Omega Plague: Collapse

by P. R. Principe

  “How do you know where Carla is?”

  “After I escaped I followed them. But there was nothing I could do. I’m one person. So I gambled. I came here, hoping I’d find you. Gamble paid off, didn’t it? Still, it took me a couple hours to get back across the island.”

  Hours? God knows what they had done to her by now. “Where did they take her? What the hell took you so long to get here?”

  “So long? I didn’t know I was on a goddamn schedule. I wasn’t sure where I was going, and I had to make sure I wasn’t spotted. They took her to a house outside of the village of Capri. I don’t know the island very well, but I think it’s on that road on the way to Villa Jovis.”

  Bruno paused, recalling that part of the island.

  “I think I know what you’re talking about—that building borders on an open field, just before the path winds up to the ruins on Monte Tiberio. They’ll have good sightlines, since there’s not much cover until the path starts. We need to get there before dawn. It’s five or six kilometers from here, but it’s hardly a straight shot on the roads.” Bruno holstered his pistol. “But tell me one thing. Why do you care about finding Carla? You’ve got the disease. What good does it do you to find my sister? You’re going to die.”

  Battisti unclasped his hands from his head and lowered them. “When I told HQ that we had a containment breach, their last comm said backup or extraction would be provided as ‘circumstances permit.’” Battisti scoffed. “Lies. All lies. They weren’t going to save us. They cut us loose, good-bye! Except they didn’t have the balls to tell us. They’re liars, Bruno. And they’ve lied to us from day one about this Omega Plague. Antivirals can stop it—I heard your sister say it. I’m just at the early stages. She—she can help me find antivirals; she can help me live. She’ll know what to do—I know!”

  Bruno remembered what his sister had said about the antivirals, but he wasn’t about to tell Battisti that he was mistaken. Or just delusional.

  “How do I know she’s still alive?” said Bruno.

  “They wanted information from her. They were asking her things.”

  Bruno’s eyes narrowed. “What things?”

  Battisti shook his head. “I couldn’t hear exactly. She just kept screaming ‘I don’t know.’ Until they get what they’re after, they’ll keep her alive. Unfortunately for her.”

  Alive. Screaming. The full impact of what must be happening to his sister began to burrow into his mind. He needed to hurry. “We leave now,” said Bruno. “I have a motorcycle, but we’ll have to go on foot. They’d hear us long before they saw us, even with this wind.”

  Of course, Bruno didn’t trust Battisti. Battisti’s irrational hope that Carla could save him showed he was becoming unhinged. A man like Battisti, desperate and egomaniacal, would do anything to save his own life. But the blood and soot on Battisti’s uniform spoke more about what had happened than any words Battisti could have said. That, and the tremors in his hands. Sweat, too, beaded on Battisti’s forehead. And it was not a warm night. Battisti was probably lying about how far along his infection had progressed, but what choice did Bruno have?

  “Let’s do this,” said Bruno.

  ***

  Light had yet not broken over the mainland to the east when they came to the point where the road became a footpath. The wind and rain from earlier that night had died down and the sky was clear, but the storm left everything moist and slick. Wearing the respirator made Bruno’s breathing labored and fatigued him. Listening to Battisti’s increasingly paranoid raving was almost as fatiguing. And Battisti’s cough, much worse in just the last hours, made his voice hoarse.

  Bruno looked down the road toward a building ahead. The moon shone in the sky, not quite full, but giving enough illumination to make their way without resorting to flashlights. The beauty of the grey stone cliffs to their right, sloping south and east toward the open sea, struck Bruno even through the netting he wore wrapped around his head. Bruno and Battisti sheltered behind two pine trees that grew together into a V-shape, each thicker than a man, with scrubby bushes at their base. Bruno hoped the vegetation would provide enough cover to keep both of them hidden from view. The cream-colored stone building stood at the end of Via Tiberio, just as the road turned into a winding path leading up to Villa Jovis, the ruins of the Roman Emperor Tiberius’ summer house. A whitewashed solid stone railing, really a low wall, led from the narrow road up to the front door. While Bruno couldn’t see the stairs themselves because of the railing, he knew they were there, as many houses on the island shared a similar entryway. Thick bushes grew below the window on the side of their approach. Dark wooden shutters covered the window, obscuring any view inwards. A scaffold leaned against the back of the building. To Bruno, it looked like the building had once been a residence that had been converted into a café, judging by the sign that hung over the entrance.

