The Undead World (Book 1): The Apocalypse Read Free Page A

alarm.”
    In his gut, Ram didn 't think it was going to be and that had him doubly nervous. In his seven years with the agency he'd had guns shoved in his face, he'd been beaten nearly to death, and he had dined with stone cold killers who made Ted Bundy look like a chump, but there was something about the ethereal and invisible nature of biological weapons that made him shiver at the very thought.
    Was he even then infected? Or was his next breath going to be the one that killed him?
    “What about clothes?” he asked, thinking that maybe he would like to wear one of the long robes he had seen middle-eastern muslims wearing. Sometimes they wore scarves, which would go a long way in hiding the fact that he was latino and not muslim, and which he figured he would breathe through in the hope of lessening any chance at catching the disease.
    “ What you have on is fine,” Fillmore answered after a glance. “Here, study these while you can.”
    The senior agent handed over four photographs ; all were of middle eastern men . Dreadful rumors had been rippling from every intel source and only in the last few days had they firmed up. An Al-Qaeda spin off group was thought to be bringing a weaponized form of Bubonic plague into the US. However the group was so secretive that only eighteen of them were even named and just four of those had ever been photographed.
    The others were described in the most useless fashion: Arabic; olive skin tone; black hair; brown eyes.
    “This is impossible,” Ram griped. “The pictures could be of anyone and I know it isn't PC to say this, but these descriptions are pathetic. They probably describe everyone in that damned building.”
    Fillmore nodded, thin lipped. “They aren't all the same. Not all of them are Saudis, Fuad Mehdi, he's from Kazakhstan, and Shehzad Bhanji, he's from Qatar. Maybe they'll stand out. If you don't see anyone who matches the pictures, look for someone who's all by themselves, or a pair who don't belong. Use your training.”
    “ My biggest worry is that I'll find fifty people who look like these pictures.”
    Fillmore tried a smile; it wasn't his strong suit under the best of conditions and this one was watery. “You're going to be fine, Ram. Now it's time to get moving. They should be calling the people to pray any minute and you should be in there before they do.”
    Ram took a shaky breath, felt the pistol in the holster under his jacket, tapped the tiny two-wave radio in his pocket, and then stepped out of the van. “Wait, is it salmon aleekum,” he asked, fouling up the traditional greeting.
    “ No, hold on.” Fillmore looked at a folder and said slowly, “As-salam alaykum. Say it to yourself as you go.” With that the van door was closed in his face and Ram was left to walk down the street alone.
    He tried again, “As salamun malaikum? Oh, Jesus! This isn't going to work.”
    The mosque, a white rectangle of a building with a domed minaret in its center was fast approaching. He tucked his chin down and kept his eyes up, watching as men in twos and threes came up the street. Most were smiling easily, others seemed tired since the sun was already set. He followed a pair as they entered the front door and stepped to the side in a lobby. Everyone who entered took their shoes off and Ram did as well, though he took his time, deliberately.
    Going to one knee he scanned the faces around him and as he did his training, as well as his natural inclination as an adrenaline junkie, kicked in. His nervousness disappeared and his eyes were sharp. He took in every detail of the men who drifted through the lobby, most of whom jabbered in this or that language.
    Quickly he realized two things: one, the pictures and descriptions were as useless as he had supposed they would be, and two, he didn 't need them either way. There was another man lingering in the lobby.
    He was dark complected, even compared to the other middle-eastern men, and his clothes w ere odd: stylish,