by Z. A. Recht
Mbutu made a note on his clipboard. “That’s much better.”
“Yeah, looks like most of us’ll be armed. And there’s a few more things: One sub-machine gun, MP-5, with two full magazines, sixty rounds. Grenades, fragmentation, twelve. Grenades, white smoke, six. Grenades, tear gas, four.”
Mbutu made the necessary notations, frowning at the grenades.
“What?” Denton asked.
“Have you noticed how Franklin has been giving us supplies only in even numbers?”
Denton cast an eye over the table. “You’re forgetting the MP-5. Only one of those. Besides, it’s probably just the military in the guy. Everything’s got to be squared away.”
“With two full magazines of sixty rounds total,” Mbutu countered.
“Heheh,” Denton chuckled, digging through the cardboard box in front of him. “Oh. Gas masks, two.”
“See?” Mbutu said, grinning.
“Knock it off. There’s some assorted MOPP gear in here. Looks like two or three full suits.”
Mbutu scratched a note on the clipboard. He admitted, “I wrote it down, but I don’t know what MOPP gear is.”
“It’s clothing designed to counter biological, chemical, or nuclear threats to a soldier’s life,” Denton explained. “It’s thick, with a charcoal layer between the cloth to catch particulates. Very hot to wear in the summer; doesn’t breathe well. But someone wearing this could be standing under a Sarin mortar and be just fine.”
“Like a space suit,” Mbutu said.
“Yeah, I guess you could make that comparison,” Denton conceded.
“What’s next?”
“Oh, ah, looks like a box of spare clothing. Call it . . . damn, just write down ‘box of clothes.’ I don’t feel like sorting through it all.”
“Very well, box of spare clothes,” Mbutu said, checking it off on the clipboard.
“Gentlemen,” came a new voice. Mbutu and Denton looked over to see Sherman approaching from across the deck. “How’s it coming?”
“Pretty well, General,” Denton answered. “Franklin’s given us enough gear to be comfortable once we make landfall. How’s our approach?”
“We’re only a few hours out. We’ll make landfall around seventeen hundred hours this afternoon.”
“What’s the procedure once we hit?”
“Franklin’s decided he’s going to sail in and offer what help he can to the defense efforts. I’ve tried to convince him otherwise, but he’s adamant. He’s also said he’s not going to say a word about us, so we’re in the clear. He’ll make landfall north of where he wants to be, drop us off, and sail south. We’ll head inland from wherever he lets us off.”
“Can’t really blame the captain. He’s got a mobile island and enough firepower to see himself through to the end,” Denton said.
Sherman nodded in agreement. “He’s a good man. He just can’t run. It’s not in him. I’ve seen enough, though, and it’s high time to look out for number one, if you know what I mean.”
“Damn right,” Denton agreed, chuckling.
“So what have you got here?” Sherman asked, gesturing at the table.
“We’re listing all of the supplies Franklin has given us,” answered Mbutu, handing the clipboard to Sherman, who gave it a cursory scan with his eyes.
“Looks pretty solid so far,” Sherman commented. “Get some canteens and other water storage containers—and medical supplies. I don’t see any listed here yet.”
Mbutu took the board back from the General and looked it over again.
“He’s right. There isn’t a single bandage in here.”
“I’ll get Rebecca to round up what she thinks we’ll need,” Sherman said.
“Is she coming along?”
“I assume so,” said Sherman. “I doubt she’ll want to stay on this ship after being cooped up on it for so long. But I’ll ask to be sure.” He paused a moment, then continued, “Another thing we’ll need is a complete manifest of all the people who are coming with us as opposed to those staying with Franklin and heading south. Get us a solid number and make sure you mark down who’s a trained soldier and who’s a refugee so we can distribute these arms accordingly.”
“You’ve got it, Frank,” Denton said.
“There’s one thing I’m still unclear on,” Mbutu said, raising a finger.
“Yes?”
