The APOCs Virus

by Alex Myers

  "I really can't believe we're going to go though with it Prescott," Dr. Puck said as he approached the Admiral on the darkened tarmac. "I've just left the men."

  "And, what was the mood?" Tex asked without turning around.

  "Anxious, impatient maybe . . . "

  "Are they ready?" His expression held a note of mockery.

  "I was going to ask you the very same question Admiral. Let me change it though, are you?"

  "Am I ready?" his eyebrows raised inquiringly. "Am I ready to send men to their deaths killing people that’s only crime was getting sick? Am I ready to destroy homes and schools and places of business folks have worked long and hard to build? Am I ready? Hell yes I'm ready, ready to clean up the mess you've created." His dark face was set in a vicious expression, but only for a second and then the familiar mask descended once again.

  "I don't know how I could be any sorrier than I already am, Admiral." The tensing of his jaw betrayed his deep frustrations.

  Admiral Prescott turned to look at the man responsible but Puck was looking away. He saw Puck reach into his back pocket and pull out a handkerchief. Tex couldn't see the doctor’s face but he seemedto be wiping his eyes. Tex could hear the ever-so-slight sobbing. He believed the man to be truly sorry; his help in the technical planning of the mission had been invaluable, but he was not about to let him off the hook so easily. There was still one thing left he needed from the overachieving scientist.

  "There is one thing you can do . . . " his words were as cool and clear as ice water. "I need you to hold a press conference."

  He turned and faced the Admiral still wiping the tears from his eyes. "And announce our plans for the mission?"

  "No," his voice was stern with no vestige of sympathy in its hardness, "I'll do that. I need you to announce the Center for Biological Warfare, a division of the United States Army, has discovered the biggest medical breakthrough since Salk and the polio vaccine. I need you to announce the cure for Cancer.”

  After leaving Puck with his mouth hanging open and a blank stare on his face, Admiral Prescott went to the aircraft hanger. The men that would take part in tomorrow night's mission code‑named "Iron Fist" were busy at work prepping their gear. He walked silently observing the best killing machines in the world. The divisions would have sufficient materials and supplies, ammunition, rations, water and fuel, for three days, but the best estimates said they'd be in and out in under twelve hours.

  The men of different ranks and service branches all had a specialized skill. Admiral Prescott, himself, had insisted on very high shooting standards for each volunteer. For example, snipers must achieve 100 per cent shots on targets at 600 yards and 90 per cent at 1,000 yards. Much use was made of the "shooting house" in training the men to deal with Apoc terrorists in buildings and urban environs. This was to ensure that the Apocs and not innocent bystanders were killed. Very little was known by the general public about the equipment and weapons his teams would use. He was proud to supply his men accouterments only the most technologically advanced country in the world could provide. The snipers would use the Remington 40xb rifle with 12x Redfield telescopic sights. Two out of three of the machine‑gunners would have M60s and the remaining third a Heckler and Koch HK21s.

  The weapons of choice for the SEAL units were Stoner Mark 23 Commando MGs and M16A1 rifles, both with about 800 rounds at their disposal. The pistol were US navy Model 22 Type O 9mm. silenced pistol developed by Smith and Wesson and specially made of stainless steel to prevent rust. The pistol was nicknamed the "Hushpuppy”, from its designed role of killing guard dogs and tomorrow night, guard-Apocs.

  He had a special plan for his beloved SEAL team and he had his nephew Lieutenant Bill McCullough to thank for it. Bill had informed his uncle that the Apocs including their leader would be attending a protest at a rock concert in Hampton on the Virginia Peninsula. Hampton is only accessible from Norfolk by crossing under the Harbor of Hampton Roads via the Hampton Roads Bridge Tunnel and Interstate 64. Members of the SEAL Underwater Delivery Team, with their swimmer delivery vehicle would plant underwater explosives in the westbound tunnel. Admiral Prescott had reasons to believe that the leaders of the Norfolk Apocs were also the brains behind the destruction taking place in the other east-coast cities. So while the C-130s and ground troops leveled the section of town called Oceanview, the warlords could be wasted at the same time in a flood of fire and water.

