm. Tengu collapsed to his knees as the undead physician tore at his face, tearing out an eyeball then grabbing Tengu’s throat with his bony hand and crushing the trachea. Archer took aim and shot the creature in the back of the skull, spraying an amalgam of creamy brain goo onto the walls.

Archer lowered his pistol, while Brant did the same with her empty rifle, both of them staring through the haze of gunsmoke and crimson mist at the pile of bodies ahead. Archer felt his legs quiver as he gulped down a breath of damp air. Is it over finally?

Both of them abruptly raised up their weapons at the sight of shadows filling the corridor to the left. They heard the comforting sound of Bauer’s gritty voice shouting from the darkness.

“We’re over here,” yelled Brant, giving Archer a relieved look as they both walked forward. They met Bauer and his operators, who were standing amidst the pile of bullet-riddled bodies. Bauer looked past Archer, grimacing at Jansen’s dead figure.

“Holy shit,” said a beefy operator next to Bauer as he surveyed the carnage.

Bauer stepped forward, looking at Brant then Archer. “How the hell are you doing, Wyatt-Fucking-Earp and Doc Holliday?”

Archer sighed, nodding his head. “I can live with that title.” Archer turned towards Brant, seeing a radiance in her eyes that even the dim lights couldn’t obscure. He pointed at his chest. “Though I think he meant I was Wyatt Earp.”

She grinned, slugging him in the arm. “For today, anyway.”

Archer and the others stepped closer to the splayed body of the one-armed creature. He looked at the torn white outfit of the sailor, thinking back to the old photo of the man on board the submarine. “Who would have thought that the story ends here?”

Brant nudged him with his elbow. “Isn’t this where your story of all these events begins, Archer? I can see Mitch Riker getting involved in such a tale.”

He shrugged his shoulders. “Yeah, maybe, though he could use a good sidekick—maybe a curvaceous woman with bad-ass ninja skills.”

“Sorry I brought up the whole thing,” she said, hiding her grin as they all turned and walked down the corridor.

Chapter 36

With news of the event contained though Bauer’s intelligence operatives and with Horror-Con and Halloween ending, the city returned to its normal pulse. There was no official celebration at the precinct, no salutations from the mayor, nor were there any paparazzi flashing their cameras in Archer’s face as he strode down the sidewalk towards the police department. Instead there was just the sunshine on his cheeks, the smell of lilacs from the bushes by the courthouse, and a flock of ring-necked pigeons overhead that reminded him that the world was still intact. In this brief moment, he felt like he had been a part of a much larger cause than anything he’d ever known. As he gingerly walked up the steps to the precinct doors, he saw Brant exiting.

He glanced at his watch, noting that it was only eleven. “Is it already quitting time, Detective? I’d heard you were a slacker.”

“Unlike you, some of us actually have real jobs, and mine involves paperwork that has to be turned in to the judge.”

“You know, there are these relatively new devices called laptops that enable you to email documents instead. You should look into it.”

She chuckled, looking away. “Says the guy who still pens his first draft on notepads.”

He shook a finger at her. “That’s insider knowledge that only diehard fans know, but I’ll assume you just overheard it somewhere.” He glanced beyond her towards the front entrance, where a bustle of people was flowing through the revolving door. “I half-expected Agent Bauer to have exited by now after his morning meeting with Napalme, but he probably rappelled down the back of the building and got away on a fission-powered motorcycle.”

“Bauer left about an hour ago. He’s a slippery figure alright. I wonder what secrets are buried in his head that even he’s forgotten about.” She reached into her pocket and removed a folded tissue, which she handed to Archer. “He wanted you to have this.”

He unwrapped it, his eyes settling on a Japanese medal, whose surface had been polished. “He said it was something you might want—to remember all the good work your father did.”

“Yeah.” He clenched it in his fist, averting his eyes as his voice lowered.

“What did your mom say when you told her about everything?”

