Omega Plague: Collapse

by P. R. Principe

  Carla lived in one of the nicest parts of Capri, not far from the main square. There were a few people walking here and there. Most of them wore a mask of some kind.

  Bruno walked stiffly, his neck and back still sore from the raid two days ago. “If she’s not there, I’ll—”

  “Don’t worry. It’s Saturday afternoon, you’re overreacting. I’m sure she’s around somewhere. If I know her she just forgot to charge her phone,” said Cristian as they approached her apartment building.

  Cristian pulled out his phone. “Hold on. Wait a sec.” He tapped Bruno on the arm. “The website’s back online—I can finally download the video—the guy with the Shakes! Christ! Bruno, you’ve got to see this.” Cristian handed him his phone, the video already playing. Bruno didn’t look.

  Cristian told Bruno about an infected Irishman living in London who had taken pictures and video of himself and uploaded it to YouTube. They pulled the video, but not in time to stop it from going viral. The man calls his tremors “the Shakes,” saying it was like what happens the morning after a night of binge drinking. The British media loved the name, and it stuck.

  “It just came out yesterday,” said Cristian.

  “I don’t want to watch it,” said Bruno.

  “Come on! This disease is insane, look what it does!”

  Bruno relented.

  The man in the video sat shirtless in front of the webcam. Pustules oozing blood covered the man’s face and chest. Bruno could hear the man wheezing, trying to talk in English about the disease’s symptoms as his lungs filled with fluid. Listening to the man describe what was happening to him made Bruno regret being able to understand English.

  “Christ, do you know what kind of panic this will cause?” said Bruno. “You think this is a fake one, too?”

  “Even if it is a fake, it could still cause complete chaos,” Cristian responded. “I spoke to some friends in Rome yesterday. Stores are already having problems keeping food on the shelves. And open air markets are closed.”

  “This one looks real. And if they can’t contain the disease, panic will only get worse,” Bruno said.

  Cristian shook his head. “They kept rabies out of Britain for one hundred years—too bad they didn’t keep out Médecins à l’aide des autres while they were at it.”

  They approached the entrance to Carla’s apartment building and walked in.

  “Hey listen, Bruno, I’m sorry about what happened on raid. I know it wasn’t your fault. I can only imagine how you feel, and—”

  “Thanks.”

  “If you ever need to talk about it, just—”

  “I really don’t want to talk about it,” said Bruno as he climbed the stairs up to Carla’s third-floor flat.

  Bruno knocked on the door. No one answered. “Carla, are you there?” No response.

  He glanced at Cristian. “You have a key, don’t you?”

  Cristian rummaged around in his pocket and produced the key. He paused. “In case you’re wondering, I sleep in the other bedroom when I stay here, so don’t think that I—”

  “Just shut up and open the door.”

  Cristian opened the door. Carla’s flat was considerably larger than Bruno’s but the layout was not so different. In the foyer, a suitcase lay near the door. At the other end, through the glass balcony door, Carla stood looking out over the sea. They walked in. There was a flat screen mounted on the wall in the main living area, with the news humming.

  Carla turned around, saw them, and came inside.

  “Ciao,” said Carla, giving Bruno a hug and Cristian a kiss on the cheek. She was a petite woman with dark hair pulled back in a ponytail.

  “We were worried about you. Your phone went straight to voice mail and the hospital said you weren’t there,” said Bruno.

  “Sorry, the phone ran out of charge, and I’ve had barely a minute to think. It’s been so busy.”

  “Why the suitcase?” asked Cristian. “Where are you going?”

  “I’m going to stay at the hospital for a few days. They need me there.”

  “Did you see the latest video? Is it real?” said Bruno.

  Carla took a deep breath. “Yes, we think so.”

  “Christ,” said Bruno.

  “Look.” She spoke to both Cristian and Bruno. “You should stockpile some supplies; food, water, whatever you can. There are going to be shortages. At least that’s what the pandemic models predict.”

  “We will,” said Bruno. “But what about you?”

  “The hospital is probably the most prepared for this kind of thing. We’ve trained for pandemics. We’re ready.”