  He was banking heavily on the hope that Puck's announcement of the cancer cure could keep the hounds of the press off his back long enough to finish their objectives. He couldn't go on watching and waiting for more people to die. Tomorrow night would be the end of the nightmare . . . or he would die trying.

  CHAPTER 18

  IRA GETS A CALL

  The Reverend Ira Swanson was sitting in his expansive office gloating. He would set new records—TV-wise and money-wise—with the Abaddon Broadcast. The production crew was putting the final voice-over on the video.

  "Have them bring it right up when they finish,” he said to his secretary over the intercom.

  The promos for the show would start running as soon as Colin got back the tape. That Colin's a fine boy, he'll make one helluva lawyer for the Church, Ira thought. He was mentally counting the added revenue the show would bring in when the phone jarred him from his dream-like state.

  "Yes?"

  "Reverend Ira, it’s Steve Getz from the band Devil's Reich on the phone. He says it’s urgent."

  Ira could not believe his luck, it was going to be a red-letter day. He knew it was only going to be a matter of time before he heard from the band once Project Daniel was in place. They must have gotten word that their Richmond and two D.C. dates had been cancelled. Hah, I'm good! And to think all I had to do was offer the venues an equal amount of cash. They were happy to get rid of them. See what happens when you cross the Lord.

  The people in charge of booking had experienced the wrath of the Reich fans before. They were known far and wide for their after-concert destruction. The emissary for Ira even paid $2000 less for the Washington arena than the band had agreed, just to be disentangled from the mess.

  Now that I have the money and the clout I'll make sure they never play another east coast date.

  As per Ira's orders, it was the full-time job of one man to "unbook" Devil's Reich concert dates and instead book a make believe Reverend Ira Revival. A revival they would never advertise, because it would never take place.

  "PLEASE Reverend Ira sir, what should I tell him?" The secretary pleaded.

  “Ginny, put him right through." Ira said. He adjusted a special recording device built in to his phone system and hit the record button. He heard the connection put through. "This is the good and just Reverend Ira Swanson speaking," he said boastfully, "but before I can continue with this conversation I need to ask your permission to record this conversation. For my own protection, you understand?"

  "I don't give a shit what you do!” a voice yelled into the phone.

  Good, Ira thought, the game has begun. This was a mistake Steve Getz would live to regret. "Now what can I do you for son?"

  "I'm no son of yours, you bastard. This is Steve Getz guitarist and manager for Devil's Reich. Listen you're not fooling anyone. I know the stuff you pulled back at the congressional hearings was all a political stunt, all for greed. Why don't you feck-off and leave us the bloody ‘ell alone." He said in his distinctive cockney accent.

  "Did you say this was Steve Getz?"

  "Yes, of course, who did you think it would be Mary Poppins?"

  "Well, what can I do for you then Steve?"

  "My friends are telling me you are spreading rumors that Devil's Reich is being financed by the Apocs. What kind of game are you playing?"

  "Being financed by who?" Ira said.

  "The APOCS! You heard me, that Abaddon chap."

  "So what's the problem, it goes along with your image doesn't it?"

  "Our venues are canceling out. We'll d
ie if we can't sell tickets."

  "I'm afraid we have a bad connection. You'll what?"

  "DIE, d-i-e, I said, die you deaf bastard. It'll be the death of the band without concert sales. The only place the devil lives is in your mind!"

  "I'll call off my men then, soon."

  "Do it now or suffer the consequences. Just get it done!"

  “I can't ask you to see the light and confess your sins to the Lord before it’s too late?"

  "What do you mean Swanson?"

  "I mean give up the band."

  "Give up the band. Not for a million bucks, no make that two million!"

  "So you're going to keep making music?"

  "Damn square, that's our only objective."

  "And you're not in league with the Apocs?"

  "Oh, the Apocs again. Yeah, and what do you call their leader. . . Abaddon the Antichrist, he helps me write songs—get real will ya?"

  "I think I'll go on the air and tell people you said that."

