by Ryan King
Reggie rubbed a hand through his hair. “Listen, everyone. This is a shock to all of us, but we’ll figure it out.”
“I don’t see how,” said someone.
“Me neither,” answered Reggie. “Not yet, but I’m sure we will. The important thing is to not start a panic. This information has to stay in this room until we can do what we can to find a solution.”
“That’s going to be difficult,” said John. “Word is spreading down at Benton. Besides, people will know soon enough when their tractors or cars won’t work.”
“I understand we’re working on limited time,” Reggie said. “All I’m asking is that we keep this as quiet as we can. Let’s end on that point, and I recommend we meet again in three days to see what we can come up with.”
There was grumbling, but everyone in the room agreed and slowly filed out of the room buried deep in the underground facility.
“Sorry to drop that on you,” said John, before he walked out with everyone else.
Finally, only Nathan and Reggie were left in the silent room.
“You do know there is no solution to this,” said Nathan.
Reggie nodded. “Yes, there is only managing the situation as best we can. It appears the razor’s edge we were balancing on just got thinner.”
Chapter 8 - Vivax
Bobby Wilson, like most doctors, had always wanted to help people. The medical field was a self-excluding profession. It was just too damn difficult a process to become a doctor unless you really wanted it.
He now wished he were anything else. It was the curse of a healer to look into the eyes of those seeking hope and have nothing for them. It was a relief to get away from those eyes, even for a few hours. Out into the world of the living. He would have to return to the Murray Hospital soon, but for the next hour, he was free.
Glancing over to his left, he saw what had once been the Murray State University basketball arena. Before it had been destroyed, it had contained a small oil refinery and factory to make gunpowder and ammunition. Now it was nothing but a crumbling blackened ruin with safety cones and barriers ringing it.
Bobby turned away and walked purposefully to the biology department building. The MSU President had asked him to meet her there, and Bobby already suspected what this was about. He walked past students hurrying to and from class. On the wide grassy area between buildings, young men and women slept or read or talked with each other, not much different from what students had been doing here before N-Day.
This is our best hope, he thought and wished he were one of them.
He walked into the cool stone building and went down a set of stairs into the basement. He saw the MSU President coming down the dim hallway lit with the bare minimum of electrical lighting.
“Bobby, glad you’re here. I asked Doctor Henry to look at those blood samples you brought in. Do you know what’s in them?”
“I know lots of things that could be in them,” Bobby answered.
“Well, come on in,” she said, holding a door for him and pointing to a man in a lab coat looking into a microscope. “Meet Doctor Scott Henry, the head of our biology department.”
“Before you say anything,” began Scott abruptly, turning towards them, “where did these samples come from?”
“The hospital here in town,” Bobby answered. “We have a whole ward with the same symptoms. High fever, bouts of chills, headaches, stomach gramps. They also seem to have an enlarged spleen although it’s hard for me to tell without an invasive exam. The worst of them have trouble breathing and staying conscious.”
“Them? How many are we talking about?”
“Twenty-six so far,” Bobby answered. “I’ve heard reports of similar cases in Mayfield, Paducah, and Benton.”
Scott looked back at the microscope and then at Bobby again. “Were these patients new to the JP? Maybe coming in from somewhere down south?”
Bobby shook his head. “All the ones we have are locals.”
“I was afraid of that,” Scott said.
“What is it?”
The biologist took a deep breath as if preparing to give a lecture. “The blood contains a parasite known as plasmodium vivax. It is carried in the saliva glands of its most common host in the American Southeast by various members of the culicidae family.”
“Malaria,” said Bobby with a sense of dread.
“Yes,” continued Scott with a smile. “Well done. Used to be called Tertian Fever from the Latin word for three. The fever comes and goes in three-day cycles most of the time. As you likely know, malaria was endemic in most of America until after the Great Depression. It was mostly wiped out with mosquito eradication programs in the forties.”
“But there’s no one to spray for mosquitoes anymore,” said Valerie. “I also suspect there’s more standing water around for them to breed in, with levies breaking all over. Do we have any medicine for malaria?”
Bobby shook his head. “We don’t have the antibiotics to treat vivax. Hell, we don’t even have the tree to make quinine, I bet.”
“Cinchona officinalis,” said Scott. “No, the cinchona trees are tropical.”
“What did they used to do to treat malaria back then?” asked Valerie. “When it was a permanent part of life…endemic, as you say?”
“They didn’t do anything but endure it,” answered Scott. “Everyone got malaria at some point in their lives and built up various degrees of tolerance and immunity. At least we’re dealing with vivax and not plasmodium falciparum. It gets too cold here for that deadly little bastard.”
“Vivax is bad enough,” said Bobby.
“True, especially for those with lowered resiliency,” Scott said. “The young, old, and pregnant are going to be particularly hard hit, although everyone is going to get it at some point”
“Everyone?” asked Valerie.
“Unless they can somehow manage to never get bitten by a mosquito,” said Scott. “Either that or move sufficiently far north and hope that the winter freeze lasts long enough to kill vivax eggs.”
