I warned the soldiers at the roadblock about the infected reaching shore, and felt a weight lift from my mind as they assured me they had the situation under control. A ‘mop-up crew’ was working its way along the shore, taking out anything that moved. In fact, they told us, they were about to open fire on us until Bishop yelled at them as we approached.
I wouldn’t have blamed them. Bishop looked half OK, but it would be hard to guess I wasn’t infected at a glance. I caught sight of my reflection in the window of a toll booth, and if I was armed I’d have pulled the trigger without a second thought. My face was covered with blood, and my hair was plastered to my head. I barely recognized myself, but even if I’d been clean I would have noticed the difference.
It’s in the eyes. I noticed them as soon as I saw my reflection. I’ve seen those eyes once before, looking out at me over a cold bottle of Singha at a rickety table in a bar in Hua Hin, Thailand. They’re the eyes of Paul McQueen. They’re eyes that have seen things we weren’t meant to see. Things nobody should have to see. They’re the eyes of someone who’s lost too much.
I pull my cigarettes from my pocket, slip a damp one from the pack and try to light it, but the wick of the lighter is too wet to catch. The Zippo just sparks in the dark interior of the truck.
“You got one of those for me?” The young soldier asks. He slips a box of matches from a chest pocket and lights mine, then gratefully accepts a smoke with a crafty smile. “Don’t tell on me, OK?” he chuckles, cupping the cigarette and ducking in his seat to make sure the driver of the truck behind can’t see. “End of the world, and we’re still not allowed to smoke on duty.”
The truck turns off the freeway and onto a curved slip road, and I gaze out of the back in wonder. Beside the road I see buildings. Houses, stores, restaurants and gas stations, all with their lights on as if this was just a regular night. There are even a few cars on the roads, just driving along at regular speeds.
I can’t fathom it. Ten miles away New York is a smoldering ruin, but here life is just humming along like always. There might even be people out there who don’t know what’s going on yet. People who stopped to fill up the car or grab a bite to eat after a day on the road, completely oblivious to the fact that the world as they know it is over. I envy them these few blissful moments of ignorance. I feel jealous that they get to to enjoy a little more time believing that tomorrow will hold no more surprises than a new episode of Game of Thrones.
To my right a new sight looms. Row upon row of military aircraft line up alongside passenger jets, behind which sit banks of olive green tents bathed in floodlights. It takes me a moment to figure out where we are, and my guess is confirmed when we pass beneath a large sign: Welcome to Newark International Airport.
“Refugee camp?” I ask, flicking my ash casually out the back of the truck as if I see vast military camps every day.
The soldier nods and smiles. “Yep. I guess this is where we’ll be calling home for a while. The airspace is closed, so you’ll be living right on the runway. Pretty cool, huh?” His smile fades. “I mean not cool. Just... well, you know what I mean.”
Bishop climbs to the back of the truck as we turn through an open security gate and drive onto the vast runway. He stares out at the scene like a giddy kid, mouth open and eyes wide as we pass dozens of rows of long tents, their open doors revealing dozens of camp beds in each. The tents never seem to end. I stop counting as we pass the twentieth row, each of them at least five deep. By the look of it each tent must hold at least a hundred people, so just those tents I’ve seen so far are enough to house 10,000, and still the truck passes ever more.
“How many people got out?” I ask, my voice weak.
The soldier flicks his butt out the back of the truck and shakes his head. “Some. Not as many as we hoped. We’re setting up three of these places around the state, but I guess they won’t be more than half full. It all just happened too quickly, you know?”
The truck rolls to a halt beside a tent emblazoned with a red cross, and the soldier nods towards the door. “They’ll take care of you guys from here. Looks like you’ll need a few stitches.”
I reach up to my head and wince as my fingers reach the gash on my forehead. I keep forgetting about it. “So, what happens now?”