  “That’s it,” Battisti muttered. As they watched, a man with a bandanna over his face walked out onto the landing, his lower body obscured by the stone railing. The man stood there, looking around. He pulled the bandanna down, took something from his pocket, and turned his back to them. When he turned around, Bruno could see the orange-red glow of a cigarette dangling from the man’s mouth.

  “Why would they come out this way?” said Battisti.

  Bruno shook his head. “Not sure. The ruins are on a high point, the closest part of the island to Sorrento. Good views of the whole Amalfi coast, the Bay of Naples and the Gulf of Salerno. Maybe that has something to do with it.”

  “Probably why good old Tiberius built a villa there in the first place,” said Battisti. “Maybe this lot isn’t as stupid as your average lowlife.”

  “I don’t care if they’re the captains of Napoli, Milan, and fucking Juventus, they’re still animals,” said Bruno. “What now?”

  Battisti took out his pistol and pointed it at the man. Battisti’s hands trembled

  “Christ, you’re not going to try to shoot him from here, are you?” said Bruno.

  Battisti lowered his pistol, suppressing a cough. “No, I’m not going to shoot, just sizing up the distance.” He re-holstered the pistol. “I won a marksmanship competition in the States three years ago, you know. The Americans and Brits thought they were the best, but I showed them.” Bruno couldn’t see Battisti’s face well, with the dark and the netting over both their heads, but he could hear the irritation in his voice.

  Bruno wondered who Battisti really was, whether he belonged to some kind of Special Forces unit, and who his bosses really were. If they got out of this alive, Bruno resolved to find out.

  “We need to get in closer before we do anything,” said Battisti in a rasping whisper. “Scout them out first before taking any of them out. See if we can find out where they are in relation to each other.” Battisti coughed softly into his respirator.

  “I’m fine,” said Battisti. “Must have swallowed wrong.”

  Bruno shifted away from Battisti. “What about the bushes under the window?” said Bruno. “I might be able to get a look through the shutters.”

  Battisti paused, considering the idea. “Yes—risky, though.” Then he nodded. “But I don’t see another option. Get to the bushes, then signal how many there are. The windows on the building are low. I see a window behind the scaffold. Once you see where they are, I’ll climb the scaffold and,” Battisti reached into his jacket and pulled put a canister, “I’ll drop this through the back window.”

  “Tear gas?”

  “No, better; a vapor grenade,” said Battisti. “Salvaged it from our gear at the hospital.”

  “What is it?”

  “Tear gas without the smoke, enough to gas a whole house,” said Battisti.

  “I’ve never heard of a ‘vapor grenade.’”

  “Yeah, because it’s not usually authorized for domestic use. But who gives a shit now,” said Battisti. “I can set it off in a back room and they won’t know what the hell is up. Their first instinct will be to fin
d fresh air. Then we can deal with them in an open area; take them out before they know what hit them.”

  Battisti turned his head toward the house. “Looks like the scaffolding is blocking the back wall and any door that might be there. Good. Means they have only one way out.”

  “But my sister, she—”

  “We’ll have to fucking aim carefully when we shoot. Signal me with the number of people and how many are armed. Once you signal, take cover across the path in those trees and bushes.” Battisti pointed down the road. “Looks like they’re about ten meters from the front entrance. After I drop the grenade, I’ll circle round.”

  Battisti continued to look down the path. “Cazzo,” he swore. “That’s the only cover near the front entrance. I’ll have to hide near you. If we were lucky, there’d be somewhere else I could hide, and we could set up a real ambush—get them from different angles. But we’re not lucky.”

  “Not really cover, is it,” said Bruno. “Just a bit of concealment. Some bushes aren’t going to stop bullets.”

  Battisti didn’t answer.

  “So, this is the best we can do, eh?” said Bruno. “Flush them out and shoot?”

  “You want to knock on the fucking door? This is the best plan I can think of right now, Mr. Carabiniere. So, if you have another idea, a better one, let’s hear it.”