Archer bit his lower lip. “She’s still processing it all—we both are, trying to piece together what Bauer told me with what we knew of my father’s past.”

She patted his arm. “Give it time—that’s a voluminous amount of revelationary information to take in at once.”

“Voluminous and revelationary—those are big words for a detective. You sure you don’t need to sit down and rest for a minute?”

“Yeah, well, I suffered the presence of a writer once, and his flowery vocabulary must have leached on to me.” She held back a grin.

“And hopefully for the better.” Archer nodded then shook her hand, letting his fingers linger for a second on her palm when they were done. “Well, Detective Brant, it’s been a pleasure for you to work with me. I hope you’ve learned a thing or two.”

She shook her head, scrunching her nose.

“Ah, I hoped I’d get to see that look one more time,” he said.

She narrowed her eyes while folding her arms.

“What?” he said.

“Just for the record, I find myself both intrigued and pissed off when I’m around you, Archer.”

“Intrigued, really—do tell.”

“You’re sharp and see details most people miss, but you seem to have this need to annoy the shit out of me, so I question whether you’re worth having around.”

“And here I thought I was simply being a man of mystery, though I think you have me beat in that department—the mystery part, not the gender thing.”

Her phone buzzed, and she scanned the text. “Emerson says there’s a homicide that took place behind a supermarket downtown.”

“Duty calls, it seems.” He looked into her eyes, his face softening before he let out an exhale and stared up at the clouds. “Maybe we’ll run into each other sometime soon.”

“Knowing you, it will probably be on a line-up.” She gave him a slight frown then turned and walked away. “Take care of yourself, Archer.”

He stood on the steps, watching her walk away, feeling like the buildings around him had suddenly squeezed together, withdrawing the warmth of the sun. His mind lingered on the tumultuous events of the past three days, making the rest of his week seem so mundane. Then he took a deep breath and very slowly exhaled, running his thumb over the bronze medal. Time to get back to my own life—and piece together what I can of Dad’s.

He looked down at the flow of human activity on the sidewalk then back at Brant, who had just disappeared around the corner of the precinct. Back in your natural environment, Lindsey Brant—where few of us can dwell. I’m sure glad you let me spend a few days there with you.

Chapter 37

One Month Later

Archer put his coffee cup in the kitchen sink and grabbed his keys off the counter along with his wallet and phone before heading out the back door of his house. Since spending so much time with Brant behind the wheel, he had decided to forgo a chauffeur for his trips into the city and had purchased a blue Aston Martin.

Walking down to the detached garage, he got in his car and fired up the engine, then he sped down the quarter-mile-long driveway towards the wrought-iron gate. Pausing to tap in the security code, he exited then abruptly stopped as a black Suburban pulled in front of him.

Two men in black suits exited, and Archer was pretty sure he could make out the outline of a shoulder-holstered pistol on the burly driver. The wafer-thin man to his right had deeply tan skin and sunken cheeks, like he had just returned from life as a castaway. Maybe I should have used that bodyguard service my agent was telling me about.

“Mr. Archer, sir, my name is Agent Tom Gray, and this is Agent Martin Black.” The man gave a hint of a smile. “Chief of Police Edward Napalme told us that you might help us with a case.” The driver moved next to Archer’s door, nearly filling the whole window with his refrigerator-wide torso and causing Archer to raise his window so only an inch was open, though he was pretty sure the man could have ripped the entire door off its hinges.

“If this is about consulting services or matters pertaining to my books, you’ll need to go through my agent.”

“This is a case with broad-reaching implications, sir, that requires your specialized skills.” Despite the gargantuan figure’s hulking exterior, he spoke softly, like someone reciting poetry, which caused Archer to feel less intimidated. The other man stood silent, his head on a swivel as he scanned the treeline and nearby estates.

Archer glanced at his watch then pressed the number for Napalme on his Bluetooth device.

“Napalme here. What’s up, Jim?”

“Eddie, got a coupla well-dressed gents blocking my driveway who say you sent them.”