“Where are we going once we’re on land?”
“East,” Sherman said. “More specifically . . . well, I can’t get more specific. I’ve got a friend on the east coast who’s sent me an e-mail. She said she’s looking over courses of action for us, doing a little research. In the meantime, we’d do well to head for the midwest. Population is spread out enough there we should have a decent shot at moving undetected, not to mention moving safely. No hordes of infected people following in our wake.”
“And to get there we have to make it through a more densely populated region,” Denton noted. “Gotta love it, eh? Our very own Catch-22.”
“I never said it was a flawless plan,” Sherman said defensively. “For example, we need vehicles. Better find out if any of the men coming along can hotwire a car. Otherwise it looks like we’ll be burglarizing some dealerships along the way.”
“I’ll finally be able to get my Viper,” Denton said, grinning.
“Would it be wise to commit theft?” Mbutu asked, a slight frown creasing his features. “I mean, the breakdown of order is certainly far from complete. Law is still in place. We may find ourselves on the wrong side of that law.”
“That’s a calculated risk we’ll have to take,” Sherman said. “There are certain supplies and gear we’ll need that we just can’t requisition. We’ll have to take what we can, where we can. It’s the nature of survival.”
“I agree,” said Denton. “Besides, we can weigh the risk against the benefits once we’re in those situations. We won’t pull a smash-and-grab if there’s a Johnny Law parked across the street directing traffic.”
“In the end, though, I think we’ll have to take a few choice items,” Sherman said. “Well, I’m going to get back up to the bridge and write a reply to Doctor Demilio. Maybe we’ll have a more concrete plan from her before we disembark.”
“We’ll continue organizing our gear, General,” Mbutu said.
“Good. On second thought, mark off one of those sidearms,” Sherman said, picking up one of the pistols. “I gave my other pistol to Rebecca. She didn’t have one.”
“Grab a couple magazines while you’re here,” Denton said, gesturing at the ammunition. Sherman nodded and picked up a pair of full magazines and tucked them away.
“Remember, keep close reins on those rifles,” Sherman added, jerking a finger in the direction of the firearms. “They go to the most skilled. Issue ‘em when we’re about to hit land.”
“You’ve got it, Frank.”
Washington, DC.
1206 hrs_
Like the cities far to the east, Washington was beginning to burn.
There had been sporadic fires downtown for over a day now. Mason and Doctor Demilio had risked going up to the second story of the safe house to get a better view of the surrounding area and had first spotted the plumes of smoke from there. It appeared to be several small blazes as opposed to one massive firestorm, spread out across the city. That was fortunate. They would most likely remain safe where they were for a while yet.
The lack of solid information regarding what was happening less than a few miles away was frustrating Anna. Even though a wealth of intelligence was available to her now compared to when she was cooped up in her cell, she still felt in the dark about much of what was happening outside. The fugitives knew that the martial law situation was deteriorating. Whereas the military had once held total control, the remainder of the civilian population was growing bolder now that they felt they had nothing to lose.
Anna was glad for the security cameras that were positioned around the safe house. They allowed her and her com
panions to monitor activity in the streets from the safety of the basement room. They’d seen no less than four groups of rioters running down the street outside, armed with bats, rifles, and Molotov cocktails. They were smashing car windows, setting fire to front lawns and taking whatever struck their fancy. So far, none of them had approached the house that Mason, Anna, and Julie were hiding in, and if their luck held, they would remain undiscovered.
As it stood, if a group of rioters did approach, chances are they wouldn’t live to regret it. The three were armed better than ever before now that Mason had gone through the lockers and picked out a few choice items for each of them.
Still, it wasn’t the rioters that really worried Anna. It wasn’t even the fires, though those might smoke them out if the wind shifted in the wrong direction. It was the carriers. For every rampaging citizen they’d seen outside, they had identified two carriers. They were easy to tell apart from uninfected people—they twitched spasmodically, drool dripped from their limp jaws, and they gnashed their teeth as they walked or ran with uncertain movements down the darkened streets. With every passing hour, the carriers added more and more citizens to their ranks. The wails of the injured and dying penetrated even the thick walls of the basement safe room.
