Plague of the Dead

by Z. A. Recht

  “Yes, sir,” said the soldier, sheepishly holstering his pistol and grabbing the gurney to wheel it out.

  “Frank,” Denton began, coming up alongside the general. “Are you saying any exposure, even to dead blood, can trigger an infection?”

  “That’s the idea,” Sherman replied, glancing askew at the photographer. “Standard virology. We don’t know how long Morningstar lives in exposed blood. Basic stuff. Didn’t you learn any of that in college?”

  “No, I know that. But what about the soldiers who cleared these rooms? They weren’t wearing any masks,” Denton said, eyes widening.

  “It’s been taken care of,” Sherman said, staring hard at Denton.

  Denton felt his face fall slack. “You don’t mean . . .”

  “Yes,” said Sherman. “As of an hour ago, they’re all under quarantine.”

  Elsewhere on the ship, grim determination was being replaced by bewildered indignation.

  “Let me the fuck out of here, man!” Brewster shouted, pounding on the bulkhead with the flat of his palm. He, Decker, Darin, and a few other soldiers were all locked in a barrack belowdecks, under armed guard. They weren’t allowed out for any reason until further notice. “This is bullshit!”

  “Give it a rest, Brewster,” Decker said, lounging on one of the bunks in the room, idly puffing on a cigarette and staring at the ceiling. “They’re not going to open the door. That’s why they call it a quarantine.”

  “Fucking quarantining what, man? I’m not sick. None of those fucks bit me. I’m right as the fucking rain, chief.”

  “They’ve got to have their reasons. Maybe they’re just waiting to check us for bites,” Darin said from the corner of the room, where he sat glancing through a ragged Sports Illustrated he’d found under a bunk.

  “Nah, we’ll be here a while, I think,” Decker replied. “They’ll want to see if any of us get sick. That could take a few days.”

  “Days?” Brewster mouthed, pounding again on the bulkhead. “I’m trapped in this tiny fucking room for the next few days? That’s great, man, that’s just A-list material right there. Let me clear my schedule and get ready for the fucking tedium.”

  “But what other reason would we have to be infected if none of us were bitten?” asked another private first-class named Scott.

  “Maybe it’s airborne,” someone offered.

  “Then everyone would be infected, dumbass,” came a retort.

  “The blood,” said Darin, suddenly, sitting up straight and dropping the Sports Illustrated onto his lap. “It’s in their blood!”

  “What? Well, thanks, Captain Obvious. Have a bronze star,” Decker said.

  “Sergeant, we practically waded through it. Oh, shit—the sailor who shot himself! I know I got his blood on me! It was aerosol! Oh, shit, I might have it!” Darin ranted, breathing heavy. The soldiers seated near him subtly began to edge away, eyeing him cautiously.

  “Oh, for fuck’s sake, Darin, calm down,” Brewster said. “That guy had barely been bitten. It couldn’t have been all through him by then. You probably just got some old-fashioned regular blood on you.”

  “But I didn’t,” Decker said, looking down at his bloodstained boots. “I got some on me when I finished those bodies in one of the bunkrooms.”

  “Only on your boot!” Darin protested. “I breathed it in, man! Breathed it in! I’m fucked!”

  “Now, for shit’s sake, keep your head!” said Brewster. “Jesus, any one of us could’ve slipped up and put our hand in a little blood. No need to go freaking out or anything; we’ll just sit tight and wait. Look, Darin, like I said, that guy barely had any virus in him when he shot himself. You’re fine. I fucking guarantee it. Decker, you only got it on your boot, so I guess you won’t die a painful fucking death. Sorry.”

  “Eat shit, private,” Decker retorted.

  Brewster ignored him. “No one else remembers getting any blood on them?”

  No hands were raised; no voices piped up.

  “Good. Then we’ll all be out of this fucking tomb in a few days. Now . . . ,” Brewster began, pulling a chair up to the room’s small table. “Seeing as we’ve got some more time on our hands, anyone play Texas Hold-Em?”

