by Ralph Gibbs
“Thank you, Mr. President,” Stroud said. “Currently, the plague has spread everywhere except the poles, and I imagine it’s only a matter of time before it spreads there. Overall, Europe has been hit hardest. Norway, Germany, Italy, France, Spain, England and Portugal all have weakened, but functional governments, although Italy and Portugal are on the verge of collapse. The others are close but holding their own. Smaller countries have collapsed, and not all as a result of the plague.”
“What do you mean?” President Dixon asked.
“The Albanians blamed their government for the plague. They stormed the capital and killed anyone they suspected was a government employee. Some countries are collapsing just because no one is showing up.”
“Their military?” the president asked.
“Deserting or inconsequential,” Stroud said. “The Ukrainian and Latvian military have taken over their respective governments, but they’re just as inept at handling the crisis. Estonia is the only country that is mostly unaffected by the plague.”
“How did they accomplish that?” the president asked.
“Estonia isn’t exactly a tourist destination, so they were hit light, to begin with,” Stroud said. “They’ve since closed the border and have orders to shoot anyone that tries to cross. They’ve declared martial law, and anyone found outside their home over the next month will be shot.”
“How are they expected to survive?” Nawrocki asked.
“The military will airdrop food supplies into each town once a week,” Stroud said. “They’ll give the citizens a few hours to divide up the food, but that’s it. They’ll be shot if they stay outside too long. In the long term, that isn’t realistically feasible, and most of our analysts believe it’s only a matter of time before they succumb. As soon as people discover Estonia is a safe zone, they’ll flock there, and security forces will be overwhelmed, but not before they kill thousands. Speaking frankly, it has the potential to make the ’93 Georgian massacre look like a skirmish.”
“How many died in that massacre?” Dixon asked.
“The high-end tops out at twenty-two thousand,” Stroud said.
“Call the Estonian leader, whoever he is at the moment, and stress to them that the United States will hold accountable anyone guilty of human rights violations,” the president said. “Don’t threaten them, just remind them once the plague has passed the world will judge the actions of those that survive.”
“They’re not going to care,” Nawrocki said.
“I know, but I have to at least try,” the president said. “Continue Mr. Stroud.”
“The Middle East and Africa are also a mess, but that’s nothing new, in the end, that may work to their advantage.”
“How so?” White asked and then realized he’d interrupted the meeting. “I’m sorry, Mr. President. I didn’t mean—”
“If I didn’t want you to ask questions, I wouldn’t have asked you to the meeting,” the president said. “Besides, it’s a good question.”
Stroud continued. “I only meant they are used to adversity and so are better prepared to rebuild once the dust settles. Our biggest worries are the Russians and the Chinese.”
“Have we been keeping them updated on our progress?” the president asked. “In the spirit of cooperation, I promised them we’d keep them apprised of any discoveries. They promised to do the same.”
“Is that wise?” Nawrocki asked. “It seems to me the United States would benefit greatly if there were far fewer Russians and Chinese in the world.”
“I’m pretty sure they’re saying the same thing,” the president replied. “I gave my word, and even if they don’t keep theirs, I will keep mine. Besides, no one will be able to hide a cure. Word will get out quick enough. There’re already rumors we developed a vaccine. The Russians and Chinese were threatening war if we didn’t share the information with them. I told them if we had a vaccine, my wife and child wouldn’t be dead.” He paused for a moment to compose himself and then continued. What’s the state of our military?”
“All US military bases around the world are locked down with orders to let no one on or off,” Nawrocki said. “Even so, every base has been hit with the plague.”
“What about the reports of desertions?” Dixon asked.
“True sir,” Nawrocki said. “Roughly, only about thirty-five percent of American forces have deserted.”
“Can we put a stop to it?” the president asked.
“We’re trying sir,” Stroud answered.
“Try harder,” the president said sternly. “Shoot a few if you have to. I know it sounds harsh, but if the United States is to survive this, I will need the military. What about the navy?”