The balance had definitely tipped in favor of the Morningstar Strain.
Anna tried to keep her mind off the living hell outside in the streets. She assisted Julie in taking her dose of antibiotics, tipping her head back and chasing the pills with a sip of water.
“How is she?” Mason asked, sitting with his back to the two women at the computer terminal, punching keys absentmindedly as he scrolled through screen upon screen of recent reports.
“I’m fine,” coughed Julie, scowling at Mason’s back.
“I think it’s in remission,” said Anna, referring to Julie’s pneumonia. “We caught it just in time. Any longer in that dungeon and she’d be a lot worse off.”
“Good,” Mason said, nodding.
“What are you reading?” Anna asked, closing the box of medical supplies she’d been using.
“Action reports,” Mason told her, tapping the screen with his finger. “We’ve got casualty tallies, safe zones, hot zones, quarantine areas, recommendations, plans, and orders here. Pretty much anything we’d like to know about what’s going on out there that can be written down. Funny.”
“What’s that?”
“How the world can be crashing down all around us, and people are still filing reports, like the higher-ups are still going to be reading them Monday morning.”
“Force of habit.”
“Force of stupidity,” scoffed Mason. “Look at this. A post-action report filed by a battalion commander in Florida detailing the amount of ammunition expended and the estimated cost of the action, in dollars, rounded up. As if the dollar is worth anything these days.”
Anna stopped for a moment, struck by a thought. She’d filed hundreds of reports to her higher-ups at USAMRIID detailing each day of her research. There was data in those reports that might be very useful to a group of people working to stay safe from the Morningstar Strain.
“Can you tap into the USAMRIID database from here?” she asked, walking over to stand behind the agent.
“Yeah,” Mason said, looking over at the doctor. “If you’ve got an account I can use to access it. I’m no hacker.”
“I have an account,” Anna said. “But will it still work? I’ve kind of been arrested the past couple weeks.”
“I bet it will,” said Mason. “They probably figured you wouldn’t be near a terminal to even try to access the database. They probably left your account open. Why? Got something you want to look up?”
“Yes. I’ve been thinking: Before I was arrested, I was working on the Morningstar Strain, trying to figure out how it works so I could, basically, reverse-engineer a vaccine or a cure. Same basic principle we’ve used dealing with Lassa and Ebola and any number of other nasty bugs. Maybe I can download my research and get back to working on it now that I’m free again.”
“You actually believe you’ll find a cure?”
“By myself? Without my lab and staff? Not really. Even with that, the chance is slim. But there is a chance.”
“Okay, I’ll buy it,” said Mason. “Here, give it a shot.”
Mason slid out of the seat and let Anna take his place. As she had a thousand times before, she brought up her login screen and typed out her username and password. She hit enter, and waited while the computer talked to the database.
>ERROR: Invalid username/password. Please try again.
Anna growled. She re-typed the password, being certain each key was hit in the correct order, and hit enter again.
>ERROR: Invalid username/password. Please try again.
“Damn it all,” Anna mumbled. “They got me.”
“Let me have a shot at it,” Julie said from behind the pair. She came walking over, a wool blanket draped around her shoulders, looking weak but determined.
“What are you planning on doing?” Mason asked.
“You might not be a hacker,” Julie said to Anna, “But I sort of am. Used to be an investigative reporter before I got my anchor position, remember? I can hack into that database.”
Anna didn’t have a ready answer, but she was impressed. She merely blinked, nodded, and slid aside, giving up the chair to Julie.
The reporter sank into the desk chair with a heavy sigh, slowly cracking her knuckles.
“This may take a while,” Julie said. “Get comfortable,”
She began typing.
