“As late as possible. But no later.” Aliyev took a deep breath. “Look, the danger is that we infect a few dead, using all or most of the MZ we’ve got. And then, instead of turning into a raging inferno, the epidemic just burns itself out. And then we may as well all drop our drawers and present our asses for the buffet. Aside from the amount of pathogen we have to deploy, the other main epidemiological factor is the density of the population we infect with it.” He paused. “The dead are piling up against the walls outside – right?”
“Correct,” Ali answered.
“Then we let them pile up. While we culture as much of this nasty shit as we can. And then we hit them – when they’re good and thick, and we’ve got as much MZ as possible.”
Jameson clenched his jaw. “You are aware London is being overrun as we speak? And the rest of England, as well – hundreds being eaten or infected every minute? You do know this is it? The end of the world?”
Aliyev knew it all too well. He’d crossed half the globe on his own to get here, and precisely for this – for the last stand. And for their last shot at stopping it. And, mainly, for that high concentration of dead to infect with his last designer pathogen, so that it would have its best shot at fixing what he had broken.
His insouciance and sarcasm melted away. “I do know. But you must believe me when I tell you this, and I believe it with all my withered heart: we have got only one shot at this thing. And it has got to land.”
Jameson blinked, looking like he wanted to hit something.
* * *
Wesley ran through the dark and the rain. It wasn’t necessarily that every second counted, not yet. But he felt the need to act as if it did. Running also burned off some of his terrible nervous energy. He also wasn’t soaked yet. The rain was still light.
But the storm was coming.
And he had finally decided. Standing outside his CP, he found he couldn’t make himself go back in and forget all this. He had to know if it was really Amarie in quarantine, and he had to try to do something to help her if it was. Or even if it wasn’t – losing the little girl was his fault either way. And there was still a little time, before the coming battle. He hadn’t taken anyone with him, instead leaving his men at their posts on the walls.
Taking their commander away was bad enough.
There weren’t any lights on in the middle of the Common, which was the most direct route to quarantine. But there was still that orange glow overhead. And the quarantine building itself, off in the distance, was dimly lit – and somehow those lights gave him hope. He remembered reading somewhere that was all you needed – a lit window in the distance, the knowledge that there was something there, something to work for.
The company of a tiny hope.
Amarie.
He barely dared speak her name in his head.
* * *
“Show me,” Ali said, not feeling much need for niceties.
“A simple operation, in theory,” Aliyev answered, moving to demonstrate for her and Jameson the core of the MZ weaponization strategy he’d come up with. All three of them were now back at the table with the paintball equipment.
While narrating what he was doing, Aliyev inserted a small-gauge hypodermic needle into a single paintball, which he held between the thumb and index finger of his other hand. “The paint comes out…” he said, the little orange ball shrinking as the tube of the syringe filled with bright orange paint. He then put the syringe aside and picked up another, which was filled with clear fluid.
“Just water in this one, not MZ. But it will do for a proof of concept.” He injected it in the same hole, and put that syringe aside. “Finally, we close it up with acetate sealant.” He unscrewed the top on a plastic jug, stuck a small brush inside, then stroked it across one side of the paintball, which he then held out, looking pleased. “Dries in seconds.”
“Make two more,” Ali said.
Aliyev looked annoyed. “But you can see it works.”
Ali was even more annoyed, and let it show. “It works when the weapon system works.”
Aliyev seemed to take her point, or maybe he was just responding to her tone and adamancy. Ali didn’t really care which. While he made two more of the water-filled paintballs, she screwed one of the shoulder-stock air tanks onto the back of one of the paintball rifles, and flipped open the cover of the ball hopper on top.
Then she stood waiting while Aliyev blew on the three sealed-up paintballs. In the interval, Jameson said, “You know we’ve got a Para sharpshooter on base. Lot of experience hitting runners and whatnot.”
Ali just gave him a bored look. He obviously could have no idea he was looking at what was probably the most skilled and experienced sniper on the planet – and that before most of humanity died. There was little point in telling him any of this. Instead she turned to Aliyev and put out her hand. He dropped the three 68-caliber balls in it, and she in turn dropped them in the hopper and closed the cover.
She brought the paintball rifle to her shoulder and sighted in on something on the wall at the farthest point in the labs, about fifty meters away – but then hesitated. Squinting, she realized it was the faint outline of… a bloody handprint. It had evidently been insufficiently wiped away after the invasion.
Jesus, the fucking ZA, she thought. Hope it got disinfected.
She pushed in the safety without looking and shot once.
The round hit dead center in the handprint, leaving water and bits of orange gelatin shell dripping down the wall.
She looked up to see Aliyev smiling and nodding.
She leaned back into the rifle and shot a second time – and this time the round curved out of the barrel nearly 45 degrees to the right, like the worst slice of a bad weekend golfer’s whole career. It smacked into the monitor of a female lab tech working on the right side of the lab, causing her to jump out of her chair and yelp.
Without looking at Aliyev this time, she shot the third round.
This one didn’t go anywhere at all, instead breaking in the barrel, and sending water and bits of shell shooting ten feet out of the muzzle and onto the floor. Expression unchanging, she turned and tossed the rifle back to Aliyev.