  “All right, well—” started Bruno, but then the news caught his interest.

  A reporter he recognized from one of the national networks stood in front of the UN building in New York City. The tall steel-and-glass building reflected the light of early morning, and the sun was just rising. “We can now confirm cases of this new disease outside the UK, Italy, and France. It has now spread to New York, Cairo, Berlin, São Paolo, and Madrid.” She spoke with authority.

  “I’ve got to go,” said Carla. “Stay if you want, but lock up after you leave.” She hugged them both and left, pulling the wheeled suitcase behind her.

  Bruno and Cristian stood in the middle of the room. Bruno wondered what to do next. The reporter went on talking, but Bruno did not listen.

  Chapter 5

  October 15

  Bruno woke with the sounds of the TV still in his head, and found that he had forgotten to turn it off. He rolled over and looked at his phone on the nightstand. 0625 hours. The sky was pale with pre-dawn light. He sat up and swung his legs out of the bed and faced the TV screen hanging on the wall. The island still had not seen the turmoil that infected the major cities. It was calm here; so far, at least. But it wouldn’t last. In Bruno’s mind, once it spread to the island, all bets were off. He rubbed his lower back as he caught up on what had happened overnight.

  Reports proclaimed that in America, the Centers for Disease Control had jointly confirmed with the European Centre for Disease Control and Prevention in Sweden that the disease was indeed an airborne strain of the AIDS virus, but much more fast-acting and lethal. And the disease finally had a name: Type I Hemorrhagic AIDS Variant, or HAV. Rumors had been flying in the old broadcast media and on social media for days about the mysterious spread, not just from person to person, but to people who had no contact with the infected. Now maybe an answer: unnamed sources in the American government stated that they also discovered that this HAV could be spread by mosquitoes, explaining why people who had never come in contact with the infected had fallen ill. European governments as yet had no comment on the mosquito hypothesis. The news presenter declared that worldwide shortages of netting, insecticides, and some medications had already been reported, even before the official announcement late last night, New York time. Speculation was that the US Department of Defense (and maybe its British counterpart) had bought those items in large quantities in the hours before the information was leaked. Although the United States denied those accusations, nations around the world condemned it nonetheless. They were all hypocrites, these countries, Bruno reflected. Any one of them would have done the same, had they found out mosquitoes were carriers before anyone else did.

  He grabbed his mobile phone. When he found what he was looking for, he pointed the phone at his TV and swiped his finger towards it. A map of Italy color coded by regions appeared on the screen. On his phone, he touched Campania, the region containing the city of Naples. Naples was the largest city in the region, but the administrative province of Naples covered a large part of land outside the city itself. Touching the province of Naples brought up a more detailed map of the major towns in the Naples area where the illness had been discovered. Finally, the Ministry of Health bureaucrats had done something right with their website. Bruno scrutinized the text and the colors of the map. Capri was not listed and was still colored white. On the webpage, the Ministry of Healt
h asserted it was getting the infection data directly from reporting hospitals, with a delay of only hours between reporting and posting. Even if Bruno believed that (which he didn’t), looking at all of the areas to which the disease had spread, he understood it was now only a matter of days, maybe even hours, before someone fell ill on the island. And given the incubation period of the disease, coupled with whatever reporting delays there might be, for all he knew, it may already be here.

  When the first reports of HAV spreading from person to person began, Bruno had steeled himself for what he feared may come. After Carla had urged them to stock up on supplies, he and Cristian had made a shopping run, which consisted mostly of buying extra food, bottled water, and medicines. Of course, they had looked for surgical masks, but in vain. Bruno had also stocked up on batteries, bars of soap, and toilet paper. The old lady at the cash register had given him quite a look when he walked up with a basket overflowing with nearly fifty bars of soap, the entire inventory of the store, and thirty rolls of toilet paper. Cristian had made things worse telling the poor woman that the soap “was made from peeeople,” in his best Heston impression. But Bruno had figured if there were some things he might be hard pressed to make or find in stores soon it would be soap, batteries, and toilet paper. “Well,” Cristian said, “if the zombies come, at least you can still wipe your ass in style.”

