He had not been aware that his blood had been tested for Lazarus, as demanded by the CDC for all hospital admissions. When the results came back positive, he was moved to a secure isolation room by people who were dressed like they were auditioning for a part on the latest remake of The Andromeda Strain. His sleeping body had missed all the excitement.
Nobody had expected him to last the night, and when the people guarding him advised that he was still alive, the doctors re-examined him in compliance with the CDC directive that instructed medical staff to be on the look-out for anyone that might be immune. Anthony had woken up the next day to find everything had changed. His asthma had been much better, and he was deemed Lazarus free, which should have been a cause for celebration. When he had woken up to be given the good news, it was only to find that his wife wasn’t present, soldiers standing in the room with him instead. Because of his size, his left hand was also cuffed to the bed, which made no sense to him.
It was explained to him that it was to stop him from running away. Really, nobody wanted to be the one to have to try and stop him should he suddenly decide the hospital was no longer the place for him. The last he remembered was the pain in his neck. He had no knowledge of what had happened to the woman he loved, the men who took him not even showing the decency to treat him like a human being. The medical staff tending to him had been walking on eggshells, clearly in fear of something out of their apparent control. Anthony knew that apprehension hadn’t been down to him, but more likely the soldiers who hid behind their respirators. When it had been deemed safe for him to travel and be discharged, the doctor in charge had protested at the order to inject whatever concoction they had given to him.
So the soldier had done it, ripping the syringe out of the doctor’s hand while two more held Anthony down. He was big, but so were they.
Now he was here, in this place. If they expected him to cooperate, they could go and fuck themselves. There was something else people said about Anthony Powell, this time often behind his back. He could be a stubborn son of a bitch when he put his mind to it, and he had never backed down when justice demanded action.
23.08.19
Site R, USA
The briefcase didn’t actually look like much, but with it, Jacqueline Fairchild had the power to unleash her country’s nuclear arsenal. Being in Site R, she didn’t really need it, but it was good to know she had the capability in case there was a need to flee what was supposed to be one of the United States’ most secure military installations. Already dozens of missiles were being retasked away from their predetermined targets. If there was objection to her orders, nobody voiced such. Everyone around her seemed loyal, but she was certain there would be some snakes in the grass who would need to be uncovered before their treachery could harm her cause. Had not the Devil himself slithered into Eden to corrupt the mind of Woman? And had Woman not then shared the vileness of this deceit just to try and please a man?
She would have liked to have blamed men for all of this. The Virus, the failure to defeat it early on, the Cold War that started all this. Unfortunately, she had the report in front of her about the woman called Mother, so the male of the species wasn’t totally to blame. Although saying that, Fairchild was sure men were responsible for creating a woman as dangerous as Mother, just like they were responsible for most problems in the world. So yeah, she would in fact set the responsibility for this whole mess right at the door of the weaker sex.
Site R, the Raven Rock Mountain Complex consisted of a military installation with a substantial bunker network beneath it. Above ground it hardly looked like anything, a few buildings scattered throughout heavily guarded and fenced off forest. But beneath, the complex could house hundreds, keeping them safe for years at a time.
What wasn’t generally known was that a large proportion of the missing trillions that had been lost from the Pentagon’s budget had been used to create a vast underground network across the continental United States. There were the facilities that the public generally knew about, but there were also truly secret installations that had been kept from the public eye. Complex computer algorithms purged their existence from search engines across the globe, any mention on social media causing accounts to be suspended or closed. Whenever a curious journalist uncovered evidence that such sites existed, bad things always seemed to happen. Sometimes they committed “suicide”, other times they were framed for heinous crimes. It was so easy to hack into a computer and place disgusting and illegal images in hidden folders. This way, the secret sites remained secret, many of them connected by a vast array of subterranean tunnels that allowed for a clandestine maglev train network to shuttle people back and forth below the surface of the country. It was amazing what you could build when you basically had unlimited funds.
Until the crisis was over, Fairchild wouldn’t need to venture to the surface for anything. She had everything she needed right here. Everyone below ground had been vetted for Lazarus, so it was considered that the virus was only a threat to those on the surface.
That was not the case as would soon become apparent.
Site R was the official emergency operations centre for the United States Military, and it was now Fairchild’s new home, all the luxury and opulence she had enjoyed abandoned but not forgotten. The normal trappings of a Presidency were denied her as well, but that was okay, she never had liked the décor of the White House anyway. Too old, too stuffy, built for an era long since passed. Site R was one of the three core officially known bunker complexes that were designed to keep the elite safe in the case of a national emergency, part of the continuity of government plan that was developed long ago in the Cold War. With the Cheyenne and Mount Weather facilities, it made up the backbone of America’s chance to survive. Only the military, the elite and those who served the elite would be blessed with a place of safety beneath the deserts, the forests and the wheat fields of the United States.
The leaders of the land of the free didn’t actually give a stuff for the population they ruled with their corrupt and duplicitous schemes.