“Sure did. Say they need your help with something connected to another potential zombie case. They’re part of a new government-run think tank focused on handling matters pertaining to biological attacks of an unusual nature—at least, that was the ten-second elevator pitch I got from the director.”

Archer sat upright, his forehead getting creases as he looked over at the two agents. “Wow, really—why didn’t you guys just say that?”

“I gotta run, Jim. Heading off to a meeting with the new mayor. Call me later if you need to talk about anything.”

“Thanks, Eddie.”

Archer lowered the window. “Might be easier if we talk inside,” he said, motioning with his thumb back towards his house.

Mr. Gray nodded, revealing another disarming smile. “Actually, sir, we’d like you to accompany us back to our facility so my boss can brief you about what’s going on.” He stepped back, pointing to the garage in the distance. “You can leave your vehicle here and drive out with us, if you would, sir.”

The man’s politeness and pleasant voice made Archer wonder if this guy was really a secret agent or if he was the agency’s daycare director.

“Sure.” Archer re-activated the security gate then turned his Aston Martin around and sped back up the driveway as the SUV followed. A few minutes later, they were speeding north up I-5. The two silent figures in front stared ahead like they were on auto-pilot, heading back to the mother ship.

As the vehicle passed Mission Bay, the thin man in the passenger’s seat handed Archer a black bandanna. “Please put this on.”

“Is this a joke? I’m not wearing this. Where the hell are you guys taking me?”

“Classified,” said the wiry man.

Archer looked at the blindfold. “Has this even been washed? It smells like the last user had on Antonio Banderas cologne. Besides, I get motion sick without any visual markers to focus on.”

The vehicle suddenly veered to the right, coming to an abrupt halt on the shoulder. The thin man peered back at Archer in the rearview mirror.

“Please, Mr. Archer—this is not only for your sake but to protect the location of our facility from those with hostile intentions. There are forces in this world who would like to bring humanity to its knees, and we are one of the agencies put in place to prevent that. We can only fulfill that objective if our personnel and our base of operations are kept off the radar.” The man spoke in his usual soft tone, but Mr. Gray ended his speech by slowly lowering his sunglasses to reveal piercing brown eyes that seemed to penetrate through Archer’s skull. This time the man didn’t smile.

Archer exhaled, looking out at the tranquil waters of Mission Bay, wondering what he had just agreed to do. If Brant were here, she’d be telling me to put on the damn blindfold and shut up. He lifted the black bandanna off his lap and pressed it against his face, attaching it with the Velcro in back.

“Thank you for complying,” said Mr. Gray. “It won’t be too much longer.”

In fact, it was an hour, and Archer wasn’t sure if they had just driven in a huge arc around downtown or if they had actually kept heading north. Once they stopped, he was escorted out, Mr. Gray being sure to tell him when to step up or under something as he held on to the oaken forearm of his guide. The sunlight on his head disappeared, and he felt the cool rush of air as they walked inside a building whose fresh paint stung his nostrils. An elevator ride later and he was seated inside a room that was so soundproof he could hear his beating heart, which had suddenly increased its rate.

“Napalme, you better be right about this.”

“Good morning, Mr. Archer.” A computer-modulated voice pierced the air around him. “You may remove your blindfold now.”

He lowered the black bandanna around his neck, squinting as a bright spotlight shone on his face. He squinted, glancing around the room, seeing it was more spacious than he thought. The twenty-by-twenty interior contained no windows and only a large plasma TV on the wall near the door, with a single pane of rectangular glass to the right of that, much like the suspect interview room at the police precinct. Archer stood up, pacing the full perimeter of the room, noticing that the new concrete floor was without any scuff marks.

“Where am I exactly?”

“The headquarters for ZEST,” said the monotone voice. “We’re a government agency that focuses on the threat of the undead, both actual zombies and those terrorists or individuals involved in biological creation of the undead.”

“ZEST—you mean like the lime-scented hand soap or that pizza place downtown?”

