Roland just looked at me for about sixty uncomfortable seconds. The rest of the table was quiet.
“I’ll see what I can do.”
Luke showed up and asked me if I was ready for the conference. When I stood, Roland was still looking at me.
“Thanks, guys. I’m not playing around, Roland.” I was just in the act of turning.
“John, have you ever seen your movie?”
“No.”
“I would not recommend it. You’ll hear from me.”
Once again, a maze of corridors, but we went up and up. Our sojourn ended up in front of a highly polished mahogany door. Okay, must be special people inside, not like the short bus but with some similarities. Before we could knock, the door opened for us. In front of me was an impeccably dressed and an absolutely massive seaman, who politely ushered me into the room and to my seat. I did not sit down. Oh, what the hell am I doing here?
We were arranged around a large oval cherry table. As far as rank went, I had no clue, so I just assumed the guys with the most bling, win. Where the hell was Robert? The gentleman at the far end spoke up, “I am Admiral Spencer. I am in command of the North Atlantic fleet. Please sit down and we will get this started.” So I sat, cool, I got a laptop. He continued.
“Dr. Patrick, thank you for being here. You have been filled in on the basics of our mission. We will continue an aggressive search for survivors. We also are in the mop-up stages on Martha’s Vineyard and have already moved on to Block Island. We have read your account of the events from the last several weeks, and yes, I have seen the video. It was my order that the fleet also have access to it. You have been through a ton of shit, pardon my vulgarity, but it seems appropriate. My staff and I need to understand the undead as well as you. We need you to help us carve a path to renewal, and gaining back what we have lost.”
A little internal voice told me to shut up and then I heard myself talking. “Excuse me, Admiral. What we have lost is hard to comprehend. It’s not just the people. It’s the infrastructure and the knowledge. We are no longer a technology/industrial society. We are scavengers. We cannot reproduce the material and ingenuity that went into this magnificent vessel. At best, we are going to have to work to get back to being an agrarian society. I’m talking about the middle ages, but with really smart peasants.” Where the fuck is Robert?
There was an officer sitting next to me on my right. He immediately made some sort of snorting sound when I had finished talking. It was low enough that I could hear it and probably no one else. He, in his late twenties or early thirties, with a thin face and a pug-like nose, was obviously of some high rank, but I had no clue as to what it was. We looked at each other for a second and I instantly knew I was not going to be invited to his next birthday party.
“Then what do you suggest we do?” Everyone at the table except the Admiral and the freak next to me had their pads and pens out ready to take notes. I was about to suggest inventing a time machine so we can all go back to an age when life just kind-of-sucked.
“Sir, this is going to last far longer than anyone has anticipated. There is no wait it out strategy. These things will be here for a long time, maybe years.”
“Why do you say that? A zombie can only go so far and it breaks down, it decays. Everything I have been told is that decomposition should run its course in a matter of months, so how do you come up with years?” I don’t know who spoke, but he was not happy.
“Sir, the infection spread is exponential, not linear, and with what I am assuming is a classified R-zero, very quickly.”
“But for years?”
“Sir, for one, they breathe.”
“What!” It was the freak speaking up. “You have been close enough to them to know they are breathing?” It was really not a question, but an exercise in condemnation that I am sure he hoped would eventually lead to humiliation. Besides, they have to know all this already.
I turned and looked at him. His nametag read H. Owens. “Well, Owens…”
“It’s Captain Owens,” he said in a slow cold voice, emphasizing the word captain. This guy really didn’t like me and we had never met!
“That’s great, I’m sure your mom is proud,” I said this fast in the hopes of avoiding a reprimand and quickly segued to the important part. “I did not have to get close. You see, it is impossible to make the sounds the zombies make, or really any vocal sound, without air passing across the vocal cords, usually during phonation.” I turned to look at freak. “That is to say during exhalation.”
Once again, I quickly continued. “They also have a functioning circulatory system. I have seen no signs of livor mortis, plus I’ve touched them. They are warm, so no algor mortis.” This really caught the room’s attention and several people started talking at once. Freak just pushed his chair back and crossed his arms and legs waiting for me to hang myself. He had this smug look on his face and I started to dislike him as much as he seemed to dislike me.
“Okay, gentlemen, let Dr. Patrick finish what he was saying, Doctor?”
“Well, to simply state it, if you don’t have a functioning circulatory system, you don’t have bio-available oxygen. No oxygen, no cellular respiration. No cellular respiration, no production of Adenosine Triphosphate, also more commonly known as ATP. No ATP, no energy to move muscles. No ATP and you get muscular contracture, something I like to call rigor mortis. Rigor mortis is clearly not an issue with our current population of undead. If the other two are true, and they are, the zombies have a partially functioning digestive system.”
My ‘friend’ was a bit louder and just a fraction ahead of the rest. “But you can’t be sure. Maybe there is another way of generating this energy. Something we have never seen. Speaking of seeing, have you ever seen a zombie take a shit? You make a lot of assumptions.”