“Now?” The soldier shrugs and looks out over the endless bank of tents floodlit in the darkness. “Your guess is as good as mine, buddy. But I don’t think it’s all over.” He jumps down from the truck and reaches out a hand. “Something tells me it’s gonna get a lot worse before it get better.”
I hop down to the asphalt, clenching my teeth at the pain in my legs, and wait for Bishop to climb down behind me. “Worse?” I look back in the direction of New York. In the dim moonlight I can still see the tower of smoke climbing high into the sky from the ruined city. “How could it get worse?”
The soldier shrugs, climbs back beneath the canvas canopy of the truck and taps the side until the driver begins to move. “Don’t tempt fate, buddy. Good luck.”
“Yeah,” I whisper, almost to myself. As the truck pulls away I feel Bishop’s arm slip around my shoulder to support me, and he pulls me in the direction of the medical tent. In the distance I see rows of trucks pull onto the runway, each of them carrying what few survivors could be found.
How can this possibly get any worse?
΅
BOOK TWO
΅
CORDYCEPS
One Month On, A Nation Expects
Published May 4th, 2019 to the New York Times website
Byline: Editorial Staff
IN WHAT HAS been described as the most extensive mass migration event in the nation’s history, the month since the 4/7 attacks on New York City and Washington, D.C. has seen millions flee west from the once crowded eastern seaboard, both to escape the immediate economic impact of the disaster and to allay fears of further attacks on major metropolitan centers.
An estimated 27 million refugees - almost half the population of the now quarantined northeastern region - have already escaped to sparsely populated areas of Missouri, Kentucky, Kansas and as far west as Oregon in an exodus that has quickly overwhelmed the capacity of municipal services, and local governments have been left reeling under the pressure to provide everything from emergency housing and medical care to basic food and potable water.
“We’re calling Lexington ‘Manhattan West’,” jokes Maria Sloane, a mother of three who fled to Kentucky along with an estimated 85,000 former residents of Paterson, NJ, in what has been claimed by some to be an unnecessary economic migration. The group has been temporarily housed in an emergency camp established on the outskirts of the Daniel Boone National Forest, where efforts are under way to find a more permanent solution. “There’s lots of money coming into these poor states. I don’t really get why they’re so mad about it.”
While Sloane is correct in saying that the last month has seen an unprecedented injection of capital into struggling flyover states - both from the direct infusion of wealth from new arrivals and generous federal subsidies aimed at relieving the immense burden on regional governments - patience is beginning to wear thin among local residents, with many concerned about what will happen when the cash and good will finally runs dry.
“I don’t mind the people from New York or D.C. at all,” claims Boyd Wilson, manager of a bait shop on the outskirts of Lakeview Heights, KY. “Those folks really suffered. If a man loses his home I’ll throw open my door and offer him a roof, no questions asked, but I just don’t understand why we’re expected to take in all these other people.” Wilson complains that new arrivals from areas broadly unaffected by the attacks have been overfishing the local Triplett Creek, and that Cave Run Lake in the National Forest has become little more than a playground for wealthy easterners who don’t respect the sacrifices made by local residents.
“Just last week I had a bunch in here looking for tips on where’s the best fishing down at Phelps Branch on the Creek. That’s a p
rotected stretch, I told them. They need a special license to fish there, but they didn’t give a hoot. And these were Boston folk, I could tell by their accents. There ain’t no problems in Boston, far as I’ve heard. Why can’t they just go home?”
Despite the local tensions most would admit that the United States has weathered the storm remarkably well in the aftermath of these unprecedented attacks, with leaders from the United Kingdom and much of Europe praising the difficult but decisive action taken to quell the danger, and the compassionate provision of aid to those affected, using lessons painfully learned from previous catastrophes such as Katrina and Sandy.
There have, however, been strong criticisms both at home and abroad of the heavy handed approach of law enforcement and recalled military forces, including accusations of racial profiling in Baltimore that led to the tragic loss of scores of lives in last week’s food riots. There have also been ongoing constitutional questions regarding the legitimacy of the federal government in the light of President Howard’s ongoing incapacity and the death of Vice President Lynch. Speaker Terrence Lassiter’s accession to Acting President, while recognized as constitutionally valid at the time, has now been called into question by those who claim that the crisis is over, and argue that the reins should be handed back to a Democrat.