  2203 hrs_

  IT OBVIOUSLY WASN’T enough that their numbers had dwindled to less than half of what they started with—it wasn’t enough that radio contact with the continental states was on the fritz—it wasn’t enough that a killer virus was sweeping half the globe.

  Just one problem after another, thought Sherman as he surveyed the scene in engineering. The two people found within had put up quite a fight before they had been brought low, but their dignity had come with a price. Bullet holes pocked the walls. Damaged equipment sputtered in protest as it fought against failure.

  “They ruptured the fuel pumps,” Franklin said over the noise of the engines. “Lost pressure in the lines to two of the plants.”

  Sherman grunted, resting his fists on his hips, and asked, “How’s that translate?”

  Franklin glanced askew at Sherman and replied, “Middlin’ impact at best, so far. We’re trying to patch the pumps now, but we’re still managing about seventy-five percent of our maximum drive.”

  “I thought these ships were more resilient than this, Captain,” Sherman said, disappointed at the loss of speed they were going to experience in their long steam towards home.

  “Well, usually we’re attacked from the outside, sir,” Franklin said with a chuckle. “Just bad luck on our part.”

  “Yes, well, we seem to be having an awful lot of it lately,” Sherman replied. “I think we’re overdue for a little good fortune.”

  The fuel pumps chose that precise moment to cough, sputter, and die, leaving the engineering compartment in what suddenly felt like dead silence. The men working on the pumps cast it a disgruntled stare. One threw down a wrench in disgust and kicked the dead pump with a booted foot.

  “So much for good fortune,” Sherman sighed.

  Franklin turned to the men gathered around the pump and asked them, “Can you get it running again?”

  The detail’s leader let his eyes slide over the fuel pump and slowly shook his head. “I don’t think so, Captain. Reuters is the usual mechanic for these pumps. I’ve only dealt with them a couple times. This could take a specialist, or maybe just a lot of time and effort.”

  “Where’s Reuters?” Sherman asked.

  “He’s dead, sir. He shot himself after he was bitten.”

  “Keep on it, sailor,” Franklin said. “Do what you can.”

  “Aye aye, sir.”

  “How does this change things?” Sherman asked, turning back to Franklin with an anxious look on his face.

  “Well, two of our power plants are offline until we can get those pumps running again. We’ll be operating at fifty percent efficiency until then.”

  “Unacceptable,” Sherman said, frowning.

  “I know,” Franklin replied, “But short of finding a port and a skilled mechanic we’re shit out of luck. We’ll have to steam on half our normal power.”

  “Now, wait, maybe not,” said Sherman, wrinkling his brow in thought. “We’re still a day out of the Philippines, correct, Captain?”

  “That’s right. We should be passing through in around thirty hours. Why?”

  “I’ve got an old buddy who lives there these days. Master Sergeant, retired. Used to be a tank mechanic. He might be able to help us out.”

  “No offense, but these GE plants are a lot different than tank engines.”

  “I know, I know, but he runs a machine shop, and he’ll have access to the parts and information you’ll need to get these turbines running again. Captain, given the proper materials and hands, how fast can this problem be fixed?”

  “Master Chief?” Captain Franklin asked, addressing the detail leader working on the broken pumps.

  “I’d reckon about six, eight hours, sir,” came the reply. “Only if we knew exactly what we were doing, and kept
the guesswork to a minimum.”

  “That time investment’s more than worth it,” Sherman said. “We’ll save ourselves days in the end.”

  Franklin nodded in agreement. “Full steam would get us there in half the time. We’ll lose a day or two from our original schedule, but it’s better than losing a week. I’ll need to know where this friend of yours is, General, and I’ll take the Ramage to him. Better let him know we’re coming. Don’t want to have to wait for the parts to come through on back order.”

  “I’ll get you the port, you plot the course, Captain.”

  “Very well.”

  Washington, D.C.

