by Ward III, C.
“One and a half?”
“Yup, one and half MOA to move it an inch and a half at this distance. Do that, then send three more good shots. Michael and Zavier, use the spotting scope to see if they hit center this time.”
“Another math test: These are obviously not laser guns—which would be a whole lot cooler if they were. But instead, they shoot out these metal bullets. Even though they are going extremely fast, they start falling to the ground as soon as they leave the muzzle. The farther they go, the longer they are in the air, and the longer gravity pulls it down.
“Remember how many inches one MOA represents at one hundred yards? Yup, one inch. Here’s the tricky part: MOA and Mils are actually an angular unit of measurement. Don’t worry about the big scary word—all that means is that it spreads out the farther away it gets. Example: One MOA at one hundred yards is about one inch. Easy, right? The same one MOA at two hundred yards equals two inches. At three hundred yards, the same one MOA equals three inches. So what do you think one MOA at five hundred yards equals?”
“Five inches,” the three brothers said together.
Victor smiled. “You didn’t know you were going to do math this weekend, did you? This is fun math, though.”
Zavier fell back and spread his arms on the ground. “I don’t like math.”
“OK, smarty pants. For the time it takes the bullet to get from here to the three-hundred-yard target, gravity will pull the bullet down about twelve inches…it’s actually a little less than that, but let’s say twelve for this exercise. We need to adjust for that twelve inches of drop. At three hundred yards, how many MOA is twelve inches?”
“Four,” said Curtis.
“Do you agree, Michael?”
“Yeah, because at three hundred yards, one MOA equals three inches. The twelve inch drop divided by three inches equals four MOA.”
“Well, let’s see if your answer is correct. Curtis, dial four full MOA on the elevation turret, and then give me one good shot, center mass, on the three-hundred-yard target. Zavier, watch through the spotting scope and tell us where it hits.”
Dad watched Curtis as he relaxed, took the gun off safe, and gently squeezed the trigger.
Thwack was the sound the bullet made as it hit the steel target.
“Awww, that was sweet!” said Zavier. “There’s a big black mark where the bullet hit.”
“Congratulations, you passed Sniper Math 101. The bullet blasted the paint off the steel target. Pretty convenient, because we wouldn’t be able to see the hole in a paper target from here. Where did you hit?”
“A little high from where I was actually aiming,” Curtis said.
“How high?”
“About an inch and a half, maybe.”
“All right, sniper-math grads, figure it out. What is the MOA correction to move the bullet down one and a half inches at this three-hundred-yard target?’
“One MOA is three inches, so half of that.”
“I agree. Curtis dial down half an MOA, and give me a headshot on that same target.”
“On target.”
“Zavier, are you watching through the spotting scope? Tell him you are ready to watch the impact by saying ‘send it.’”
“Send it!” Zavier shouted loudly, as he always did when wearing the hearing-protection muffs.
Thwack. Right in the middle of the head. “One dead zombie, right there. Great shot. That was easy, huh? Next drill: dial the elevation turret back down to zero, and look for the five-hundred-yard target designated with a red triangle off to the side.”
“OK, I found it.”
“Go ahead and refix your position; your body is all off to the side of the rifle. If you are not directly behind the rifle, your body will not absorb the recoil properly, causing the rifle to jump all over the place; then you’ll have a hard time finding the target again after the shot.
“OK, math quiz: For a five-hundred-yard target, our bullet will drop forty-five inches. How much do we need to come up?”
“Nine!” Michael and Curtis said at the same time.
“Nine what? Are we talking MOA, inches, clicks, chicks, cookies, or what?”
“Nine MOA,” said Curtis as he reached up to spin the top turret.
“Michael, move the spotting scope to the five-hundred-yard target. When he shoots, see if you can see the bullet fly through the air. It will look like the bubble trails in the movie The Matrix, like there is a smudge or bug on the lens.”
“On target.”
“Curtis, see how the wind flag is flopping from right to left? At this distance, we are going to have to shoot into the wind, OK? Go ahead and aim at the right armpit.”
“OK, on target.”
“Send it!” screamed Michael, mocking his little brother.
About half a second later, the rewarding thwack was heard. “Great shot, Curtis!”
“I saw it; I really saw it. I actually saw the bullet in the spotting scope. Only for a split second, though,” said Michael, grinning. “That was cool!”
“That it is. Sometimes when the sun is just right, you can see the sun shining off the bullet while it’s in flight. That is really cool,” said Victor. “Curtis, how did that feel?”
“Pretty good, but if I wouldn’t have aimed at the armpit, I probably would have missed, right? How did you know how much the wind would move it?”
“Practice. Lots and lots of practice. There are math formulas and ballistic programs to calculate the wind drift. But truthfully, observing the wind speed and direction is the real skill involved in distance shooting.”
“That was fun. Can we try farther out?”
“We can, but later. This sun is getting hot, and I hear the ice-cream shop in town calling our name. We’ll shoot some more this evening after it cools off some, and maybe the wind will die down a little to make it easier for you. Let’s pack up our gear and grab our swimsuits before we take off.”