  Now Bruno scrambled around his flat, taking stock of what he had, in addition to his most recent acquisitions. Some items were stored under his bed, some in his only closet by the front door. The island depended entirely on supplies from Naples, from the food in the stores, to the wine in the restaurants, to the designer purses in the storefronts. Bruno feared there would surely be critical shortages soon, since the disease showed no signs of slowing its spread. At best he had three, maybe four weeks of food and less water. Bruno didn’t have nearly enough supplies, nor the room to store them, nor enough time to find more of either. He knew he would have to make do with what he had now and whatever he could manage to scrounge in the future.

  As for weapons, there, too, he wished he had more. He had no rifle. The 9mm pistol might be sufficient for close-in fighting, but for serious combat, for ranged combat, if it ever came to that, his pistol would not nearly be enough. The arms locker had two PM 12 S2 9mm submachine guns, but they were under biometric lock and only Veri could access them.

  Bruno had a few folding knives, but his favorite was a fixed-blade knife, a commercial version of the one carried by the paratroopers in the Special Forces. That knife was a gift from his father. He rummaged underneath his bed and his hand felt a long, rectangular shape. He took the box out and opened it. His knife was still in its original black box, embossed with gold letters, the company’s Latin motto resonating with Bruno now more than it ever had: “Last Resort.” Bruno gripped the knife; it moved with ease in his hand. The color of charcoal, the blade was partially serrated, with a small guard where it met the handle. The knife was long enough for stabbing and slashing, if need be, but short enough to be carried comfortably on his person in its belt and sheath, which was made to lay vertically in the small of the back. Seeing the combat knife reminded him of his father. At least his father lived well outside the chaos of Naples. If it all fell apart, he would have a better chance of making it than anyone in a large city, far better than Bruno himself would have if he were still stationed in Naples, and maybe even better than being on the island of Capri itself. Bruno promised himself he would call his father after his shift today. He strapped on the knife directly against his skin, resolving never to be without it from now on.

  Bruno’s most critical need was ammo. He wasn’t sure how much the station had, and there were strict limits on the amount of ammo any one individual could own. Bruno had never thought that would be a problem, until now. He had been sorely tempted to steal as much ammunition as he thought Veri wouldn’t notice, rationalizing that there was nowhere to buy ammunition on the island. Not that Veri could say a fucking thing. After the lies about weapons confiscation, Veri was hardly in a position to complain about Bruno taking a box or three of 9mm. Still, while he knew his own preparations were inadequate, Bruno would never do that to Veri; not after what he had done for Bruno.

  While preparations were on his mind, he decided to look for a basic survival manual. As he scrolled through what he found online in Italian, it was mostly new age crap about living in harmony with nature, or disconnecting from society and living in the mountains somewhere. He didn’t want any of that. Then he noticed that someone had translated the US Army Survival Manual into Italian. Perfect. Though years old, it was free, and it was time-tested, exactly what he was looking for. He printed the document in case things really took a turn for the worse. It had been so long since he’d printed anything he wasn’t sure his printer still worked until, down there in the far corner of the room, it finally hummed to life.

  While the printer hummed on, page after page, Bruno stepped outside onto his balcony. The azure sky promised a cheerful, crisp day. The breeze from the sea chilled him as he looked northeast towards the still mist-shrouded shore. Father Tommaso stood on his own balcony watching the water.

  “Buon giorno, Father Tommaso,” said Bruno.

  “Buon giorno, Bruno. Looks like it will be a lovely day today.”

  Bruno nodded towards Father Tommaso’s glass. “A little early for wine, wouldn’t you say?”

  Father Tommaso laughed, making his face even more craggy. “Who says? Can’t hurt to start the day with a little wine, like the Romans.” Father Tommaso sat down on a chair, turning it toward Bruno. “I’m celebrating Mass at Saint Sofia’s on Sunday. Will I see you there?”

  “Maybe,” lied Bruno, hoping the priest would talk about something other than Bruno’s attendance at Mass. But Father Tommaso was relentless.