Stroud checked his notes. “Five of the nine carriers and their accompanying battle groups, including the supercarrier Gerald R. Ford, are at sea,” Stroud said, after a moment. “Three of the five carriers are likely compromised, maybe four. Still, there is no way to keep them at sea indefinitely. About eighty percent of the smaller ships, cruisers, destroyers, and frigates are compromised. I think once the plague runs its course, we’ll be able to salvage enough people to man one or two complete battle groups.”
“And the nuclear subs?” the president asked.
“Seven boomers and twelve fast-attack submarines are at sea,” Stroud said after rechecking his notes. “We don’t think any of those are infected, but once they come in for supplies, that may change. Six fast attacks are already in need of supplies.”
“Keep them at sea as long as you can,” the president ordered. “They’re probably the only thing keeping the Chinese and Russians in check. Find a way to supply them without infecting them.” He paused. “Give me the bottom line.”
“Sir,” Stroud said, looking grim. “My best estimate is that the US Military is fifty-eight percent combat ineffective and getting worse daily. We’re not as bad as Europe, but that’s only a matter of time. If we don’t get a vaccine soon, within a few weeks, the United States will cease to have a functional military.”
“Mrs. Nawrocki, have you done what I asked?” the president asked.
“Yes, sir. We have specialized military units heading for every nuclear power plant in the country.”
“I haven’t been briefed on this,” White said, sitting up straighter. “Are the nuclear power plants under threat?”
“No. I’ve ordered all nuclear power plants shut down. The military is taking control of the nuclear fuel rods, after which, they’ll transport them to a secure location and dispose of them.”
“Is that wise?” White asked. “That will leave a lot of people, not to mention hospitals, in the dark.”
“I believe the precaution is warranted,” the president said. “There are over a hundred commercial nuclear power plants in the United States located mostly up and down the east coast. I would much rather control the shutdown than have them meltdown. If that happens, more than half the United States will become unlivable.”
“Can we get to them all in time?” Congressman White asked.
“We’re over seventy-five percent complete,” Nawrocki said.
“I issued the directive shortly after the CDC confirmed there would be no stopping this,” the president said in response to the Congressman’s shocked look.
“In some cases, conventional plants will take over the production of power, but in most cases, they will not,” Nawrocki said.
“Once the crisis is over, how long will it take to get the power plants restarted?” White asked.
“In a few cases, just a couple of years,” Nawrocki said. “But to get back to the level of nuclear power output before the plague started . . . we probably won’t see that in our lifetime.”
“Jesus,” White said. “Shouldn’t we leave a few operational? Come this winter more people will die if they don’t have heat.”
“I want to, Marion, but I can’t take the chance,” the president said. “The death rate from the plague is up to ninety percent. Until we get a vacc
ine—if we get a vaccine—no one is safe, including you and me. That’s why I have what’s left of the official line of succession scattered. Right now, law and order is broken, communications are going to shit, the military’s deserting and, on top of all that, I don’t want to have to worry about nuclear plants. When this plague is over, I want there to be livable places people can rebuild.
“Well, shit,” White said.
“I couldn’t agree more,” the president said.
CHAPTER 18
There was nothing inconspicuous about Oxford Federal Penitentiary. Miles from civilization, all roads leading to and from the prison were littered with signs every half-mile, reminding visitors where they were headed or what they were leaving behind, and not to pick up hitchhikers. The facility itself was surrounded by a double-layered chain link fence topped with three rounds of razor wire and guard towers at fifty-yard intervals. In what was either a political joke or a statement of what Virginian’s thought of their westerly neighbor, and what most figured amounted to the same thing, the penitentiary’s original construction comprised two parallel gray-faced buildings that mimicked, nearly exactly, the West Virginia State Capital Building. The only thing missing was the dome, as it was considered too expensive for a facility destined to house the dregs of society. Fifteen years after initial construction, a third building connecting the original two was built to house death row inmates.