“Handy,” grinned Mason.
“Bet your ass,” Julie managed, biting back a cough. “Glad you brought me along now?”
Mason chuckled. “I’ll be more impressed if you manage to get in. Remote access has been tightened up since that kid hacked the Pentagon in the nineties. If you can, though . . .”
“I’ve got to earn my keep somehow, huh?”
USS Ramage
1834 hrs_
Brewster drifted in and out of a fitful sleep. He couldn’t get comfortable. He tossed and turned in the narrow bunk he lay upon, throwing off the blankets in exasperation.
“Fuck it,” he whispered, clasping his hands behind his head and staring at the bottom of the bunk above him. A sailor had pinned family photos to the underside of the mattress, and Brewster let his eyes play over them.
A knock came on the door. Grateful for the distraction, Brewster glanced over.
“What is it?” he asked. No answer came. “Stop fucking around out there. What’s going on?”
The door began to swing inward, creaking loudly.
“Who’s there?” Brewster asked. The door finished the long swing, coming to a stop against the wall. Framed in the doorway was the stooped silhouette of a soldier.
“Who are you?”
“Don’t remember me?” the soldier said, stepping forward into the light.
“Darin?” Brewster asked, sitting up in the bunk. “What the fuck?!”
“Don’t remember your old buddy?” Darin repeated, walking slowly towards Brewster. “Don’t remember the guy you killed?”
“I had to,” Brewster protested, drawing back. “You were infected.”
“That’s right,” Darin said, flashing a feral grin. His teeth were coated in blood. As Brewster watched, the blood began to fill the corporal’s mouth, running out across his lips and down his face, dripping to the floor with a steady plip-plip-plip. “I was infected.”
The corporal’s eyes seemed to glow with an inner light, and Brewster felt terror welling up in his chest.
“Stay back, man,” Brewster told him, recoiling.
“You killed me without a second thought,” Darin said, voice distorted behind the blood in his mouth. “I’m here to return the favor!”
Brewster noticed for the first time that Darin held a pistol in his hand. The corporal raised the weapon and aimed it directly at Brewster.
The blast was deaf
ening.
Brewster came awake in a flash, sitting upright and slamming his head on the bunk above him.
“Fuck!” he yelped, wiping a hand across his forehead. It came away covered in sweat. The nightmare had been incredibly real.
Another knock sounded at the door. Brewster remembered the gunshot in the dream and realized it must have been the knocking.
“Up and at ’em, soldiers!” came a voice from outside. “We’re about to make landfall. Quarantine’s over. You’re cleared to leave.”
The other soldiers in the room with Brewster whooped with joy, slapping high-fives and grinning. Brewster ran a hand through his close-cut hair, heaving a massive sigh. He was relieved to be allowed out of the room—but more than that, he was relieved they were about to get off the ship. Before he had even tried to sleep, he’d made his decision. The first chance he got, he was going AWOL. He had no idea what the situation would be like on land, but he bet if it was anything like the other infected areas of the world he’d have plenty of opportunities to get away.
The door to the quarantine room swung open and the soldiers gratefully piled out into the hallway.
“Assemble on deck in five minutes,” ordered Sergeant Major Thomas, who stood against the far bulkhead directing the half-dozen freed soldiers. “Gear’ll be issued shortly, then General Sherman wants a word with you all.”
Grateful to have something to do besides sit around in a bleak room, the soldiers made their way through the winding corridors of the destroyer to the deck, with Thomas trailing behind them.
Brewster was now even more dead-set on making a break for it once they hit land. He was still a bit shaken up from his dream as the soldiers walked out into the sunlight for the first time in a week. Still, Brewster couldn’t help but stare at the view in front of him. The ship was coming up on the west coast of North America, and the rocky, tall shore sat off in the distance, partly concealed in thick, cottony fog.
“There it is,” Brewster murmured. “Home sweet home.”