“What are we going to do?” Valerie asked.
Bobby saw that she was looking at him. “There’s nothing much we can do except try and help people.”
“And hope we don’t get malaria’s close friend,” Scott said.
“I don’t even want to think about yellow fever,” Bobby said.
“Guys,” Valerie said. “We’ve made gasoline and gunpowder and all sorts of other things. Bobby, surely you can get all the other doctors together and come up with a way to make antibiotics for this.”
Bobby felt suddenly very tired. “Valerie. I was a prison doctor. Do you know what that means?”
“I guess it means you treated prisoners.”
“Exactly right. But if I were a good doctor, I wouldn’t be treating angry and dangerous prisoners for less pay than a good plumber makes. I went to the Dominican Republic for medical school for God’s sake.”
“So?”
“So,” Bobby sighed, “none of these real doctors are going to listen to me. The only reason anyone does is because I know Nathan Taylor and Reggie Phillips.”
“Go with that then,” said Valerie. “Use what you got. At the very least, people need to do what they can to prevent getting bitten by mosquitoes.”
“They need to use screens on their windows and doors,” Scott said. “Especially at night.”
“And what about an antibiotic?” Valerie asked. “Can you make one?”
Bobby shook his head. “Not my field by a long shot. I’d be afraid what I cooked up would poison someone.”
“I might be able to,” said Scott hesitantly.
“Really?” asked Bobby and Valerie at the same time.
“Maybe,” he said, sounding even less certain.
“Good enough,” said Valerie. “You’re pulled from all your classes and duties. This is your focus until further notice.”
Scott looked at his watch. “I got a lecture in ten minutes.”
“Not
anymore you don’t. Find someone else to do it and get to work.”
Valerie smiled at Bobby, and he simply shook his head.
“We’re all in this together,” she told him. “You’re not alone.”
Bobby closed his eyes and walked away. He didn’t want to go back to the hospital, but that was where his feet led him.
Chapter 9 – Right Man for the Job
Director Erik Sessions was surprised he was still around. It had been nearly two years since N-Day and there had never been a single day devoid of the threat of extinction for him and his people. As the NASA Site Director for Redstone Arsenal in Huntsville, Alabama, he had never expected to be in this position, but here he was.
Redstone Arsenal was the hub of U.S. rocket development and research. Huntsville itself had more PhD residents than any other city in America because of this. Everyone had pretty much assumed that Redstone was on everyone’s nuclear pre-target index.
Yet, when they had awoken that fateful morning to find themselves still alive, it had not been the soldiers and police that had picked up the pieces, but the scientists and researchers. The Redstone Commander Lieutenant General Claster had blown his brains out before the heavier radioactive particles had even finished settling out of the atmosphere. Most of the other military folks had taken to the hills, as had a significant portion of their civilian counterparts.
Erik had been humbled when he arrived at work to find most of his fellow techies where they had been the day before...on the job. He had quickly formed various research committees with assigned tasks, and they had organized.
There, of course, had been problems. They had suffered losses in lives before it became apparent they needed to focus on physical security and defense. What few soldiers were left had been pressed into service to recruit and train Huntsville civilians to secure the hydroelectric dams at nearby Guntersville and Wheeler, as well as the twenty-three kilowatt solar array at the Huntsville Botanical Gardens. This had at least kept the electricity, sewage, and water running.
They still suffered attacks. Most recently from horsemen from the north. Everyone was calling them Indians, but Erik knew that had to be simple hysteria talking. They had been forced to open their city borders to people with any type of military or law enforcement experience, and they pressed them into service. Most had come with limited skills, but they had gotten lucky in a few cases.
There was as knock on his office door. “Come in.”
A tall, thin, blond man stepped towards him with the grace of a cat.
“Ah, Vince, thank you for coming. Please sit down.”
The man sat in the chair across the desk from Erik. He neither slumped nor sat forward. He appeared at ease while at the same time ready for anything. It appeared his ice-blue eyes missed nothing.
“Vince, you’ve been here, what, six weeks?”
“Seven.”
Erik nodded. “I have to say everyone has been extremely impressed with you.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“I’m serious. You have completely reworked our security training program. Our defense forces are better organized and capable, and everyone respects you. You’re obviously smart, capable, and know what you’re doing.”
Vince smiled lightly. “I do my best.”
“Indeed you do.” Erik pointed out his window. “This was a military post, yet all the military ran when the leadership...let us say...checked out. It was the scientists and engineers who were left to figure things out, and I think we’ve done a pretty good job, but scientists and engineers better than most understand specialties. Physical defense and security is not our specialty.
“I’ve spent thirty-two years at NASA. Started as a physicist right out of college working on the early Mars Orbiter programs. I’ve risen through the ranks because I know my limitations and how to get things done. And the best way to get things done is to find good people and empower them to accomplish a task.”
“I couldn’t agree more, sir,” said Vince.