The Acting President’s fitness to lead is no doubt further challenged by the fact that his government continues to operate from Site R, the secretive underground command post in the Raven Rock Mountain Complex north of Camp David. Detractors have called this an act of cowardice unbecoming of the office, and the fact that the Speaker was broadly disliked on both sides of the political divide even before the attacks leaves him with few allies in the corridors of power. Many commentators argue that the President’s refusal to appear in public or even speak to the media in the past week severely erodes the argument that he is equipped to guide the nation through this ongoing crisis.
But what may prove the downfall of the Speaker and his government are not the tensions in the refugee-swamped central states, nor questions of the legitimacy or efficacy of his office, nor even the approaching economic disaster following a month of closed borders and stifled global trade, but the growing disquiet over the continued detention of US citizens in Newark Airport’s Camp One. The camp, established on the day of the attacks to house refugees from New York City, has found itself at the center of a controversy not seen since the internment of American citizens of Japanese descent in the 1940s.
Those of us at the New York Times understand more than most the terrible realities of war. All of us lost friends, family and colleagues in the attack on New York, and all who survived the attacks, from the deputy editor in chief to the staff in the mail room, know that sacrifices must be made. We know that if our great nation is to survive these dark times we can’t shy away from actions we may not consider palatable in peace time, but the time for transparency has come.
Our questions are simple and direct: will this government admit that upwards of eight thousand healthy, uninfected American citizens have been used as test subjects to develop a vaccine or cure for Cordyceps bangkokii? Will journalists, inspectors and other interested parties be given permission to enter Camp One to investigate these troubling claims, and will those detained at Newark Airport be permitted to speak publicly about their time there? If not, why not?
The citizens of the United States demand that these questions be answered. For too long has Speaker Lassiter’s government remained silent on this urgent and pressing matter.
΅
:::1:::
THEY MOVE CLOSER to my cabin every night. I can hear the screams grow louder, echoing off the steel cabin walls, out across the runway and all the way back to my little cell where they rattle constantly through my mind. I think they took the people two rooms over last night. I can still hear the woman screaming.
The worst thing is that I don’t have the first clue what’s happening to them. I don’t know where they’re taken, and I don’t know why. All I know is they scream and fight as they’re dragged from their cabins. They’re sure not going home.
I don’t know how long it’s been, exactly. I didn’t start counting until the sixth – seventh? – day, and it was a couple of weeks before I started scoring a mark into the wall whenever they brought dinner, like an old timey convict. The days melt into one another so there may be a few in the over under, but I’m pretty sure it’s been around four weeks.
Four weeks since I lost my home. Four weeks since I last saw a TV or read a newspaper. Four weeks since I stood beneath a shower. A real shower, I mean. Not the warm, sudsy drip from a sponge moistened in the bucket I shared with Bishop and Edgar, at least until the old man was taken away. Now the two of us get the bucket all to ourselves, each turning to face the opposite wall as the other cleans himself as best he can, rinsing the soap suds into the sluice by the chemical toilet. They only fill the bucket once a day, so each day we alternate who goes first and who uses the dregs. Luxury.
They started taking blood the first couple of days. A precaution, they assured us, to make sure none of us were infected with a slow burn before they release us. ‘Slow burn’. That’s what they call an infection from a non-fatal injury. They say it can fester in the wound for a while before it finally works its way into the bloodstream and reaches the brain, but I don’t buy it. I don’t buy any of this shit. They did a head to toe examination of all of us on the first day, and they already know we don’t have any wounds caused by the infected.