  January 11, 2007

  2314 hrs_

  Escape, Dr. Demilio reasoned, would be impossible. She’d paid attention on the way in and had been examining her cell closely. The facility where she was being held was far too secure—she was more than willing to peg it as ‘ultra-modern’ in her eyes. The agents responsible for her interrogation used iris and voice identification to access her cellblock, touch pads in the floor recognized her position in the cell, and cameras observed her every move. She deduced the only way she’d be leaving would be if someone actively brought her out, and not before. In the meantime, she was having a bad time of things.

  Somehow the NSA had figured out it had been her that leaked the classified aspects of the Morningstar Strain to the public. Though the information was received with skepticism by the people and in the end “disproved” by government officials as hokum, she was still under arrest for treason. She hadn’t been allowed access to the outside world since her arrest—No lawyer, no phone calls, not so much as a letter. She wondered if the world had noticed she’d vanished. Surely her colleagues at USAMRIID had noticed, but were probably stifled within a day.

  Overall, Anna thought, she wasn’t being treated that shabbily. She’d cooperated after the first few interrogation sessions and told the agents what they wanted to know. She thought she would feel worse about giving in to their demands, but they already knew much of what she’d told them. She was doing little more than confirming items they already had a good idea about, and sparing herself unnecessary pain and trouble in the meantime.

  Originally they had tossed her in a dark, damp, dungeon-like cellblock somewhere in the bowels of the building, but once she’d cooperated they’d moved her up to more civilized quarters; Brighter lighting, a warm cot, and best of all dry air—no cloying dampness. They’d even begun feeding her three times a day again.

  The agents still stopped by now and then with trivial questions.

  “What containment measures are appropriate when dealing with a contaminated high-rise structure?” was one question.

  “Would basic, subsonic riot control weapons function against the second-stage carriers?” was another, referring to the undead infected.

  “What is your approximation of the rate of infection in a host that is contagious, but not showing any symptoms?”

  Anna was getting very tired of being left in the dark. She never got a chance to ask any questions of her own, though she figured she wouldn’t get much in the way of answers if she had. The agent’s questions, on the other hand, were giving her a little insight into what might be happening outside. Lately their visits had become less frequent, and when they did show up outside her cell door their inquiries were concise and anxious.

  “If someone is exposed, what is the chance they won’t become symptomatic?”

  “Will the virus burn out after it’s been active within a host for a time?”

  She worried that their questions meant real trouble. They always asked, in roundabout ways, for strategies to fight the virus. She figured that meant there were at least a few cases of the disease in the United States—where or how many, she had no way of knowing. The agents didn’t seem particularly disturbed, so she guessed the situation was still tenable. There was no guarantee that would last for long, though.

  Footsteps in the corridor alerted her to someone’s approach. She stood, smoothing out the plain uniform shirt they had given her. The footsteps stopped outside her cell and the small metal panel embedded in the door slid open, revealing the piercing gray eyes of Sawyer.

  “Dr. Demilio.”

  “Afternoon. Haven’t seen you in a little while. Everything alright out there?” Anna said, slipping in the question before Sawyer could reply.

  The agent narrowed his eyes and expelled a short breath of disgust. Though Anna couldn’t see all of his face, she imagined she could see the sneer on his lips.

  He asked, “What effect would a chemical nerve agent have on the carriers?”

  Anna folded her arms across her chest.

  “I don’t think so, Serpico,” she said. “I’ve had just about enough of being the one doing all the answering and none of the questioning.”

  “You’re in no position to question anyone, Doctor.”

  “Oh, come on!” Anna said, raising her voice and throwing her arms up in exasperation. “Who am I going to tell, huh?! I’ve cooperated with you so far! Throw me a damn bone, here! If the situation’s good, that’s great, let me know, I’ll relax! If it’s bad, then it’s my world too, and I want to know about it! So no, I won’t answer your question until after you’ve answered mine! I’ll ask again: How’re things outside?!”

  Sawyer didn’t say a word, yet seemed to be considering Dr. Demilio’s demand. Instead, after a moment, he began to speak slowly and clearly.

  “Doctor, you are in this portion of our facility as a gesture of our appreciation for your cooperation. You can always go back to the dungeon and keep Miss Ortiz company.”