Erik nodded. “I’m sure you have heard the rumors of a nuclear explosion near the western Tennessee-Kentucky border as part of some war between leftover remnants?”
“I have. Even spent some time passing through there myself.”
“Well, that sort of thing worries me. We’ve been able to fight off small bands and raiders so far, but what if there is something stronger than that out there? What if they want what we have? Our food, our electricity, our fuel refineries, our know-how? Would we be able to deter them?”
Vince kept silent.
“If you were in my seat,” Erik asked, “what would you recommend?”
He answered without hesitation. “Obtain the means for us to defend ourselves.”
“Sounds good, but how?”
“Those warring parties you mentioned earlier are currently in a slight state of discord from my understanding,” said Vince. “I happen to know there is a military depot only one day’s drive from here.”
“Does it have what we need?”
Vince nodded. “Plenty of weapons, both light and heavy. Artillery, vehicles, ammo supplies, equipment.”
“And you could go get it?” Erik asked.
“If you give me the authority and the resources I could. I would need control over the security forces, access to vehicles, fuel, and weapons, and freedom to come and go. Give me that, and I can get us what we need.”
“How quickly could you make it happen?”
Vince appeared to think, his blue eyes up towards the ceiling. “A few days to provide specialty training, a few days to prep equipment and rehearse contingencies, a day to plan. At best, we could accomplished the mission in a week.”
Erik chewed a lip and then made a decision. He pulled out a piece of paper with his letterhead on the top and wrote furiously for nearly a minute. He then handed this to Vince. “Show this authorization to any department head, and they will give you what you need. Come see me again before you go.”
“Yes, sir,” said Vince, rising.
“And, Vince,” said Erik, “thank you. I know I have the right man for the job.”
“It is my pleasure, sir.”
Vincent Lacert—former head of the Missouri Alliance and orchestrator of mass torture, slavery, and murder—walked out of the office and down the hall.
If Erik had seen the cold smile on the man’s face, it would have given him chills.
Chapter 10 – A Ghostly Visit
Ernest Givens yanked the drawer out of the dresser and dumped the contents on the floor. He kicked through the rat’s nest of discarded and forgotten items and then threw the empty drawer against the wall in frustration.
“Where is it?” he moaned.
Walking across the room, he flipped up seat cushions off the couch and then got down on his hands and knees to look under the living room’s furniture. He then stood and peered around, trying to control the panic that was rising within him.
Closing his eyes, he struggled to remember where he could have put it and realized in a detached way that his hands were shaking. He had a sudden thought, and his eyes flew open. Ernest raced back into the bedroom and lifted up the mattress and cried out in triumph. He grabbed the bottle and spun off the cap, letting it fall to the floor. Before it had hit the stained carpet, he was tilting the mostly empty bottle to his lips and letting the fiery liquid pour down his throat.
He drank like a heat-stroked man in the desert. His Adam’s apple bobbed up and down until the bottle was empty. He then licked the rim to get the last drop out. Closing his eyes, he felt warm and calm, and goodness flowed through him. When he opened his eyes, he was startled by the stranger staring back.
It was a dirty haggard man with long hair and a scraggly beard. The man had on a pair of boxer shorts and nothing else. Ribs tried to poke through the skin. The apparition held the empty liquor bottle tightly in both hands.
Ernest screamed furiously and hurled the bottle at the mirror; both shattered.
He close
d his eyes and took deep breaths. It felt like he wasn’t really here. Like this wasn’t him. Someone else was in his body, or he was witnessing someone else’s life.
Opening his eyes, he saw the mirror. The shattered remnants were attached to a dresser that had been one of the first pieces of furniture he and Melanie had bought together after getting married so long ago. Back before.
He thought of Melanie and the girls. They had a life together once. Back when he had been in the army. Had been a success. A Sergeant Major leading men and women. A loving father and husband. A man to be respected. But, one day, he had turned around, and they were gone. He couldn’t even remember the exact point they had left, just that Melanie had taken them to live with her parents in Galveston.
Then the world had ended and people had turned to him. It had seemed natural, and he had always been a leader. Done for his soldiers what he couldn’t do for his family, be there for them. He had fought and won. He had served with some good leaders in his career, even after N-Day. General Clarence Anderson and Major Beau Myers came to mind often. But then, they were both gone.
It was only him and huge masses of civilians fleeing certain death in Paducah. All those lives on his shoulders and he had brought them through to the other side...safe. When the resistance called, he had stepped up again. Leading them against evil and oppression until the fight was won.
“We’ve won every time,” he said.
But he wondered why he felt so lost now. Why, when he slept, the faces of those now gone came to mind. The faces of those who he had killed.
He shook his head to clear the image. Ernest didn’t want to think about Brazen’s man. The one he had made an example of with the bloody eagle. He couldn’t even remember his name, Jinx or Jake or Juke or something, but he couldn’t forget his face or screams.
“Son of a bitch deserved it.”
Of course he did, he thought. So why do I keep thinking of it? Why can’t I seem to find a way out of this?