It didn’t take long before I began to suspect they were drawing our blood to keep us worn out, sluggish and docile. It all adds up. We’re anemic. The food is bland and low energy. We constantly feel sweaty and gross. It’s the perfect formula to sap our will to do anything. All I want to do is lay in bed and stare at the ceiling. We’re ideal prisoners.
It was the day they dragged Edgar away that I really started to worry. He was just a sweet old man from the Lower East Side, one of those guys who lived in the same little rent controlled apartment for forty years, even after everyone they know has moved out. Even after a bunch of middle class hipster pricks like me moved in to replace them, buying up entire blocks and opening overpriced boutiques and Starbucks franchises, like yuppie parasites. New York used to be full of Edgars, and this guy was no different than the rest. He liked cats, he thought my generation was a little soft around the middle, and he tried to explain the rules of Bridge. He was harmless. Wouldn’t hurt a fly.
That’s what made it so weird to see the old man take his final breath through a bubble of blood.
Edgar was already there when Bishop and I were assigned to his room, a couple of days after we arrived when they shuffled us from the tents to long rows of prefab steel cabins with heavy walls and thick doors. He’d set himself up on the cot closest to the door, the first in two rows of four, and he’d already made his little space his own with photos of his late wife and a few books he’d been carrying in his bag when everything went to shit.
I laughed the first time I saw him. I didn’t mean to, but it was just so funny to see this wizened, stoop shouldered old guy dressed in oversized army fatigues. He looked like a Captain America experiment gone wrong, peering out at us through a pair of thick milk bottle bottom glasses that made him look like an owl.
I felt bad for laughing as soon as he jumped up from his cot and tried to make us as comfortable as possible. I was supporting myself on Bishop’s shoulder as we walked in, still a little weak after losing so much blood and my face stitched up like I’d taken shrapnel, and Edgar couldn’t have been nicer. He even offered to move to a different cot so I could take the bed closest to the toilet by the door. He seemed relieved when I turned him down with a smile, and explained to us in graphic detail about the kidney problems that forced him to get up three times a night to use the john. Still, it was kind of him to offer.
That’s just what he was: kind. In the two weeks I knew him he didn’t have a bad word to say about anyone
. He was pleasant with the guards, even after they told us we’d have to be confined to the cabin for our own safety. Even when they stopped letting us sit out on the runway to feel the sun on our backs. Even after they started locking the doors, and the guards started coming on shift armed with M16s rather than just standard sidearms. He just lay there and quietly read his books.
And then he started to get agitated one night a little after dinner, without any warning at all. It was as if a switch just tripped in his head out of nowhere. Nothing much was going on. I was tossing playing cards across the room into a bowl, Bishop was laying on his bed staring at the ceiling, and Edgar was quietly leafing through some dog eared old book when suddenly he slipped a bookmark between the pages, set it down, climbed out of bed and strode over to the locked door.
“I’d like to come out now,” he calmly called, tapping his knuckles against the steel. “Guard? Guard. I said I’d like to come out now.”
I heard boot soles crunch on gravel as the guard walked down the row towards our cabin, and he appeared at the door with a scowl. It was Lewis, the same guy who’d ridden into the camp on the truck with me and Bishop. Sweet kid. He kept us in cigarettes.
“Go back to bed, Mr. Klaczko,” Lewis spoke softly through the chicken wire that covered the small open window in the door. “Lights out in ten.”
Edgar banged hard on the door as Lewis began to walk away. “You don’t understand, I need to come out! I gotta get out now. Open the door.” He slammed the heel of his palm hard against the steel, shaking the door in its frame. “Lemme out!”
Lewis looked a little shaken at Edgar’s sudden outburst, and he kept his eyes fixed on the old man as he tugged his radio up to his mouth and called for backup. As he dropped it back down to his chest he swung his rifle off his shoulder and held it defensively, pointed towards the ground but ready to raise the barrel at any moment, as if this fragile old guy could possibly break the door open. “Back away from the door, Mr. Klaczko. Back away now. I won’t tell you again.”
Last Man Standing Box Set [Books 1-3] Page 13