Homer sighed and said, “Welcome to paintball.”
“We’ll make it work,” Ali said, glancing over to see Jameson looking at her with grave concern. She looked back to Aliyev. “Where’s Simon?”
* * *
Wesley slowed his jogging pace as he approached the entrance to quarantine, seeing two armed guards posted out front. He didn’t recognize the two, and didn’t want them shooting him for a runner.
“Sergeant,” he said, nodding. “You’ve got some civilians in quarantine? I’m looking for a young Frenchwoman.”
“Leave it with me, sir,” he said, turning and going inside.
Four minutes later, Wesley was standing in a small bare room bifurcated by a solid sheet of plexiglas with a speaker mounted in it. The door on the other side opened up – and in walked Amarie. Just like that. She was not only alive; she had been right here, right on top of him, but hidden away.
Wesley found he couldn’t speak – he could barely stand. That worked out okay, as he leaned up against the plexiglas for support, and Amarie pressed herself up against it from the other side. His hand found hers, separated yet reunited.
“You’re alive,” he said, heart thumping in his chest.
“You’re alive,” she echoed, smiling through tears.
“Are you okay?” Wesley asked, his brow furrowing.
She ignored this. “My little girl. You’ve got to find her.”
Wesley nodded vigorously. “I will. She’s… yours?”
Amarie nodded, crying more forcefully. She opened her mouth, lip trembling, looking like there was more she had to say. But she couldn’t get the words out.
“It’s going to be okay,” Wesley said. “I’ll find her for you. I promise. And I’m going to get you out of here… as quickly as I can.” He felt that terrible
tug of love against duty again. It stabbed him in the heart to leave her locked up in this place. But he couldn’t let everything fall apart now because of him. Because of her. Because of his feelings for her.
Still, his heart was leaping.
After all this, after everything…
All he had to do now was get her little girl back safely – and pray to God she was still alive.
“I’ll be back soon,” he said, pressing his hand harder against hers through the glass. Then he steeled himself, hefted his rifle, and turned and exited, heading out again through the dark and the rain. But not back toward his CP – rather, toward the sealed-off canteen. Because, on this one, it wasn’t just duty versus love. It was duty versus a competing duty – plus love.
He had to find the girl.
And he had to do it before everything kicked off.
* * *
Jameson didn’t recognize the scientist, but he sure as hell recognized the scientific device he sat working at – despite never having seen it all assembled in one piece before.
It was the Biacore 4000.
This was the machine One Troop had fought their way through hell for – down into that godforsaken dead-guy-magnet building in Dusseldorf, and then back out again, just ahead of pretty much the entire former population of the city.
And not all of them had fought their way back out again.
Dr. Park turned when Ali called his name – but his eye was immediately drawn by Jameson, who was looking at the Biacore. He opened his mouth, but shut it again when he saw the expression on the Royal Marine’s face. But, while Jameson was looking at the Biacore, that wasn’t what he was seeing.
He was seeing the faces of Johnson… and Rottes… and Sergeant Elson, long-time leader of Second squad. All of them his Marines, and his friends of many years, and with whom he had fought through so many close-hauled battles across so much of this fallen and hopeless world.
And who were now entombed forever back in that building.
To Ali, he said, “I’ve got to get back to my men.”
She nodded her understanding. “Find Master Gunnery Sergeant Fick, Miller can dig him up for you. He’ll get your team slotted into the defense.”
“Roger that,” Jameson said.
But instead of leaving, he paused and looked upon Park once more, his expression a very complex blend of skepticism and support, as if there were a standard he was going to hold him to. He mustered the faintest ghost of a smile, then clapped Park on the shoulder.
“Get it done, mate. Save us all.”
Park could only nod, but Jameson was already gone.
Lights Out
CentCom – Biosciences
“Antibody analysis,” Park said, responding to Ali’s terse request for a sitrep – an update on where they were with the vaccine. Jameson had just left, and Ali had pulled up a chair, Homer standing behind and mainly listening.
“Elaborate,” she said, hands on her thighs.
Park nodded. “It’s a type of protein-interaction testing – screening and ranking of antibodies to determine selectivity and binding—” But he cut himself off before Ali had to do it. At this point, Park knew enough to know what she actually needed to know. “This is the last phase. It proves the vaccine won’t actually give people the virus.”
“And have you? Proven it?”
Park exhaled. “It looks good. Also, we’ve got a test subject.”
Ali arched her eyebrows. “Who?”
“Sarah Cameron.” Neither Ali nor Homer responded to this, though it seemed to affect each of them in some way. Park continued. “And, so far, she’s not a zombie. Four hours later. So that’s a good sign, too.”
“How long?” Ali asked. “How long does it take to develop immunity after being vaccinated?”
Park nodded. “That’s the best news, actually. Normally, an immune response to vaccination can take up to two weeks. But I’ve engineered this one to work much more quickly.”
“How much more?”
“A lot more quickly – hours rather than days. Between you and me, a complete immune response in most cases should happen in four hours. And almost certainly no more than eight.”
“How is that possible?” Homer asked.