Normally, anyone entering the penitentiary was overwhelmed by a symphony of chaos, ranging from inmates arguing over whose dicks were bigger to the sounds of code banged out on cell bars. The three buildings, which at maximum capacity, held nearly three thousand inmates, now held only a small fraction of plague survivors. One of those prisoners, alive and wondering why and for how long, was Franklin Turnipseed.
Franklin lay in his bunk, staring at the cracked gray ceiling trying to regain arm strength. Except for the occasional scream of a delirious inmate fighting his lone battle for survival or someone yelling for food, the prison was deathly silent. Throwing back the cover of the green wool blanket, Franklin sat on the edge of the bunk, grabbed up one of the three box lunches sitting atop his small desk and engulfed the last bite of a turkey club and a chocolate chip cookie.
Franklin checked the faucet and was relieved to find water still flowing. He drained what was in the sink and then refilled it with fresh water until the basin was nearly overflowing. He tried to keep as much water on hand as there was no way to know how long the water would remain on. The electricity had shut off three days past, and it was only a matter of time before the water followed suit. He flushed the toilet, filled it with fresh water, and then relieved himself through the bars of the cell. Doing a few exercises to stretch his muscles, he picked up the worn-down shank acquired from the last man that tried to kill him and went back to scraping away the mortar from around the cinder blocks lining his cell. The noise echoed through the block.
“Hey, Turnipbitch,” Wendell yelled from his cell on the bottom floor. Despite Andrew’s assurance that he and Wendell would be housed in separate wings, overcrowding had forced the two adversaries into the same block. The prisoner that had tried to shank him was an associate of Wendell’s.
“Good afternoon, Wendell,” Franklin shot back.
“You still alive?”
“Nothing gets by you,” Franklin said as he removed another cinderblock from the back wall of the cell finally providing him enough room to get at the second cinder block wall. Oxford was an old prison, built using layers of cinder blocks instead of the fabricated metal used in newer constructed facilities. If Franklin were incarcerated in one of those, he would be better off using the shank on himself.
“Good. When my friends get here, I’ll have the enjoyment of killing you myself.” Because Wendell had connections in prison, he was able to get hold of a cell phone shortly after his arrival. When the guards stopped showing up, Wendell called and begged his friends to come break him out.
“Can you keep it down, Wendell? I’m trying to enjoy my sandwich,” Franklin said, beaming. For the last two days, Wendell had yelled for anyone to throw him some food, promising them their freedom when his friends arrived.
“Fuck you, asshole! I will enjoy shooting you in the face.”
Somewhere, an inmate screamed, and the sound of despair contained within that single agonized cry silenced the two antagonists. Even the most hardened criminals had been worn down by the surrounding death.
The outbreak at the prison had started shortly after Franklin’s arrival. Each day more inmates came down with the plague, and fewer guards came to work. So many prisoners were infected that, despite the threat, Dr. Glaser finally shut down the infirmary and began treating prisoners in their cells. Eventually, even she succumbed to the illness and died. Inmates were forced to fend for themselves after that. Franklin imagined the prison was a microcosm of what was happening everywhere around the world.
Several days into the outbreak, Officer Hawkins showed up wearing a hazmat suit and pushing a cart full of box lunches. He handed out three boxes to each prisoner. For those too weak to get up but showing signs of life, he pushed boxes inside their bars. He told them that for the foreseeable future, they would remain in their cell around the clock. He also said he would be back in the morning to pass out more boxes. Franklin knew he was lying, so he conserved his food. Others in prison weren’t so astute. As soon as Hawkins left, Franklin decided it was time to escape. He pulled the shank, then nearly six inches long, and started working on the wall. If he was wrong, and they came back, he would be happy to pay the price, but if, as he suspected, they weren’t, he wasn’t sticking around until he starved to death or Wendell’s friends came. Both would be an ugly way to die.