He heard a gruff exhale. “Neither, Mr. Archer. It stands for Zombie Elimination and Strategies Team.”

Archer rolled his eyes. “That’s the name for your super-secret organization? You should consider changing the second word to ‘eradication,’ as it currently sounds like you help with constipation problems.”

“Noted,” barked the voice. He wondered if the person could be Bauer, but why would the man approach him in this manner, since they’d already met and worked briefly together? The large plasma TV on the wall before him flashed on, showing slides of cadavers in a destroyed laboratory, along with a map of British Columbia, where three red marks were present.

“Our agency operates on a multi-national level. There is a reported outbreak in a remote town in western Canada, and we are in need of a subject-matter expert who has a background in cryogenetic theory and zombie behavior. You come highly recommended.”

“By whom?”

“That’s classified.”

He stared at the images on the screen that kept playing in a loop. He’d heard rumors about ritualistic killings in South America that were somehow linked to zombie ceremonies amongst Vodun practitioners out of Haiti and a secret doomsday cult in northern Canada. He wondered if someone had really taken things to the next level by utilizing reanimation labs.

“Is this all you have on the case so far?”

“Does that mean you will help us, Mr. Archer?”

“I’d like to see who I’m dealing with first. All this cloak-and-dagger BS means you’re either a chicken shit or you think you’re beyond accountability, and I’ve already had my share of the latter with my ex-wife.”

“You’d be joining some of the best detectives, forensics experts, and field operators in the world.”

“And which one of those are you?”

The steel door hissed open from its sealed airlock as a sleek-figured man entered the room, his face backlit by the lights in the hallway. “I’m the new director, Mr. Archer,” a familiar voice said. The overhead spotlight dimmed, and Archer looked straight into the face of Clive Bauer.

Archer stood up, throwing his shoulders back. “Bauer—what the hell. You’re behind this! Couldn’t you just call me?”

He pointed over his shoulder to another person entering the room, her jade-green eyes illuminated in the light.

“Brant thought she’d have some laughs first,” said Bauer.

She let out a hearty laugh. “That was too much fun, Archer, not to mention payback for all the dreadful stories I had to endure when we were driving together.” She moved up next to him, holding back a smile. “Besides, you like drama, and this seemed like a surefire way to get your attention. If we had asked you nicely, you would have just been your usual cajoling self and turned it into another spectacle for self-admiration.”

“I like writing about drama, not having it played out on me like a guinea pig.” He flung his arms in the air. “Is any of this even real, or is this some kind of revenge for outshining you on our case together?”

“Pff—you must have gotten hit in the head since we last spoke, since your memory is pretty mucked up.”

Archer waved his finger in front of her face. “Oh, I know what it is—Napalme let you go from the department. Too much of a loose cannon.”

Bauer folded his arms, studying both of them like he was a boxing referee. “Napalme actually recommended her for the position when I approached all the police chiefs along the West Coast for this position—and given her prior experience working on the first official zombie assault case in the world, she was more than qualified in my eyes.”

“Did you give her a code name yet, like Maverick or Plays-by-Her-Own-Rules-24/7?”

She grit her teeth. “Yours should be Wingman due to your love of flying.”

His forehead wrinkled and his lips tensed. “Hey, that’s not funny—that was a situational thing.”

Bauer chuckled then stepped between them. “You sure you two can work together?”

“Wait, I’m working with Brant again?” Archer wasn’t sure if what he was feeling was elation or frustration. “How’s she involved in all of this?”

“She’s the West Coast liaison between the law-enforcement agencies and ZEST,” said Bauer.

Archer rolled his eyes. “You sure you want Brant having so much authority? She has control issues, and this position might be a real challenge for a person like her to handle.”

Brant elbowed him in the ribs. “The only thing I have a hard time controlling is my temper—around you.”

Archer barely heard the footfalls of two other people enter the room until their silhouettes emerged from the light behind Brant.