  “I think you might enjoy my sermon this week. It’s about celebrating mortality.”

  “Doesn’t sound very uplifting. And especially with everything that’s happening, do you think anyone will show up?”

  Father Tommaso leaned forward. “Now it’s more important than ever for people to remember their faith. How could we really appreciate our mortal life if it went on without end?”

  Bruno opened his mouth to argue, but his phone began playing the national anthem. Bruno knew exactly who was calling.

  “I’ve got to take this,” he said, stepping back into his flat.

  “Sure, we’ll talk later, Bruno,” said Father Tommaso as Bruno shut his balcony door.

  Bruno answered his phone. “Yes, sir, what’s going on?”

  Veri’s voice was taut, whether from jogging or fear, Bruno couldn’t tell. “I know your shift doesn’t start for two more hours, but there’s already a crowd gathering at Farmacia Nazionale on Via Madre Serafina. People are looking for insect repellant, medicines, God knows what else. You can imagine what might happen if the pharmacy runs out. The municipal police are there now, and I’m on my way on foot.”

  “You’re on your way?” Bruno wondered how Veri could have arrived at the island from his home in Naples so quickly.

  “After our little Naples adventure, I changed my mind and came back to the island—slept at the station last night—or rather this morning, I should say. I’m going to stay here until things calm down. My wife thinks I’ve lost my mind. She’s gone to stay with her sister and—”

  “I can be there, no problem. I was already awake. Maybe ten minutes?”

  “See you there.”

  There were only four or five pharmacies on the island, and Bruno knew exactly how to get to National Pharmacy. Living in a place that was only ten kilometers square meant nowhere on the island was distant. Bruno ran his fingers through his hair then put his uniform on with haste. Still strapping his gun belt to his waist, he made his way out of his apartment, down the stairs, and onto the sidewalk.

  His eyes fell on his Moto Guzzi Griso 850. It crouched along the curb, black and silver shining in the early dawn light. Thou
gh an older model, for a small island the motorcycle was seriously overpowered. On Bruno’s salary, he’d had to scrape together every last bit of extra money to pay for it, but to him it was worth every Euro. Bruno jumped on and the motorcycle roared to life. He headed down the winding street.

  As Bruno rounded the last corner before the pharmacy, the street straightened. The sun had just broken over the horizon, illuminating the scene. He could see the green neon cross hanging above the entrance about a hundred meters distant. What shocked him was the number of people milling about, blocking the street. He came to a stop and parked his motorcycle on the sidewalk. While there were few private cars on the island, small buses and three-wheeled delivery trucks had already begun to back up on both sides of the street. The sound of horns blaring rose over the crowd.

  Slipping on a surgical mask, Bruno half-ran toward the green neon cross looming over the pharmacy entrance. Scores of men and women milled around the pharmacy, and more were coming every minute.

  The small parking lot across the street from the pharmacy entrance was overfilled with people. Their desire to obtain items to repel or kill mosquitoes must have overwhelmed their fear of getting the disease from being in a crowd. Still, most of them wore something over their faces; masks, bandanas, or simple pieces of clothing. A few weeks ago, Bruno imagined that these people were probably enjoying an evening walk in the main square. Now they were queuing at a pharmacy for supplies, a desperate gleam in their eyes. Actually “queuing” was the wrong word. The way people were bunched reminded Bruno of a scrum in a rugby match.

  Through gaps in the crowd, Bruno saw eight or nine municipal police officers standing in a semi-circle around the entryway. Two tall windows flanked the glass door at the entrance. Emblazoned in green letters across the windows were the words “Farmacia Nazionale.” The crowd maintained a distance from the officers, none of whom wore riot gear. Bruno spotted Veri talking to one of the officers standing directly in front of the door and made his way through the crowd as politely as he could, saying, “Excuse me,” more times than he could count, and trying not to jostle anyone too badly. In a situation like this, he knew better than to needlessly antagonize anyone. Things could get out of hand quickly. Veri noticed Bruno coming through the crowd and gestured to him.