The rapid spread of the virus through the prison population reminded Franklin of his time on a navy transport ship when they were hit by what sailors affectionately called the crud. It was called that because when the sailor woke up in the morning, his nose was crusted over with globs of hardened mucus. As soon as he peeled it away, his nose started running and didn’t stop.
Franklin was surprised he hadn’t caught the plague. He had a mild headache for twenty-four hours, but after that, nothing. The same could not be said for the prisoners to either side of him. Both were dead. Despite his seeming immunity, he was still worried. With death all around him, it was only a matter of time before the diseases that walked hand-in-hand with death made an appearance, and he could not count on his luck holding out.
An hour later, Franklin pushed a cinder block from the outer layer, letting it fall to the grass two stories below. He could finally see the outside courtyard, but the hole was still too small for his body to fit. Thankfully, because of his size, he didn’t need to expand the hole much wider; three or four more blocks would be enough. Once he widened the gap, the next trick would be climbing down without breaking any bones. If he tied his blanket and sheet together and attached it to the bed, he estimated he would have just enough to reach the ground. As he pulled another block from the wall, he heard the prison doors crash open.
“Copperhead, where you at?” a voice yelled.
“Over here Billy,” Wendell said.
Franklin looked down from his cell to see a short-haired, clean-shaven man dressed in a one-piece hunter’s camouflage jumpsuit, with matching boots and baseball cap, carrying a scoped, bolt-action rifle. His bearded companions, one carrying a shotgun and the other a pistol, came in behind him.
“What the hell took you so long?” Wendell asked as Franklin began constructing his homemade rope. It was time to leave before Wendell could make good on his threat.
“It wasn’t easy getting here,” Billy said. “It’s a mess out there. Everyone just left their fucking cars in the middle of the road. We had to take several back roads just to get around traffic.”
“Where’s Paul?” Wendell asked. “Is he in the truck?”
“Dead,” Billy said, after a moment’s hesitation.
“Dead?�
� Wendell said, sounding puzzled. “He told me he survived the plague. News said once you caught it, you couldn’t catch it again.”
“He didn’t die of the plague. He was shot and killed two days ago. No more than fifty miles from here.”
“Wendell was shocked. Shot?”
“I told you, it’s a mess out there. It’s like the wild fucking west. Everyone seems to be carrying a gun, and they aren’t shy about using them.”
“What the fuck happened?”
“Nothing much to tell. He saw a woman he wanted, tried to take her and got killed for it.”
“That’s it?”
“Pretty much. She was alone. He thought she was easy pickings. Told us to hang back. He was going to pretend to see if she needed help, but when he walked up to her, she shot him in the chest. Didn’t even hesitate. He didn’t even get to say hello.”
“Did you kill her?”
“We tried. I think she was military trained. She knew right where we were hiding. Once she killed Paul, she pinned us down and then used the traffic to make her way into the woods. After that, she was like a ghost.”
“Would you recognize her if you saw her again?
“Sure.”
“Good. Once you get me out of here, she’s second on my list to kill.”
“Who’s first?” Billy asked, sounding nervous, not sure if he was the first on the list for failing to kill the woman.
“There’s a half-breed nigger up there that needs killin’,” Wendall said. “You hear that Turnipbitch? I’m coming for you.
“You want me to kill him for you?” Billy asked.
“Hell no. I want that pleasure myself.”
Franklin heard the rattle of bars. “There’s no keyhole,” Billy said.
“How are we supposed to get it open?” a different man asked.
“Break into the guard box and flip the cell switches until the door opens,” Billy said.
“Won’t work,” Wendell said. “The electricity’s out.”
The doors to each cell were opened electronically. Other than the addition of the death row cellblock, it was one of the few modern upgrades to the prison. As a safety precaution for the guards, if the electricity failed, the doors automatically locked and stayed locked. There was supposed to be an override, but Franklin didn’t know where it was.
