Night Zero- Second Day

by Rob Horner

  The virus had found a way to become more.

  It was airborne.

  Part 3

  Third Dawn

  Chapter 27

  Dr. Greg Lowman, Chief Medical Officer of the CDC, woke in unfamiliar surroundings, temporarily confused at the welter of sensory input. As his eyes adjusted to the light, memory came crashing back.

  Tracking down Dr. Johnson’s ill-advised crusade to vaccinate the masses.

  Following a trail of bloodshed and viral diarrhea from its inception at an explosion outside Atlanta. The initial spread wasn’t bad, typical projections based on wind speed and air currents, compounded only slightly by the distance an airplane could reasonably fly in 45 minutes to an hour. But the primary infection wasn’t the problem. The diarrhea wasn’t contagious, just a byproduct of a carrier molecule. It was the folded protein riding inside the bacterium, a modified prion-viral construct which spread in the feces, vomitus, and through blood contact.

  There were governors calling in the National Guard, and the President of the United States holding a telephone conference he was expected to attend.

  And after all of that, a summons to be present with POTUS and his cabinet in the underground White House bunker.

  All hell broke loose in DC during the transit from CDC headquarters to 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue, and it was the National Guard who saved Greg’s ass, conferring him here.

  Dr. Lowman shook his head, trying to clear the cobwebs. He remembered a dinner served in the bunker which tasted far better than any camp rations he’d ever had. Apparently being the president got you a chef even when hiding underground. More people straggled in, high powered Senators and Congressmen, the First Lady and their youngest son.

  Reports filtered in as night came on, hospitals overrun, the CDC campus in Atlanta under siege by protesters and a public desperate for answers, National Guard outposts being deployed, fighting against infected civilians. It was a steady barrage of bad news. And being the only doctor at the table led to several awkward moments as men in suits and uniforms turned to him for hope.

  But he had none to give. Aside from knowing that a small percentage of the population were completely immune—a product of design rather than luck—what could he say? The program to develop a vaccine dispersal mechanism had been started by the CDC, but it was prior to his administration. He’d never known it existed. Yet here he was, forced to answer for the ego of another director and the arrogance of his team. Greg didn’t particularly care for the anti-vaccination crowd and thought their beliefs were misguided and misplaced. But he respected that they were honest beliefs held by people with every right to question, to doubt, and to say no.

  Thankfully, he’d thought to bring the transcripts of every conversation recorded in his office, which helped deflect much of the anger and frustration from the gathered men and women.

  Still, when it came time to cram his ass into one of the bunk beds in a berthing area, he’d gratefully accepted.

  Now here he was, waking up to cold, fluorescent lighting and processed air, as alone in the barracks room as he’d been when he crawled in. It made sense. Most of the others were much higher up the food chain and probably had access to rooms almost like hotel suites. Greg got the impression that not too many people had been called in to share the president’s space. Hell, given the amount of clamor against his presidency, it wasn’t likely the man cared enough to invite too many people.

  Greg’s shirt and pants had been wrinkled and stained during his flight from the crazy people in the streets of DC, but there hadn’t been time to change yesterday. When the president and his cabinet wanted answers, they got them.

  Now, alone in the barracks room, he went in search of toiletries and a change of clothes.

  * * * * *

  A movie played in his mind, something with B-level special effects but Triple-A level makeup.

  There was an actor who looked a lot like him firing at a disgusting zombie woman, half her face ripped away.

  Maybe the special effects weren’t that bad; it really looked as though the bottom portion of her features were gone, not simply erased on a digital chalkboard during postproduction. Hair and eyes were there, though the makeup guys had done a masterful job pasting her tresses together with photorealistic dried blood. Below her eyes was just…nothing, empty space where the lower portion of her nose, mouth, chin, and neck should be. Torn tubes like smooth-sided licorice whips dangled from her mangled head or flopped out and hung over her collar bones as they rose out of her chest.

  Realizing those were veins and arteries was almost enough to make him sick, even knowing it was a dream.

  The actor who looked like him felt the same way, turning and spewing a solid quart of chunky green liquid like split pea soup even as the woman fell away.

  He didn’t see the large form coming from behind, hands like bowling balls fisted and swinging for the fences.

  The guy was sent sprawling, maybe dead, definitely knocked silly, and he found himself willing the man to rise, caught up in the sickening drama.

  The gigantic monster didn’t chase after him, so that was to the good. Instead, it pivoted toward a small area surrounded in clear plexiglass at the back. Someone else he couldn’t see began screaming.

  Steve. That was Steve.

  “That was Steve!” he shouted, jerking upright.

  Well, he tried to, but his right arm didn’t move. The rattle of metal accompanied his motion as something hard and cold bit against his wrist, preventing more than a few inches’ motion. The sudden stop made him slam his hand back down, igniting a firestorm of pain which raced up his arm.

  Biting back a shout, Jesse opened his eyes to find himself in a small, canvas-sided space, like a large tent.

  The sides are brown, though, and I know what that means.

  His right arm was handcuffed to the metal side of a folding cot.