  "You do and it'll be the death of you and your Church financially, because I'll sue your ass off."

  "I think I've heard about enough." Ira said as he hung up. Actually he was thinking he had enough—enough to end Devil's Reich once and for all.

  He reached for his intercom. "Jane get me the production department and tell them I need them in my office stat. Oh, yeah Jane, get me Colin Black in here also. I need him to make another visit to our friend Abaddon.”

  CHAPTER 19

  SECRETARY OF DEFENSE UNCLE TEX

  Order was brought to the hundred-plus warriors by the appearance of their leader. The noise level had dropped so dramatically it felt like a vacuum. They had a job to do and they anxiously awaited their battle plan. It was a hot sunny day yet no outside light entered the empty aircraft hanger.

  The commander entered from the rear and slowly walked with his hands held behind his back. He walked up the middle aisle and scrutinized the gathering. Everyone felt his penetrating eyes. They knew they were being evaluated. Occasionally he would make eye contact, but for the most part their eyes were cast downward. He was dressed in a green flight suit with heavy black boots that thundered with every step. The sound echoed through the hearts and minds of everyone present.

  They were not the cold‑blooded killers that the public had made them out to be. They simply had a job to do and they were more than dedicated to this particular cause. Of course, sometimes their duty meant dealing out death. When it was, it was done quickly, precisely, and without a show of emotion.

  The aircraft hanger they were assembled in was hanger '6' on the Marine Air Station at Camp Lejeune in Jacksonville, North Carolina. There they were: members of the Green Berets, more specifically, the 2nd Marine Air Wing, from Cherry Point, along with the 2nd Marine Division from Camp Lejeune, NC; the Navy SEALs, members of the Naval Special Warfare Group, based at Little Creek in Norfolk. The assembled group of SEALs were members of SEAL Team 6, and Underwater Demolition Team 21; and Army Rangers from the 1/75th based in Fort Stewart, Georgia, best known for their work in the invasion of Iraq.

  They were the best of the best the United States Armed Services had to offer. Their leader was Secretary of Defense, Admiral John 'Tex' Prescott. They along with SAC and the 82nd Airborne in Fayetteville were America's first line of defense. As unorthodox as it was for a multi‑service task force to be assembled now, it was even stranger that the offensive was to be carried out on American soil led by the Secretary of Defense.

  America's best killing machine was composed of sons and brothers, fathers and neighbors. There were a few old salts that had seen action in the first Gulf War, but the rest were road-tested in Iraq and Afghanistan. As disparate as the assemblage was, there were common bonds that bound them into a cohesive fraternity—each had a deep and unwavering love for their country and a commitment to honor, courage, and the American way of life. They had an unspoken duty to their loved‑ones, friends and to their fellow countrymen. The land that they loved and the principles that it was founded on would be there for their children's children. They also had a heartfelt responsibility to put their lives on the line to strike swiftly and severely.

  Admiral 'Tex' Prescott stepped to the podium. He was a fit and distinguished man with hair shot with gray, granite-jawed and granite-willed. He studied his elite group with a pride usually reserved for fathers. He looked into the faces of the multi‑insignia, multi‑decorated, multi‑clothed group, and was sorry that many would not be alive after this exercise was over.

  "Men, I know many of you have traveled far to be with us today." All eyes were on the Admiral as he spoke. "Many of you have left behind wives and families, friends and loved‑ones. I also know I don't have to explain to you the enemy we have to eradicate. But what I would like to explain is how we're going to kill the son 'o bitches!"

  Wild cheers and whistles sprang forth from the men.

  "And to kill them, you have to know them, and gentlemen that's what this assembly is for." The men hung on his every word. "You cannot, I repeat, cannot treat these things like human beings. They are not. They are ruthless. They'd like nothing better than to tear your head off. Or worse, infect you with their goddamn disease and make you one of them. You might even have to consider the possibility of shooting each other if you get turned.”