  “I don’t.”

  Battisti nodded. “All right, then. We’ll go as soon as he’s back inside. Once I set the grenade off, it’ll fully discharge in about fifty seconds. In a building that small, I’d say we have another minute before the gas reaches them. Should be plenty of time to get to the trees before they come out.”

  Battisti’s worsening cough frayed Bruno’s nerves as they waited. A glow grew across the eastern horizon, and Bruno feared the coming morning light would destroy any chance of approaching undetected. But then, after dropping his cigarette to the stairs, the man turned and entered the house.

  Battisti tapped Bruno on the arm. “Let’s go!” They jogged in a low crouch until they reached the side of the house. Bruno worked his way through the bush while Battisti stood at the back corner, waiting for Bruno’s signals.

  Bruno heard a woman’s cries and men’s laughter. For the first time in his life, his mother’s and brother’s death seemed like a blessing, not a curse. They were dead and buried, and would never have to know the sick horrors that Carla must surely have endured.

  The window was just above his head, so Bruno stepped onto one of the bush’s lower branches. It provided just enough height for him to get his head above the window’s ledge, though it was precarious, and he leaned against the ledge. The long window had no glass, but gaps in the shutter’s slats let him peer into the room. By now, the fast-approaching dawn gave enough light for Bruno to see figures in the room.

  Bruno counted five men, milling around a room strewn with upturned wooden tables and chairs, looking to Bruno like what used to be a main dining area. They all wore masks or bandanas around their faces. When one of the men moved, Bruno saw her sitting on the floor. The bruises on Carla’s face almost made him gasp. She stared at the floor, her green hospital scrubs stained with blood and dirt. Her hands were bound in front.

  One of the five stood apart from the others, away from Carla. Bruno couldn’t quite see him, his face hidden in shadows as the man spoke.

  “Again!”

  Another man kicked Carla in the gut.

  The man in the shadows spoke in a low growl. “This is going to be a long day unless you tell us where he is. Where does he live?”

  Carla’s voice was quavering. “I’ve told you—I’ve told you. I don’t know where he is.”

  The man in the shadows laughed. “Oh, I think you do! Your hospital was the only place on the island with any pigs left. All the rest are gone or dead.” He moved closer to a shaft of light. “That’s part of the reason we went there, right, boys? To kill pigs?” The other men laughed.

  “But the Boss said to find you. And then you could help us find him. The guard said there was a Carabiniere at the hospital before we got there. So we know he’s on the island.”

  He’s looking for me? Bruno thought. But who—

  “I know he can’t be at the station ‘cause I torched it myself!” Bruno began to shiver, and not from the cold.

  “So,” the man strode forward and turned toward Carla. “You don’t want to end up like that poor guard, do you? You’re his sister. So, you must know where he lives. And I think you’d better tell me . . .”

  “Listen, Enzo, let me have her for a bit. I’ll get her to talk,” said a man with a greasy ponytail and a shotgun.

  Enzo, the one who had been doing most of the talking, moved into the light, but with his back toward Bruno. He had close-cropped black hair, and the straps of a respirator covered part of his head.

  “I should give you to Damiano,” said Enzo. “He likes you a lot. You up for another round with the doctor?”

  “Absolutely. I’ll make sure there’s still enough of her left for Il Serbo when we bring her back,” said Damiano.

  “The Boss is after the brother, not her. He’s the one we want. She’s just the way to find him,” said Enzo. “Now Alessio here can be very persuasive, right, Doc?”

  Carla whimpered. A man wearing a chiodo jacket, its black leather and silver zippers glinting, laughed. “Sure,” said Alessio. “Let me have her—again. I’ll get her to talk.”

  Bruno forced himself to look around. Bruno noticed a pistol on the small of Enzo’s back, poking out from under his olive-drab jacket and t-shirt. He couldn’t tell whether or not anyone else, other than Damiano, carried a firearm.

  Bruno turned his head toward Battisti at the far corner of the house, canister in hand, waiting. Bruno gestured “five,” then signed the number “two,” and touched his sidearm.