  There were other cots in the room, lined up side by side like a field medical unit, which fit with the rounded roof and narrow, hall-like dimensions.

  None of the other beds were occupied.

  They wouldn’t have set this up just for me.

  Careful of his wounded hand, Jesse pulled at the side of the bed. The handcuff slid along a short expanse of metal maybe six inches long before being stopped by a metal joist. Having spent many years sleeping in a similar bed, when he wasn’t freezing on a harder surface, Jesse figured he could find a way to free himself given enough time. The cots were designed to come apart and fold quickly; even if he couldn’t get free of the cot, he could fold it and carry it out with him.

  He had scattered memories of a squad of soldiers bursting into the terminal, firing at…

  …a mountain of a man in red flannel…

  …something big, while another man…

  Steve! His name was Steve!

  …screamed in the purest agony Jesse had ever heard. He’d seen a man lose a leg to an IED, his blood pouring onto the sands while the frantic medic assigned to the troop worked to apply a tourniquet, and not heard anything like it.

  Like the devil himself came up and starting peeling his skin away, one strip at a time.

  More out of frustration than any hope of freeing himself, Jesse jerked at the handcuffs again.

  The tent flap rustled and a young man in green camouflage entered. “Oh, you’re awake.” He immediately moved past several rows of empty cots to Jesse’s bedside. “Sorry for the cuffs, Mr. Franks. You flailed a bit at first and we were worried about your hand. Hold still while I get these off you.”

  “You know me?” Jesse asked.

  “Yeah. Um…well…we looked you up, you know? Ran your I.D. I’m Dallas, by the way. Well, PFC Patrick Dallas. But you know how the Army is. Less confusion if you call everyone by their last name.”

  Especially if the last name sounds like a girl’s first name, Jesse thought.

  “Yeah. I know,” he said, snatching his right arm away as soon as the cuff was loosened. His stomach rumbl
ed loudly, and the young PFC laughed.

  “I’ll bet you’re hungry. You’ve been out a bit.”

  “How long?”

  “Little over forty-eight hours. We picked you up at oh six thirty day before yesterday and it’s now—”

  Get this to the CDC.

  God, I slept for two days!

  Jesse jumped to his feet, startling the medic and forcing him to step back. “Listen…I appreciate you guys looking after me, but I gotta—”

  “Gotta what, Mr. Franks?” a new voice asked.

  Jesse hadn’t noticed the older man enter the tent, but was struck immediately by his tall frame and squared-shoulder stance. Tightly cropped gray hair gave an impression of wisdom and experience rather than age. Though it’d been almost fifteen years since Jesse wore a uniform, he found his right arm itching to offer a salute. Nothing held the medic back, and his salute was precise and quarterback quick.

  “Thank you, Mr. Dallas,” the older man said, “but remember I work for a living. My name is Sergeant First Class Dale Harding, Mr. Franks. United States National Guard. The men and equipment you see here are under my command.”

  He paused as though expecting Jesse to say something, perhaps ready to pounce on anything he might say.

  “That includes you, no matter that you put off the colors more than a decade ago.”

  They didn’t get that from my Driver’s or Pilot’s License.

  “That’s right,” he continued, “I know everything about you. And it’s because of your exemplary military record that you’re not under guard.”

  His tone left no doubt that Jesse’s circumstances could change at a moment’s notice.

  “Now please, grab some canvas so we can talk. Mr. Dallas bring our guest something from the chow line. He’s bound to be hungry.”

  PFC Dallas acknowledged the order with a “Right away, Sergeant,” and hurried out of the tent.

  With no other options, Jesse sank back down onto the cot. Sergeant Harding did the same, lowering his six-four frame onto the cot directly across from Jesse.

  “Now then, I want you to tell me what you think and what you know. Explain how a Mississippi pilot ends up in Tennessee after filing an emergency landing in Oklahoma. Tell the truth, son, and the irons stay off.” The older man smiled. “Make it a good story, and I’ll even return the favor. As much as I’m allowed to, at any rate.”

  Jesse swallowed.

  He wasn’t reluctant to tell the truth; everything he’d done made sense, even if the first run from Mississippi to Oklahoma had been out of fear. It was more about believability. How did you go about explaining what seemed like an outbreak of zombies to a senior NCO and not sound like a lunatic?

  Get this to the CDC.

  He had to play along. There wasn’t anything else he could do.

  “Tell you what, son. I’ll give you a kick in the ass to get you started. Zombies. There. I said the word. Now, tell me what you know.”

  Jesse drew in a deep breath and let it out. With his second breath, he started to speak.

  * * * * *

  The men in the helicopter talked about the things they could see as the transport flew over Atlanta, heading for the secure pad inside the CDC complex.

  Kim couldn’t see anything, not handcuffed and secured in a prisoner seat in the center of the craft. She’d been a model prisoner; several men said so. Some of the female guardsmen argued for her release, or at least a relaxation of her bonds. But there were the records from the hospital, and blood tests taken by medics who, despite their gentleness, were one hundred percent professional and not about to take a drop less than ordered.

  There was something special about her; they all said it.

  She already knew.

  She was become, and they weren’t.