“Well, looks like they’re back at it again,” said Emerson.

“Yeah, but I’ll give Archer ten minutes before he gets clocked in the jaw by Brant,” said Halsey, who was grinning.

Archer stepped back, glancing over at each man and shaking his head. “You guys signed on for this gig too? What’d they offer you, a clothing allowance, so you don’t have to wear the same hand-me-down suits every day?”

Halsey lightly punched Archer in the left bicep, causing him to wince.

“And a good dental plan,” said Emerson.

“You should take advantage of that today—and get the extra hygiene rinse, if possible,” said Archer, waving his hand in the air between them.

Emerson licked his lower lip, grinning. “Should we just take him out back now and work him over?”

“Only if he refuses my offer,” said Bauer, who took a step closer, putting his hand on Archer’s shoulder. “Jim, I saw how you worked back there on that last case and know you’d be a great asset. We still have to locate whoever was pulling Tengu’s leash, since he had to be part of a larger bioterrorist group. I also think that, with our resources and my help, you’d be able to track down more information on your father’s undertakings.” He patted him on the arm as he turned away. “Just think about it—but don’t wait too long. This offer has an expiration date.”

Archer dwelled on what Bauer said, especially about his father’s work. He might finally have the means of filling in some of the blank spots on his final years and getting some closure. That alone would be worth it. He saw Brant circle around him then come back to face him, with her two detectives flanking her.

“So, you guys need me after all—that’s what this is really about, isn’t it,” said Archer with a coy smile.

Halsey held both hands to his stomach. “I’m feeling queasy all of a sudden.”

Brant leered then shot a glance at Emerson. “Why don’t you and Halsey get the presentation room ready for our afternoon briefing with the Canadian Royal Police? I’ll be along shortly.”

She turned back towards Archer, putting her hands on her hips. “So, what’s it gonna be, Jimmy? You up for more adventures around the globe, or is being a pen-monkey and flirting with admiring pixies going to be enough excitement?”

He shrugged his shoulders, staring into her eyes, his heart racing at the prospect of the case she mentioned, along with the pleasant fragrance of peach blossoms emanating from her hair. Archer nodded, extending his hand. “Well, I’d love to, but I don’t think you can afford my consulting services. I’m not only a world-famous author but also a zombie combat expert whose deadly skills can—”

She lightly smacked him on the cheek. “Focus, Archer. That’s the first thing we have to work on—getting you out of this fantasy world of yours.”

He traced his eyes along her honey-blonde hair then down her neckline. “Mmm, a world without fantasy is not to my liking.” Archer walked past her towards the door. “Besides, I can see that you might let this position consume you, and you will need someone to keep you grounded, so… I’m in.” He paused at the entrance, placing both hands against the sides as she frowned at him. “Are you coming, Secret Agent Brant, or are you going to just stand there and stare down your fellow crime-crusader?”

“That’ll be the day.” She boldly walked towards him, jabbing her finger into his chest, causing him to abruptly step aside. “And if you ever mention that term in a briefing or in front of any of my staff, you will be using voice dictation for writing your books because of your gnarled fingers.”

They walked down the hallway together, Archer massaging the sore spot on his sternum. “What about deputy assistant to the special director of clandestine zombie affairs, or—”

She pressed her palm to his lips. “My mute assistant is more fitting.”

Archer nodded, knowing he could keep ribbing her further but delighting too much in seeing her again. He stood still for a moment, watching her walk away and realizing how quiet his life had been during the past month. Then he waited for her to turn around before he eagerly trotted back up to her, keeping his grin in check.

What adventures await us indeed, Lindsey Brant?