“That could be true, and no, I have not observed a zombie defecating. Staying with this line of thinking, I did get close enough to smell their breath. It smelled fruity and like acetone or nail polish. Something we see in ketoacidosis. This is usually the result of low insulin levels, but maybe, just maybe, these guys can fluctuate and use both glucose and fat depending upon energy needs.”
“Dr. Patrick, your area of anthropology seems to cover a lot of things.”
“Admiral, I have an affinity for remote places and am trained as a wilderness EMT. Type 1 diabetes is unfortunately a common illness.”
“Wonderful.” He glanced at the freak next to me. “Any other good news?” I could tell from the Admiral’s voice that this whole meeting was not going down the way he had planned.
Oh nuts, I really didn’t want to dump all my suspicions at once. I thought that maybe we could go over each point, kind of like breaking down bullet points in a particularly bad PowerPoint presentation. Ah well, okay, piece de resistance - I took a deep breath.
“They hydrate. I’ve seen them drink. With everything I watched on the TV and internet, I thought this was our ace in the hole. We weather the storm surge and then, with time, back to sea level. They may be around a lot longer than anticipated.”
“How long?” This came from somebody near the admiral who was not in a strictly military uniform, public health, maybe.
“My guess is months, maybe more. We should be seeing a sharp drop in the population from those that have already suffered major injuries, but after that, I have no clue. This is of course all predicated on the belief that the infection is transmitted solely through intimate contact with the infected.” If looks could kill, I was already dead. The admiral and the two sitting next to him were shooting laser beams at me. I guess with power comes ‘the look’, and this one was clearly telling me to move on to another topic.
“There is another thing that bothers me. Those with major trauma and I’m talking cases of substantial soft tissue damage, don’t seem to be bleeding out. This means that coagulation at the trauma site is occurring at a rapid and highly efficacious rate.”
“They don’t bleed?”
&nb
sp; “It’s clear they bleed, because all wounds show signs of hemorrhaging. I just don’t know why more of them are not dead from loss of blood.”
Another voice spoke up from the far end of a very quiet room. “What does this all mean?”
“What this means?” I thought by now that was obvious. “It means that, biologically speaking, they are alive.”
This time, the room remained silent as everyone contemplated the true meaning of what I just said. This concept had to have been expected or at least suspected. I don’t know about reproduction, but these things do fill most, if not all the criteria for being classified as living organisms.
“Admiral, all this had to have been known soon after the Plague started. I mean, the whole world was working on it.”
“Yes, they were working on it, but even when the situation became critical, nobody, and I mean nobody, played as a team. We had agencies within our own government who were not talking to each other, let alone sharing information. So we start again. We have some ships that have been retrofitted for this purpose and we move forward from here.” The Admiral was clearly indicating that this line of investigation was ended.
“Dr. Patrick, your observations and assumptions are in line with the information I have been getting from a variety of sources. I just wanted to hear it from someone outside the government. The biology and physiology of our opponents is a top priority and something you will be involved in. For now, I want a detailed report of everything you have observed, theorized, and guessed about our situation. No detail is too insignificant.”
“I will get right on it, sir.” Well, at least I had something official to do.
Admiral Spencer looked to a sailor standing by the door, nodded his head, and the sailor left.
“Okay, gentlemen, we are going to take ten.” Everyone got up and stretched. I just looked at the table and the patterns the wood made. It was beautiful. How could there not have been worldwide cooperation? Everything was crashing and burning and we would not talk to each other? Maybe Liz was right. Maybe deep down inside, humans were mad.
When I looked up, the side tables were loaded with coffee, tea, soda, fruit, sandwiches, and all sorts of assorted goodies. It brought me back to the milk in the cafeteria. Didn’t they know this was all going away? Then the Admiral was at my side.
“Doctor Patrick, do you have a second?” His voice was polite but it was not a question.
“Of course, Admiral.” We moved to the corner of the room by a window that overlooked the flight deck. I still could not get over the size of this ship.
“I don’t know what is going on between you and Owens, but you are going to stop it right now.”
“Yes, sir, I understand. I also don’t know what is going on either, but you will have no more problems from me.” I looked at the admiral as he walked away. You know, I liked the guy. He had the weight of the world on his shoulders, or at least the weight of tens of thousands of lives, but he kept his shit together and focused on what was relevant and important. It reminded me of Captain Picard from Star Trek, Next Generation. I decided to forgo the treats and waited to find out what I should do next.
When I sat down, the Freak looked at me with this, ‘I won asshole, don’t fuck with me’ attitude. I guess he thought the Admiral was chewing me out. I looked away and tried to focus on the work ahead. I have no clue how to put together this report. Eventually, everyone sat down, papers were shuffled and the meeting started.
“Captain Owens.”
“Yes sir.”
“Thank you for your contribution, but you are no longer needed, dismissed.” He stood, saluted and walked out. My eyes never left the table.
I waited for my name to be called next, but only heard, “Okay, let’s get back to the situation at hand.” So we went around the room with everyone giving their opinion on where we were and what we should do. It was kind of like the old bull sessions I used to have at Phi Sigma Kappa back in college. The discussion was not specific to the zombies, but a general review of the overall situation. I decided to keep a low profile and let the upperclassmen do the talking.