  Battisti nodded, and moved out of sight behind the house. Bruno extracted himself from the bush and in a crouch, scurried along the side of the house and out across the path to the stand of bushes and two trees. He crouched down, took out his pistol, and waited. A few seconds later, Battisti ran across the path to Bruno’s position, pistol in hand.

  Just as Bruno took aim toward the entrance, shouting erupted from inside the building. Screaming and swearing, the group stumbled out of the building, coughing and gagging as they fanned out on the path. Enzo held a pistol in one hand, and Damiano had the shotgun slung around his back. He gripped Carla by her hair as they both coughed and spit. Alessio was bent over close by, panting. The other two stumbled a little away from the rest as they struggled to breathe. Bruno and Battisti wasted no time eliminating the two that had moved off. Battisti fired two bullets in succession. One found its mark, dropping a man, and Bruno shot another in the head, and he collapsed.

  Enzo fired toward them, but not really taking aim. Battisti crouched lower in response and fired back.

  Bruno grabbed Battisti’s arm.

  “You’ll hit Carla!”

  Battisti broke Bruno’s grip and elbowed him in the temple with one fluid motion. Bruno fell to his knees. A kick on the back knocked him on his stomach. Bruno felt hands yanking his pistol.

  “I could have got him! I know what I’m fucking doing!” shouted Battisti.

  More shots rang out.

  Bruno forced himself to move, rolling onto his side just in time to see Enzo, Damiano, and Alessio fleeing up the path towards the ruins. Damiano had Carla slung over his back as he bounded up the path. Enzo pointed his pistol backwards, firing without looking back, and Battisti returned fire as he ran after in hot pursuit. They rounded a bend in the path, disappearing from view behind stone columns, trees, and scrub.

  “Wait!” But it was too late. Bruno struggled to his feet. He didn’t care that he had no pistol now. His only thought was to find Carla. That fucking nut Battisti was going to get her killed. Bruno had to move quickly.

  Bruno staggered up the path, lined by pitted stone columns and heavy scrub. He slowed down as he reach
ed the end of the path and found himself standing amid low walls and ruined columns, the flat, red brick and grey stone construction typical of old Roman ruins. The path cut directly into the ruins, becoming long brick stairs and sloping upward between two walls that stretched well over his head. Still dizzy, Bruno crept up the stairs into Villa Jovis against the wall, one hand brushing against the crumbling stonework. Listening for any signs of a struggle, he heard nothing except the sighs of the wind and songs of birds, now that dawn had truly broken. A multi-level maze of ruins and walls, Villa Jovis lay perched on top of Monte Tiberio, and provided ample space and hiding places. Bruno thought a search would be futile at best, and he only had a passing familiarity with the ruins. So, he decided to take the path he knew best and make for the highest point in the ruins, the one place he could survey most of the ruins from above: il Salto di Tiberio, the Leap of Tiberius, the place where the old emperor cast those he disfavored down sheer cliffs into the sea.

  Bruno picked his way up the stairs, winding up and through the ruins. His head swam from the blow to his temple, and he missed the comfort of anonymous dark. Every time he turned a corner or the path opened up into a once-great room now exposed to the sky, Bruno paused, peering around, before proceeding with speed to the next narrow portion in what used to be hallways.

  Bruno started up the stairs that led to the Leap. He picked his way with care until he heard the sounds and shouts of men wrestling. Bruno leapt up the rest of the stairs, but just before emerging onto the flat top of the hill, he paused out of sight, trying to plan as cursing and yells rattled his concentration. Then, the blast of a shotgun followed by a scream rang in Bruno’s ears. He poked his head just enough above the wall along the stairs to get a look.

  Stones and weeds littered the small hilltop, some twenty meters across, that was the Leap. A low, black railing ran around the area, defining the safe zone where people could admire the views of the island and the sea without risking death on the cliffs. Some tall grass and bushes grew along parts of the railing. Bruno could not see Carla anywhere. Damiano stood with his back to Bruno, but Bruno could see he held a shotgun. Damiano stood no more than three meters from the stairs. Bruno saw Battisti on his knees, the red of his blood making a shocking contrast to the grey camouflage pattern on his shirt. For a moment, Battisti seemed suspended upright. Then, in an instant, he fell on his face in the dirt, like a puppet with its strings cut.