THE END

AFTERWORD

While most of the elements in this story are an obvious work of fiction, the events surrounding the Japanese submarine surfacing near Santa Barbara during World War II are a part of history. On February 23, 1942, exactly eleven weeks after the attack on Pearl Harbor, an I-17 submarine launched sixteen of their five-inch rounds inland at the Ellwood Oil Fields. While the damage was minimal, the attack stirred fear that the U.S. mainland could experience further strikes or a potential invasion. That same year, there were two more attacks on the West Coast, both of which were in Oregon. One was another missile strike by a submarine against a small military fort near the mouth of the Columbia River, and the second was when a Japanese plane launched from an I-25 submarine bombed a wooded area near Brookings, Oregon in an attempt to start a forest fire, which failed. In an interesting historical twist, the pilot, Nobuo Fujita, made several goodwill visits to Brookings after the war and later became an honorary citizen of the town upon his death in 1997.

Thank you for reading this book! Stay tuned for more adventures with Brant and Archer. If you would like to receive email updates on future releases or be a member of the reading team, please sign-up at JTSawyer.com or on Facebook at JTSawyerBooks.

Lastly, as an Indie writer, your feedback is critical to refining my craft. If you wouldn’t mind posting a review on Amazon, I’d be grateful! Reviews make a world of difference in the life of a writer and help direct other readers to our works.

Additional Titles by JT Sawyer

First Wave Boxed Set

Special Forces veteran Travis Combs just wanted to forget his weary years of leading combat missions while taking an extended rafting trip through the Grand Canyon. As he and his group complete a 22-day trip on the Colorado River, they find the world has unraveled from a deadly pandemic. Now, he has to show his small band how to live off the land and cross the rugged Arizona desert, while evading blood-drinking zombies, gangs of cartel bikers, and a rogue government agency. The bestselling First Wave Series is now available as a boxed set with all three action-packed volumes.

Until Morning Comes, Volumes 1–5

Secret Service Agent Carlie Simmons began her day surrounded by trusted colleagues in an inter-agency shooting competition in Tucson. It ended with a staggering body count as the world around her unraveled from a deadly virus. With her mission to extract the President’s daughter from the University of Arizona gone awry, she must choose between her sworn duties and her moral obligations to others as the city is overtaken by roving packs of flesh-eating mutants. If she and her small group are to survive the night and find a way out of the ravaged city, she will have to summon all of her training, mental prowess, and tactical abilities.

The Emergence Series, Volumes 1-8

An epic struggle for survival between humans and a twisted mutation of undead begins in Emergence when a deadly virus, originating in China, quickly spreads throughout the world, turning humans into cunning predators with interconnected mental abilities. The human race is about to become an endangered species unless CIA Agent Will Reisner and his elite team can track down the source of the virus before the world is completely consumed. If you liked The Puppet Masters, I am Legend, or The Strain then check out Emergence!

Dead In Their Tracks: The Mitch Kearns Combat Tracker Series, Volumes 1–7

Meet Mitch Kearns, a former Special Forces Combat Tracker who works for the FBI hunting down notorious criminals. Crossing paths with Israeli agent Dev Leitner, the two seasoned operators join forces to bring down terrorist cells, rogue assassins, and black-ops mercenaries in these adrenaline-soaked novels that span the globe.

About the Author

Before becoming a fulltime writer, JT made his living teaching survival courses for the military special operations community, Department of Homeland Security, US Marshals, FAA, and other federal agencies throughout the US. He has appeared on the Travel Channel, Fox News, Discovery, in the New York Times and also served as a consultant for the film Into the Wild. Nowadays, JT prefers having a roof over his head and placing his fictional characters in dire situations in his thriller and post-apocalyptic books. JT lives with his family in Colorado Springs, CO. Visit jtsawyer.com for more information.

Non-Fiction Survival Books by Tony Nester (aka JT Sawyer):

Survival Gear You Can Live With

Bug-Out Gear for Travelers

A Vehicle Survival Kit You Can Live With

When the Grid Goes Down: Disaster Gear and Survival Preparations for Making Your Home Self-Reliant

The Modern Hunter-Gatherer: A Practical Guide to Living Off the Land

Bushcraft Tips & Tools

Life Under Open Skies: Adventures in Bushcraft