From what was said, I started to put together a clearer picture of the last couple of weeks. It seems that the President and most of the political establishment had survived and were now safely ensconced on several Caribbean islands. A number of military instillations around the world still survived, but most were under siege. There still were many civilian holdouts, but their numbers were steadily declining. There had been another ‘radiological incident’ somewhere in the Midwest. Another? Long term food and fuel issues were not discussed. After about an hour of general conversation, we eventually centered on what could be accomplished with the land we already had. Land? We had a couple of desert islands! Even Gilligan would not be happy. Someone mentioned the ease with which we could take Cape Cod. Block Island seemed to be a given, but none of it really made any sense. I kept quiet, trying to absorb the inanity that was going on around me. I noticed the admiral did the same. It’s not that the points being presented weren’t valid; it’s just that everyone was looking at the pretty leaves and missing the raging forest fire. After about another hour, I started to get fidgety and looked around, I noticed the Admiral was staring at me. Shit, apparently it was my turn. I guess, since I was an outsider it would not matter much if I crashed and burned, and looked like a fool, so I took a deep breath and with no real idea what I was going to say, I dove in.
“Gentlemen.” Holy cow, they actually stopped talking and looked at me; brain, this better be good. “I have been to Block Island, been to the Vineyard and Nantucket. I was born on Cape Cod and all these places are great for a nice family vacation. Wonderful beaches, fantastic restaurants, but they are not what we need.”
A rather portly gentleman with a baldhead, ribbons and stuff all over his chest and a kind voice spoke up. “What do you suggest we need? Ah…”
“John, sir, we need everything; security, sustainable food, clean water, reliable power, you name it.”
It was now the admiral’s turn, although from the sound of his voice, he already knew the answer. “And just where do we find this, Doctor?”
“Well, as far as the east coast is concerned, Long Island would be a good start.” Everyone just stared at me. At first, I think they thought that this was some kind of joke and the punch line was next. After thirty seconds, it dawned on the group that I was not kidding.
“If you think about it…it’s got some good farmland and a nuclear reactor in…”
“East Shorham, Dr. Patrick. It also has a population of around eight million people or should I say zombies, which is approximately the same as Ireland.”
“Yes, but the vast majority is in the southern part of the island, in Brooklyn and Queens. Between these two boroughs, we have a population of what, maybe six plus million. We eliminate the bridges and tunnels and isolate the island. Do everything possible to encourage the zombies on the northern portion of the island to visit New York City. I don’t know how, some kind of super noise maker or something. Then when everybody thinks we’ve done enough, obliterate the southern portion of the island. We are still talking about a large undead population, numbers like two million or three, but it can be done.”
“How?” Now it was just the admiral and me talking. I could sense the other’s heads darting back and forth as if watching a tennis match.
“With almighty force.”
“All of it?”
“Is there a choice?” Here it comes.
“So, Dr. Patrick, how do you propose we deal with these five to six million zombies on the southern end of Long Island?”
“We need some time to get everyone south. We have to isolate, so we don’t allow Manhattan, New Jersey, and Connecticut to come to our party. Once you decide the dance card is full, you nuke them.” This produced the expected result; a bit of shock and a whole lot of outrage. More than one declared I was out of my mind. It took only a simple clearing of his throat and Admiral Spence
r calmed the room down.
He just stared at me and in a calm steady voice asked, “Are you insane?”
Well, I guess the game did have rules. “Perhaps, but from my imperfect knowledge base, it seems time is critical and options are rather limited.”
He looked around the room. “I am openly having a conversation with an individual who says he is perhaps insane! Gentlemen, I need more alternatives than nuking New York and I need them now.”
“Admiral, I don’t want to nuke the city, just the two boroughs. I don’t think we should get crazy or anything.” The room became so silent you could hear a pin drop. Oh boy, do I need Robert.
“I apologize, that was uncalled for. Once the island is isolated, we are talking about a finite number of zombies. Unfortunately, this will be a very large number. Basically, we find out where we can safely segregate the southern portion of the island, the area that gets nuked, with a fence or something. We clear everything north of the fence. This will take time and cost lives. We need to find out who knows something about farming, raising animals, plumbing, electrical, carpentry, public works immediately and get Shorham up and running. Admiral, at the very least, it gives us something to do.”
He stared at the table for a while and then started to look around the room. So far, nobody had raised any objections. The admiral turned to a forty-something incredibly fit red haired man on his right.
“Danny, Cape Cod and Block Island are all yours. Good luck.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Most of the others were given various assignments; stocks, weapons inventory, fuel and a variety of other things. The Admiral was going to lead a sub-team to review the isolation of the island and the use of all options in eliminating the zombies. Needless to say, I was given nothing to do, but the Admiral did ask me to stay after the others had left.
“John, you don’t really have a plethora of inhibition, do you?”
Brutal Planet: A Zombie Novel Page 25