  “The city’s lost!”

  “Jesus! So many!”

  She didn’t need to see.

  She could feel them, the teeming masses of become. Their minds were there, a hundred thousand receptacles awaiting instruction. A few higher become moved among them, a small percentage, calling the lesser. Their voices were a dull whisper, flaring to comprehension if she concentrated, but with no power to compel her.

  They should be able to, she thought. One such as she should have no ability to resist them.

  And yet, only one voice had power over her. The voice of her creator.

  Was that something unique to her? Did it have anything to do with what had the soldier-men so excited when they discussed her case?

  The chatter of the people fell in volume. Their anxiety ebbed. The flight over the city was reaching its end. Though the men had been in no danger while soaring over the masses of become, every one of them stank of fear, their bodies reacting to the hypothetical. What if the chopper crashed? What if they were down there, fighting for their lives along the crowded streets?

  If only they understood, they might not be so afraid.

  Becoming was not dying.

  It was a rebirth.

  Soon, perhaps, she could teach them.

  But not yet.

  Someone was coming to this place, this important place.

  Someone important.

  The voice told her to wait. Be patient. When this person arrived, be ready.

  He was the key.

  The men around her said his name, though not with any special reverence. His was just the name of another scientist.

  Dr. Lowman.

  They meant to hand her to him.

  Kim smiled.

  They were handing him to her.

  But they didn’t need to know that.

  She could be patient.

  * * * * *

  Her dad wasn’t on the plane.

  Why that surprised her and left her disappointed, Caitlin couldn’t say. It wasn’t like General Roger Boyles had ever put her first—not her safety, or welfare, or happiness. It was the same with mom. He’d been at her bedside for the first few cancer treatments, but when her last days came, he was nowhere to be found.

  He had excuses for his absence.

  He had to fly to Benghazi to oversee an intelligence operation.

  He had to be in the Situation Room during a covert strike.

  He was in Iraq organizing a new counterinsurgency.

  He always had excuses for his absences.

  The burn of unshed tears stung her eyes, immediately banished by a flush of anger.

  No. He didn’t have the power to hurt her. Not anymore. He’d kept his promise and delivered the transport helicopter. That’s all he was to her.

  A resource.

  “Are we really going to Washington DC, Dad?” Jacob asked, letting his father buckle him into the helicopter seat.

  “You bet. You’re going to love it.”

  “I can’t wait to see the Washington Monument, and the Lincoln Memorial, and the White House—”

  Jacob would have kept on naming historical locations except he was interrupted by the pilot.

  “I’m sorry. I thought you guys knew. We’re heading to Atlanta.”

  “What the hell’s in Atlanta?” George asked, breaking away from a discussion with the co-pilot. The old man was full of questions about the capabilities of the craft, some so esoteric even the men who flew the machine had no idea of the answers. What did it matter how much shear the main rotors could withstand, or how many successful auto-rotation landings this particular model had in its safety profile?

  He won’t be able to tell us, Caitlin thought.

  “I don’t really have any details, sir,” the pilot said. “Our orders are to take you to the CDC headquarters in Atlanta.”

  “But isn’t that ground zero for…for whatever’s happening?” Tina asked.

  “I don’t know about that, ma’am. Only that the site’s secure and it’s where we’re to take you.”

  “Will General Boyles be there?” Caitlin asked.

  The pilot shook his head. “I really can’t speak to where the General will be, beggin’ y
our pardon, Miss?” He turned the statement into a question.

  Caitlin smiled as she answered. “Boyles. My name is Caitlin Boyles. The general is my father.”

  “Ah, well. That’s to the good then. To you I can say, ‘The power is failing. Time to start the generator.’”

  Like a sucker punch to the gut, all the righteous power she’d held by the use of her last name flew out of her.

  The power is failing.

  “That mean anything to you?” Buck asked from behind.

  Caitlin turned from the pilots and shuffled back to the passenger seats, barely aware of the big man’s question.

  The first phrase was an assessment. The power is failing. Things were unwinding. They were losing control.

  Control of what? The situation? The government? DC as a city or the nation as a whole?

  Time to start the generator.

  To anyone else hearing those words, it would sound like a stereotypical conversation among rural Americans. What did you do when the power went out? You started the generator, of course. City dwellers didn’t have them; you couldn’t just store a noisy, gas-powered generator on the balcony of a fourth-floor walk-up in New York.

  But that’s not what it meant.

  “Caitlin?” Buck asked again, drawing her out of her thoughts.

  “Huh?”

  “Why Atlanta?” he asked.

  Old habits die the hardest. If General Boyles spoke in code, it meant he didn’t trust anyone else with the message.

  “DC isn’t safe,” she answered. “My dad thinks Atlanta is secure, so he’s having us taken there.”

  It wasn’t a lie. The pilots said as much.

  “I guess that’s okay,” Buck said, reaching up to touch his ear. “Probably the best place if they need to study me.”

  Time to start the generator.

  You also started a generator before something bad happened. Because you anticipated something bad happening. The general thought something bad was coming, and he wanted them in Atlanta, specifically in the CDC, for a reason.