The place was definitely designed by men for men, the lack of a woman’s touch glaring in its absence. There wasn’t a single scented candle in the place. While Fairchild would have liked to change that, she really didn’t have the time. Since arriving here, she hadn’t been left alone, a legion of generals and government officials bombarding her with demands for decisions that left her head swimming. Normally she was measured and thoughtful in her deliberations, but the speed with which things were happening was already taking its toll on her. She wouldn’t admit it to herself, but she really wasn’t up to the task the country required of her…but then no single person was.
Even worse, she hadn’t had an opportunity to even pray since arriving here.
At present, she was sat in the core command room. It was not dissimilar to the situation room in the White House, a room with a central conference table that could house over a dozen people. She was alone now except for one other person, her new Head of the Joint Chiefs. Fairchild liked him from the start because it was clear that General Franklin, Old Fire and Brimstone himself, did not believe in fucking about. He was a man of action, a man nearly obsessed with getting things done. This was no pen-pushing bureaucrat, this was a veteran who had seen action and had the scars to prove it. A man who believed in the use of decisive and overwhelming force.
They both sat looking at a large TV monitor that Franklin was controlling with a remote. He was showing his new President troop movements and deployments. More important were the computer predictions on the rapid growth of the undead populations. Currently, the TV showed a map of California, which was already close to being overrun. Satellite images from Los Angeles, in particular, were showing a mass exodus of several zombie hordes moving through the city and the surrounding area. One of those concentrations was tens of thousands in number.
“The Chinese taught us that nukes weren’t enough to handle the situation. Even with the devastation, Bei
jing is still teeming with the undead.”
“Why do you think that is, General?”
“Partly because many of those either infected or resurrected were underground at the time which protected them from the worst of the nuclear blasts. But on the outer perimeters, the radiation just sped up the demise of those already infected. I’m not inclined to use nuclear weapons except on the most concentrated population centres. Los Angeles might have been salvageable if the people hadn’t panicked, but it was a primary hub of the infection due to LAX. The infection hit hard and fast. The State Governor is in custody as per your orders.” The California State Governor had been woeful in his response to the crisis, taking too long to deploy the National Guard. “Most of downtown LA has been lost to the undead. I don’t see us holding the city, even the state. Chicago looks like it might fall as well, so add that one to the list. There is a chance we might have stabilised New York, but we lost a lot of good men and women, and the infection has spread to New Jersey. It’s still too early to tell.” The President had hoped New York could be saved, it was a city that meant a lot to her. “We do have two other problems that you may need to make a decision on.”
“Which are?” Fairchild demanded. The screen changed to a map of Mexico.
“Firstly, Mexico City is in a bad way. The CIA confirmed that any semblance of law and order has collapsed, and even the cartels can’t control the local populous. We have a mass exodus of people coming straight for the border.”
“What do you propose?”
“You will allow me to be blunt?” Franklin asked.
“I wouldn’t want you to be anything but.”
“We need to stop that exodus and send a message that the border is closed. We need to shut all the main highways. If we could spare the troops, I would say put them on the border, but that isn’t an option. We need to make those people head south, away from us.”
“What would be your desired method?” Fairchild watched the General, saw how his eyes seemed to sparkle. There were some who said that Franklin enjoyed the power he had at his fingertips a little too much.
“You said years ago that the wall should have been built, and if that had been done, we likely wouldn’t need to do anything. A wall would have allowed us to concentrate troops at any points of weakness. We don’t have that luxury so we will need to infringe on Mexico’s Sovereignty. I think the only thing we can do is bomb any concentrated human mass that comes near our border.”
“You wouldn’t recommend nukes?”
“Only as a last resort. The border is too wide, and it’s too big a risk to Texas to use nukes anything but selectively. Plus, we will be bombing a sovereign nation which will mightily piss people off.” Texas was one of the states where the infection had occurred that was holding its own so far. Franklin stood up so he could point directly at the map on the screen. “If it comes to it though, I say we use low yield neutron bombs.”
“Weren’t those all supposed to be decommissioned?”
“Yes Madam President, they were supposed to be. But why deprive our armed forces of such a valuable weapon? We have stockpiles for our bombers.” Of course we do, thought Fairchild. “I think in the first instance though, we need to try and create a curtain of denial. We are already doing leaflet drops warning the local population not to approach the border, and that seems to be having some effect. Concentrated A10 strafing runs along the largest highways should get the message across as well as surgical strikes on all bridges, highways and railway lines. Even better, we can deploy nerve agents as area denial weapons. If you allow me, I can cut us off from this mass exodus with minimal loss of life.”
“That will really piss off the Mexicans,” Fairchild said. She had no desire to use any derogative terms for the Mexican population despite the low regard she had for anyone who wasn’t Caucasian. They had a right to life, they just had to be kept away from the border.
“I’m sure it would, but what are they going to do. If they try a military response, we will create air dominance within the first hour. You might not be aware that Mexico doesn’t have any fighter aircraft in operation at present. Besides, their government has basically collapsed.”