  Taken aback, Anna took a step back, and asked, “You have her here?”

  “Surprised, I take it? Yes, even though you left her out of your confession, it wasn’t hard to find out who you’d leaked the information to. She has not been very cooperative so far. As a result she is not very . . . comfortable right now. You could join her, if you want. All you have to do is refuse to answer my question.”

  Anna turned the threat over in her mind for a moment and decided it was better to retain her dignity this once—if only to piss off Sawyer.

  “I don’t think so,” she said. “You’ve got my notes. Figure it out for yourself.”

  Another invisible snarl from the face on the other side of the door.

  Sawyer began, “Maybe I wasn’t making myself clear—”

  Anna interrupted, “No, maybe I was the one who wasn’t being clear. I’m not helping you. At all.”

  “Unless I submit to your little questions,” Sawyer said.

  “Quid pro quo, Agent Sawyer,” Anna said, smiling on the inside. She was beginning to feel a bit like Hannibal Lecter, cooped up in a cell, the only source of credible information that was desperately needed outside.

  “Then your usefulness is at an end,” Sawyer said, and Anna could see his posture shift, the sound of raspy leather being scraped, and then the barrel of a pistol pointed at her through the panel in the door. “I could kill you now and let you rot in there. They’ll have better things to do than fry me for it.”

  “And if they succeed in stopping the virus, Agent? Would they really just forget it? Even with the tapes to remind them?” Anna asked, jerking a finger over her shoulder and smirking.

  Anna imagined she could see his eyes following where her thumb had led them, up to the corner of her cell where the tiny closed-circuit camera rested, red light blinking.

  “Not to mention the bugs that are probably recording our conversation now from a couple dozen microphones,” Anna went on.

  Sawyer hesitated and Anna stared him down, waiting. Suddenly the gun vanished from the panel and Anna heard the weapon slide back into its holster. Sawyer’s face pressed up to the door, brow creased in frustration.

  “If that’s the way you want it, Doctor, that’s the way you’ll have it. Live, for now. And enjoy the warm cell. You won’t be here much longer.”

  The panel in the door slid shut with
a clang, and Dr. Demilio was left alone. She sagged visibly, expelling a long breath of relief. She was certain Sawyer was the type that would actually kill her if he thought she was becoming more trouble than she was worth. She was just thankful he wasn’t the one in charge.

  Who knows who that is, Anna thought. And I’m not even sure I would want to know.

  USS Ramage

  January 14, 2007

  0902 hrs_

  “Miserable heat, eh?” remarked Denton, resting his forearms on the steel railing in front of him.

  “Quite,” General Sherman replied, holding a hand to his brow to shield his eyes from the bright sunlight reflecting off the tropical waters. “But a beautiful view.”

  The USS Ramage was anchored in an inlet that nestled up to a storybook island. Curving palms jutted out over the beaches, and a thick green canopy dotted here and there with a rooftop spread back as far as the men on the ship could see. One small town was the focal point of the island, a tiny wedge of civilization tucked between the dense forests. The sight was a welcome one to the battle-weary men and women onboard, but their presence was attracting a degree of attention that couldn’t be all good. Distant figures on the beach gazed back at them with a bit of trepidation in their step, and fishermen gave the vessel a wide berth as they sailed toward the town’s docks.

  “Does this pal of yours know we’re coming?” Denton asked, eyeing the folk onshore.

  “No,” Sherman said.

  “It doesn’t look like they’re rushing to greet us.” He gestured at the people. “Likely we’ll be stoned to death before we pull a dinghy onto those beaches.”

  “I couldn’t call ahead. There are only two generators on this island, and one of them powers their radio. They don’t leave ’em on all the time, just long enough to catch news every now and then or to call in assistance. I’m banking on Hal firing it up when he hears about the destroyer sitting in the harbor, and maybe we’ll get somewhere.”

  Denton was doubtful. He asked, “How does an entire island go on with only one radio?”

  “There are only a few hundred people here, Denton,” answered Sherman. “It’s all they need or ask for from the outside world. They take care of themselves just fine.”