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Chapter 1
Houston’s Main Street was deserted at 4:00 a.m. Captain Shelby sped through the canopy of oaks, past thick hedges of oleanders and the fountain in Hermann Park. Passing the hospital, he turned into the emergency parking area.
The police parking spaces were full, so he parked in a spot reserved for the hospital director. He won’t be in tonight, that’s for sure, Shelby thought as he got out of a dark blue Crown Vic with blackwall tires and no hubcaps. He wore yesterday’s brown pants, no tie, a wrinkled, long-sleeved white shirt unbuttoned at the top and an Astros cap pulled over his uncombed hair. He looked a mess, not the usual well dressed, well-mannered personification of a professional detective, not tonight…not after the call.
Suffering from a combination of his one cold per year and a flu bug, Shelby thought himself too sick to die. Even though it was October, the air was hot and sticky. The night pushed on him like a steamy blanket, and he ached all over.
Quickly, he walked toward the well-lit emergency entrance. He was always amazed at the hustle of activity around Ben Taub. There were blue-and-white EMS care units everywhere. Their uniformed personnel rushed in and out the glass doors. A state of panic seemed to grip the hospital.
He flashed his badge for a security guard as he entered the rear entrance. A strange sensation of destiny gripped him when he saw the look on Esquivel’s face. Shelby pulled his handkerchief and blew his nose, motioning to Esquivel.
“Lieutenant?”
“Captain, I’ve got a guy who went berserk at a club on Westheimer. He got naked, then killed three people with his bare hands.”
“What’s the problem you can’t handle?”
“When the uniforms arrived, the nut attacked them, shooting one of the blues twice in the chest.”
“You’d better call Internal Affairs. Let them handle that part of the incident.”
“I’ve already called them. Here’s the problem; this nut, his name is Richard Van Cleave…well, he’s shot three times in the heart, but he won’t die. This sucker is still going even with the three holes smoking in his chest. The ER doctor tells me he’s never seen anything like this. To tell you the truth, I think this guy’s seen a lot. Know what I mean? ”
Shelby nodded.
“It just doesn’t make any sense, Captain, and just a few minutes ago the chief resident, Dr. Salinas, shows up. He takes me upstairs and tells me they have four other patients just like this Van Cleave. This is deep, Captain. Kind of reminds me of tree moss.”
“Say what?”
“He explained that they’re somehow taking their nutrients from the air. You know, like ball moss. They’re brain dead, off all life support, but they just keep on ticking. They won’t die. Salinas says they’re somehow living on their own.”
Shelby felt the hair on his neck prickle.
“Captain, they’ve got five people over here that won’t die, and listen to this, you ain’t going to believe it anyway. They think these zombies have some new kind of disease they’ve never seen before. They’re calling it HBV, Human Brain Virus. It’s kind of like HIV only worse. Worse than AIDS. What are you going to do?”
“Esquivel, I’m not a doctor. What do you think I can do about some new virus? That’s a little out of our field, isn’t it? We’re homicide investigators, remember?”
“Captain, before Van Cleave went comatose, he told the uniforms that someone put this virus in his head.”
“Ah, come on, Esquivel.”
“Salinas said that one of the other zombies told him the same thing. And, Captain, get this.” Esquivel was almost shouting. “Three of these stiffs work at the Space Center.”
“Okay, Lieutenant, give me the rundown by the numbers.”
“As of now, we’ve got five comatose bodies living on air on the third floor. I’ve only got IDs on three of them. The other two are being listed as John Does. They were all naked when they were brought in. It seems that all five of them went totally nuts just before they were killed or died…or whatever they do. They’re dead, but not dead. They’re alive, but not alive. Holy cow, boss. This is far out. Isn’t it?”
“Tell me all you know. Let’s get some coffee and sit down someplace where we can go over what you know about each person. Are they all males?”
“You look like warmed-over death, Captain. Yeah, they’re all men.” They walked to the public coffee area and when they sat, Esquivel opened a red pocket notebook. “The first guy they brought in is a John Doe. That was last Tuesday.”
“Give me the details.”
“He was hit by a garbage truck on the Gulf Freeway near Allen Parkway. The driver said the first thing he saw was a naked man jump the guard fence and streak across the lanes right into the front of his truck. It must’ve been like a bug splattering when the poor guy hit the grill of that fifty-ton truck.
“No ID, and, so far, the Department of Public Safety and the FBI haven’t had time to respond on the fingerprints. DPS is usually pretty quick. We may have to wait a month on the Feds. The only weird thing about any of this is that the corpse won’t die. The chief resident says that every bone in the guy’s body is broken. His head is just a pile of mush.” Esquivel glanced down at the notebook. “The second man who came in told the ER people someone put a Michelangelo virus in his head. I had to ask what that was, and the doctor told me it’s something like a computer virus. I didn’t even know computers got sick. Can you believe?
“They figure the guy works with a computer or something at NASA. His name is Peter Soto, married, two children. Been at NASA for three years. His wife brought him in.
“She said he was talking to someone on the phone, screamed ‘Michelangelo’ and went crazy nuts. He ran out into their front yard, ripping at his clothes, then collapsed. She and the kids loaded him in their car and rushed him over here.”
“When did you say the first one came in?”
“Last Tuesday.” Esquivel flipped through his notebook. “The second one, Soto, was brought in the next day, sometime Wednesday morning. A University of Houston student shot the third man when he tried to climb in her bedroom window. That was Wednesday night about ten-thirty. Now, get this, she lives in a high-rise. The guy had apparently climbed up four floors on the outside brick wall. Her report says he broke the window with his face and was screaming ‘Michelangelo’.”
“Then what happened?”
“She said she didn’t care who he was, pulled out a thirty-eight and blasted away. By some miracle known only to God, she hit him four times in the head and neck, and once in the shoulder before he fell. Shot five times, fell four stories and he’s still alive. Can you believe that?”
Shelby sat back and finished the cold coffee. He then blew his nose for the thousandth time. “I’m almost afraid to ask about the fourth body. I take it…”
Before Shelby could finish, Esquivel stopped him by raising his hand and pointing to a man who was approaching their table. “Here’s the chief resident, Dr. Salinas.”
Shelby turned