PANDORA’S EVIL
Only hope remains.
Anny strolled into the lab, expecting an easy day of wrapping up a project report that her team had just triumphantly concluded. As the rest of Team A filtered into the lab one by one, all wearing cheerful smiles, Anny noticed Alice Krippin, her team leader, pacing near the door.
As the last of her coworkers entered through the door, Alice said in a loud, stern voice, “Everyone, follow me into the war room. Now.”
The mood in the room went from cheerful over their recent project victory to timid. Unaccustomed to hearing Alice in such a serious tone, they quickly stood, stools screeching across the freshly polished floor, and then fast-stepped into the strategy room.
Quickly finding a seat around the long conference table, they all stared at Alice, who was pacing in front of a whiteboard-covered wall. “We have a new Nasty to battle. Dr. Mercer, I want you to finish the report on the cure of SYD-398 as soon as you can, then regroup with us. Team, we are now on mandatory overtime.”
Immediately, everyone looked around the room at each other with questioning looks.
Anny was the first to speak. “What is it, Dr. Krippin? What are we up against?”
Alice continued to pace back and forth. “The organization’s leadership is breaking all protocols on this. Teams A and B will be working together instead of in competition. Level Three labs are having a hard time with this one and have yet to effectively destroy the Nasty. To keep the study completely blind, we normally start building information from the ground up with no input, but time is of utmost importance. Also, breaking protocol, Level Five has announced this hybrid Nasty is not one of their creations. Origin’s completely unknown.”
“What do we know about it?” asked Sayeed as he and everyone else uncapped their pens to take notes.
“Just a few hours ago, we received this report, courtesy of Dr. Jenner.” As Alice dimmed the lights, a bright Center of Disease Control logo appeared on the whiteboard with the words “Top Secret–Sensitive Compartmented Information.” She clicked on t
he first image displaying the top view of a patient’s head surgically cut open with the brain in view. “What’s wrong with this brain?”
“Other than the fact that the top of the skull is missing?” asked Will while reaching for a pitcher of water.
Doug, sitting next to Anny, quickly answered, “The tissue has black spots, almost like small burn marks. First diagnosis would be a prion protein. If the spots were on top of the brain tissue, I would say a form of cancer.”
Alice looked at the group. “Prion is the forerunning hypothesis as of now.”
Anny said, “Prion isn’t anything new. In humans, the protein can be passed down from parent to offspring. In nature, the prion lingers in clay and other minerals from the decay of urine, saliva and other bodily fluids of dead animals. Animals are known to be infected though environmental ingestion.”
Sayeed added, “The prion is mostly found in India and Mexico. Where did this patient reside? Are we looking at a mutation of sorts, like FFI or Mad Cow?”
“I’ll come back to the location of this patient shortly. This prion has most certainly mutated, which we will touch on again shortly.” Alice took a long, deep breath, as if not knowing what to say. Looking at each scientist in the room, she clicked on the next set of photos. “We all know what this is, but please refresh our memories.”
Sitting at the far end of the table, Dr. Mercer stopped typing up his report to add to the conversation. “Picture on the left is a parasite. The look of a sperm wearing a dunce hat suggests the flesh-eating disease Leishmania. The image of the patient on the right covered in massive lesions and scabbing would strengthen my hypothesis.”
“Transmission methods?” asked Alice, glancing around the room.
“Sand-fly bites,” said Anny. “Again, not common to the USA. Thankfully, because it’s difficult to treat with our strict drug-importation laws. Dr. Krippin, what country did this patient live in?”
Ignoring the question, Alice clicked on the next slide, bringing up a magnified image of a spore that looked like a medieval mace–type weapon—a gray orb with several protruding spikes. Alice turned to look at the room.
Will said, “It’s a fungus, ascomycota division. Can you give us another clue?”
“I will give you a hint: most commonly found to grow on insects, this specific one on—or should I say in—ants. Discovered by Tom Petch in 1931.”
“The zombie spore…” Sayeed trailed off as a new image came up on the screen.
Doug stood up and walked closer to the board to examine the picture of the next patient.
Anny also stood up. “I don’t understand. The Ophiocordyceps unilateralis targets ants strictly. It digs into the host’s brain and nervous system, takes control of the host to direct it to the most beneficial environment for reproducing, usually high in trees. As it matures, the host grows a spore-filled tumor out of its head until it pops, raining new spores across the jungle floor. But this here...it can’t be.”
Alice also stared at the images. “The Ophiocordyceps genus has 140 species that grow on insects. There has never been a case involving mammals.”
The room fell silent for several minutes. The image on the board that held their breathless attention was that of a human patient with a large gray growth the size of a cantaloupe protruding from the side of his or her disfigured neck.
Dr. Mercer, who had abandoned his report, asked, “So what does the prion and Leishmania have to do with the zombie spore?”
Alice turned to face her staff with pain in her face, a look of devastation. In a fearful whisper, she said, “These images are all of the same patient. One patient—out of about two dozen—the CDC has quarantined in the United States, all of them with the exact same single source of infection. Transmission, incubation period, contagiousness have not been verified as of now, but we believe it to be casual human-to-human contact.”