“So we can basically do what we want?”
“Pretty much,” said the General. “If you give the word, I can have operations started within the hour.”
“Do whatever you think is best to defend the integrity of our border, General,” Fairchild said. “What is the second problem?” The General used the remote again. A weather chart came up on the screen, showing Florida and the surrounding Atlantic Ocean. Out at sea, a large weather formation could be seen.
“Hurricane Jezebel,” the General stated, “is hurtling through the Gulf of Mexico and has just missed the Western coast of Florida. If it continues as expected, it will rip north through the Gulf and destroy any chance we have of containing the virus where it hits.” It was predicted to be a category 5 at landfall and would punch right across to either Texas or Louisiana. What the scientists couldn’t predict was its exact point of impact. Houston would see the worst of it. Jacqueline felt that she was sorely tested by her God.
She hadn’t seen anything.
23.08.19
Manchester, UK
For the fourth time that day, Viktor paid a visit to Susan. Only this time he brought more than drink with him. Flung over one arm he had a sheer, almost see-through dress that would barely hide Susan’s modesty. From his fingers dangled a pair of six-inch heeled stilettoes that Viktor knew Clay would adore.
“Your attire for this evening,” Viktor said, resting the garment over the arm of a chair. Stepping back, he noticed Susan’s hesitation as she climbed off the bed and held the dress up to the light, Viktor backing away from her.
“I can’t wear this,” she pleaded, “there’s nothing to it. I might as well be naked.”
“Naked is your other option,” Viktor advised callously. “I will leave you for a moment to decide. When I return, we will be going to see Mr Clay, and the dressing gown stays here.” It would have been easier to stand over Susan while she put on the Swarovski crystal cut off gown, but such humiliation was reserved for Clay and Clay alone. He left the room and let Susan make her choice. He did leave her a little liquid courage before doing so, of course.
When Viktor returned, Susan was suitably attired, although she looked deservedly uncomfortable. She had even applied makeup which would please Clay immensely.
“Are you ready, Miss Susan?” Viktor asked, although really it wasn’t a question. She nodded timidly and followed him out of the bedroom. Susan expected them to go down to the kitchen like last time, but at the stairs, Viktor went up. He was halfway up the flight of stairs before Viktor realised Susan wasn’t with him. Turning, he saw that she was still at the base of the steps, desperation almost seeping out of every pore.
“Please, Mr Clay is not to be kept waiting,” Viktor ordered, hiding his own amusement at the situation. He put an edge into his voice that suggested unpleasantness would happen if she didn’t comply, but it was clear to him that she was well aware of the bad things that would happen even if she followed his commands to the letter. Maybe that was why she still hesitated. “I can always carry you if you feel you are worthy of such indignity.” Susan gave him a look then that surprised him, the fury in her face a pleasure for him to see. Still some fight left in her, he thought to himself. Reluctantly, Susan began to ascend the stairs.
Susan wasn’t the only one to feel surprised when the pair walked into Clay’s bedroom. The room was large, with a gargantuan queen sized bed and C configuration leather sofa sunk into the floor, a sofa that could easily seat twelve people. The room was graced with five large floor to ceiling windows and a sense of style that bordered on functionality. Viktor’s surprise centred around the presence of Florence, the drug addicted and emaciated surgeon. She was sat at a table by one of the windows, sipping a cup of coffee. Clay wasn’t visible, although the sound of urination from the adjoining bat
hroom could readily be heard. When he finally appeared, he was still half buckling his trousers, the bathroom he deliberately closed behind him.
At least he was fastening them rather than taking them off, thought Susan.
“Susan, you look radiant. Doesn’t she look radiant, Florence?”
“Oh yes, she’s a peach,” Florence said in response to Clay, a hint of jealousy in her voice perhaps.
“You will have to forgive the good doctor, my dear,” Clay said. “Age and drugs have taken their toll on her, although I doubt she ever had a figure as splendid as yours.” Clay took a step forward, beckoning Susan to enter the room further. “Thank you Viktor, that will be all for now.” Viktor was still revelling in his confusion, so it took the briefest instance for him to register he had been dismissed.
“Yes Mr Clay,” he said, walking out of the room backwards, closing the door behind him. Susan was glad to see him go, although she still felt extremely apprehensive about what was about to happen. How could people be like this? How could they be so predatory?
“Do you like the dress, Susan?” Clay asked.
“It’s too revealing for my taste,” she said. It protected her modesty better than a bikini would, but not by much.
“Nonsense,” Clay said, “it brings out your eyes, and it cost me a king’s ransom.” Susan looked at Florence as if the doctor was able to help her, her eyes almost pleading, but Florence gave her nothing back.
“There is little point looking to the delectable Florence here for assistance. She knows where her bread is buttered, don’t you Florence?”
The Lazarus Strain Chronicles (Book 3): The Fall Page 18