“Back at Neuradyne, I was working on a new technique to make adult somatic hyper-mutated antibodies mimic the way they work in an infant immune system – namely much faster. I already had it patented, though the technique wasn’t completely worked out yet. Later, I was able to couple that with the same properties of the Hargeisa virus that make it so damned rapid-acting and virulent – in the end promoting a similarly accelerated immune response.”
Ali still looked skeptical.
“I had a lot of time on my hands down in that bunker. Also, this is what you pay me the big bucks for.” They both smiled at this, then Park grew serious again. “But it comes with a cost.”
“And that is?”
“It’s not very comfortable or pleasant. Pain at the injection point, likelihood of fever and chills.”
“Fuck comfort and pleasantness.”
“Agreed. But there’s also a slightly higher, albeit still statistically extremely low, chance of getting the actual disease from the vaccine.”
Ali shrugged this off. It was definitely a hell of a lot lower than their chances of getting the disease when the dead overran their walls and gnawed their faces off.
Park exhaled. “And there’s one last issue. The rapid immune response might not happen with everyone who receives the vaccine. But, for the most part, it should work.”
“How do you know who it’s worked on and who not?”
“There’s an antibody test. But it’s not foolproof, particularly early on.”
Ali considered. She could live with that, too. Overall, it was incredibly good news: four to eight hours was fast – maybe fast enough to save them. But that clock only started when people started getting vaccinated.
“When?”
Once again, Park knew what she meant. “I’d like a little more time to repeat the interaction testing. I’d also like more time to see that Sarah doesn’t die.”
“But—”
“Yeah. More time spent on that is less time everyone else has to develop immunity.” His face said he’d decided. “Now. We can go now.”
“Do it,” Ali said. “Start cycling everyone through here for the shot. Everyone inside the CentCom walls.”
“I’ll get it done,” Park said. “And the fabrication facility is already running flat out – making doses for everyone outside these walls.”
“Good man,” Ali said. She actually had to work to contain her excitement, for once. This was amazing progress – it had been a hell of a long road from Hereford, across half of North America, and through East Africa, to get to this moment. They’d come so far. That they now had a working vaccine, and were actually about to start immunizing people against the zombie virus… well, it was almost too good to believe. But it was true. She rose and clapped Park on the shoulder. “And good job. We’ll be in the JOC.”
By the time she and Homer got back out into the near-dark of the Common, the rain was falling harder than when they’d gone in. But before they got even halfway across it toward SHQ, the few lights in that building, which they had been following, all went dark. Ali cast her eye around in 360 degrees.
All the lights were out everywhere.
* * *
Okay, Wesley thought, wiping water out of his eyes. Now I’m nearly soaked.
But he had at least gotten across most of the menacing darkness of the open Common, after his visit to quarantine. In the last stretch before finally reaching the old prison complex, he passed a hulking structure sitting on its own, which he finally recognized as CentCom’s backup power generator. He slightly wondered why it was out here in the middle of a field, and guessed maybe for health and safety – it had flammable fuel in it, and would spew fumes when it ran. But he didn’t hang around in the dark and rain looking at
it.
Then again, neither the discomfort of being wet, nor the spookiness of moving around alone at night, were his primary emotions, any more than his main thoughts were about the location of the generator. In fact, both his head and his heart were all over the place.
He tried to remember what it had felt like, all those times he had thought about Amarie – while on the coast of Virginia, while battling through fire and flood in Saudi Arabia, while fighting killer Russian Spetsnaz off the coast of Africa on the carrier – then out on the ground of Africa itself. All those times he had been so close to death, had felt so tired and so tempted to give up. How the only thing that had kept him going was thinking about getting back to Britain, and maybe back to Amarie.
And now here she was. Both of them together – nearly.
But, once again, he had to drive those thoughts away, to try to focus on his task. He had to rescue Amarie’s little girl – somehow. The question of who the girl’s father was, or where he might be, was not one he could let intrude on his thoughts.
Not least because it would be an even worse distraction.
He hailed the single RMP on post at the northwest gate of the prison to let him in, then picked up his pace again, heading for the canteen. He probably could have got there more quickly by going inside and navigating the interior. But he didn’t know the way, and decided to just hug the outside walls until he hit the yard the canteen let off of. And one nice thing about being soaked was you couldn’t get any wetter.
He passed the internal southwest gate where the runner invasion had gotten out into the Common, taking down one of his men and resulting in another getting shot. Beyond that he could see the lonely dirt ramp that led up to the back of the southwest walls – and, parked beside it, the Bobcat earth mover that had made it. He wondered why it hadn’t been put back in the engineering shed. Maybe things changed fast in combat. Another minor mystery he didn’t have time to ponder.
In two more minutes he was there.
He paused outside the canteen door, regarding it in the darkness. He could just make out a single light fixture mounted above it, and felt like it should be on. A few lights had been left on here and there, to keep armed and jumpy people from killing themselves, or one another. Looking around, he couldn’t see a single light lit anywhere now. Maybe that was intended – no one really needed to be in this yard, and they were keeping off every light that wasn’t essential, to avoid drawing the dead.
ARISEN, Book Fourteen - ENDGAME Page 3