“So…does this mean Fourth of July is canceled?” asked Will to no one in particular
“As stated before, A and B teams will be working together on this project. Full information sharing. Let’s get started. Night crew prepped the tissue samples provided by the CDC. They are in the vault. Primate patients have already been introduced to the new Nasty; begin data collection on infection symptoms and results.” Alice said, talking quickly.
“I’ll pull the tissue samples from the vault,” said Anny.
“Sayeed, can you gather a blood sample from the primate?”
“On it!” he said, already heading for the door.
Over the next several hours, the entire substructure was a beehive of activity. People were scrambling up and down the stairwell, in and out of corridors, from one lab to another. The clerks in SL1 were bringing fresh coffee pots and snacks to SL3–SL5. Even the janitorial staff was running paperwork from one subfloor to another. Anny had never witnessed anything like it.
By lunchtime, SL3 had completed their initial testing. They had gone through their entire arsenal to kill the Nasty. The problem was they could only destroy one piece at a time—not the entire contagion at once. In fact, when one portion was destroyed, the other two seemed to duplicate faster. The mad scientists in SL5 were unsuccessfully dissecting genetic code, looking for clues of its origin.
Zero progress had been made other than understanding the absolute bizarre nature of this parasite/fungi/prion hybrid. In fact, it seemed as they were further behind than before as frustration started setting in.
This organization housed the most brilliant bioscientists on earth; each individual piece of this puzzle typically would be an easy task. But whatever this hybrid was, it stopped them dead in their tracks.
Soon, each staffer was given a piece of paper that offered a scripted generic excuse about a citywide salmonella outbreak they were to notify their loved ones with on why they would be working late today and possibly days or weeks to come.
“Guess the health inspector is pulling double duty for a while,” Will said to himself, putting his face back into the microscope.
Anny needed to let her boyfriend know she wouldn’t make it to the lake cottage for the weekend. She exhaled loudly while slumping her shoulders forward at the thought of missing out on another much-needed relaxing weekend. Since all employee cell phones were in the storage lockers at the security check-in station, she got up to make her way up to the SL2 cafeteria area, where there was a bank of secure phones they could use for personal use. Her shoes squeaked on the tile floor as she rounded the end of her well-lit workstation. She was just reaching out to open the lab door when the entire building went pitch black.
STAGE ONE
SMALL TOWN, USA
The Greatest Fourth in the North
“Dad, is Erica coming up this weekend?” asked Zavier as they drove into town.
Victor shouted over the loud wind rushing over the topless Jeep and oversize tires rumbling down the road, “She is. She’ll be up sometime tomorrow. She had some important meetings today she couldn’t sneak out of. I think she’s bringing us some extra camping chow too.”
Victor enjoyed his weekend getaways with his boys. Camping, shooting, small-town fun in the “Great Up North,” as everyone called vacationing in northern Michigan. Unplugging from the busy rat race for a long weekend is just what he needed, especially after this hectic past year.
“Should we get ice cream before or after the beach?”
“Before!” they all said in unison.
“Curtis, park us in the first spot you see. Being a holiday, the streets will be packed,” Victor told his oldest son, who had just recently received his driver’s license. “Or just pull this beast on top of the smallest car you see.” The kids loved their dad’s lifted Jeep. They also enjoyed watching people stare in envy as they cruised by.
They ended up circling the small downtown area three times before finding a spot in front of a local diner. “Good spot. Maybe we will eat here later before heading back to the range. We’re going to have a bit of a walk to the beach, though.�
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They grabbed their beach towels and some beach toys and then headed across the street to the local ice-cream shop, which always had a ridiculous line out the door. As they found the end of the line, Victor asked if they were getting ice cream or shakes. As always, Zavier would get a cone that would be melted all over him by the time they reached the beach. Michael and Curtis got something new each time. Victor liked that they enjoyed being adventurous, even if it was only ice cream.
Zavier and Michael were still debating which flavors were better when they stepped into the line behind a short blonde lady. “Aby Van Helsing is it, with the Chamber of Commerce?” asked Victor.
The short lady turned around and said, “Yes, that’s me. What can I do for you?”
“Just wondering what time the fireworks are tonight.”
“Fireworks start just after nine thirty. It’s the greatest Fourth in the north,” she said with a smile and tilted head.
“So the banner says,” he said, eyeing the banners and fliers plastered all over the town. “Thank you for the info.”
She smiled and turned back around to catch her spot in line.
They finally made their way to the front of the line, got their cold deliciousness, and started walking toward the public beach. The sidewalks were packed, which made crossing the street a chore. As they stepped up to the last intersection, Victor noticed the town’s sheriff was directing traffic.
“Sheriff Bohner,” said Victor as he stepped up to the crosswalk, holding Zavier’s hand. “Don’t you have deputies for traffic control?”
“They’re too busy chasing kids on quads through town and drunk boaters. Besides, I like to see who all’s in my town, and this is the best spot to do it,” said the sheriff.