  The Admiral paused to survey their faces to make sure his urgency was getting through to them. The Navy Seals were in their dress whites‑‑not a requirement, but out of respect for Tex Prescott, the person who did more for them in their 70‑plus year existence, than any other. The main offensive would be at their home base. The military, especially the Navy had been hit hard, many lost family and friends to the creatures known as the Apocs.

  And they wanted revenge.

  Admiral Prescott pressed on: "It doesn't look like I have to reiterate the need to use extreme caution. What you do need, however, is an expert, a man who has studied these beasts from the beginning. Here's the director of the Center for Biological Warfare at Fort Derrick, Maryland, Dr. Angus Puck."

  Puck rose slowly from his folding chair at the rear of the podium. He thought the Admiral's introduction might have warranted applause from the men. The only sound he heard was the noise his shoes made on the temporary riser on his way to the lectern. He was perspiring profusely. As he carefully laid out his notes he noticed he was conspicuously, the only person dressed in civilian clothes. Even Admiral Prescott donned a flight suit. His dark gray wool suit clung to his legs, his shirt was soaked and plastered to his back. He hadn't planned for the ninety‑one degree temperature. The humidity was making him feel faint. Despite the heat his hands were cold and clammy. He even felt a shiver as he prepared to speak.

  "It has been my opportunity to be part of the study of the MDR‑V6 virus from the beginning," he said. There was an annoying squeal in the microphone. "The virus attacks in much the same way as rabies. Only instead of being limited to the central nervous system and the brain, the whole body is ultimately consumed.

  "Your adversaries’ enigmatic tendency toward violence stems from the MDR‑V6 effect on the brain. The virus manifests itself in the right frontal lobe and in area known as the medial frontal gyrus, and for all practical purposes, this part of the brain dies out. This area, as well as an area called the hypothalamus are the locations known to be the centers of the mind in which memory as well as inhibitions are centered. These are the areas where the virus thrives. I have performed autopsies where this section is observed to be a purplish instead of the normal gray.”

  Puck looked out to the assembled soldiers and was impressed with their attention, their lives depended on it.

  "Most of the Apocs you will encounter will be nothing more than a primal beast. Actually I misled you when I said the areas of the brain died‑‑they don’t, they change. Through autopsies I've found that these infected purple regions grow like a rapidly spreading cancer. They take over other regions, often times growing to twice their normal size. This would explai
n the misshapen heads of some of the Apocs. Now I was correct in saying that memory and inhibitions die out, but these two human qualities are replaced by at least two others than are not so inherently human. They change and it's this change we now know is what is responsible for the Apoc's ability to display varying degrees of psychic adroitness. And the other abnormality is their unparalleled rejuvenative powers. Powers that are unequaled anywhere else in nature."

  The look of bewilderment on the troop's faces caused Puck to pause.

  "What I'm trying to say is this: they'll play mind games with you, and will be damn hard, almost impossible to kill."

  A cacophony of muffled voices filled the aircraft hanger. Most of the men looked as if they doubted what he said. The remaining few gave off neutral emotions.

  Puck moved from the rostrum to the rear of the riser and wheeled a life‑size human silhouette to the front. It had the head and throat areas marked in red.

  Stepping back to the microphone he said; "For those of you picked to go in to do hand-to-hand, pay close attention. Only a head or neck shot will effectively stop a person infected with the MDR‑V6 Virus. A shot anywhere else will do nothing more than slow them down. In fact, a shot to any other part of an Apoc's body might make matters worse. When an Apoc's skin is penetrated it oozes a yellow liquid. If this yellow liquid gets in a cut, in your mouth, your eyes, or even on your skin in sufficient quantities, chances are you'll be infected. Therefore, hand-to-hand combat is to be avoided if possible.

  "I've discussed it in great detail with Admiral Prescott and here are some countermeasures that you'll be using." He picked up an olive‑drab helmet and held it up. "This is the special headgear you'll be wearing. Notice the full face shield to avoid contact with the virus. It also has the same properties as night‑vision goggles." He displayed the plastic shield.

  "The helmet is also a kevlar plastic, bulletproof, much like the vest you'll be wearing. But I'm getting ahead of myself here. There's more to this helmet than it just being bulletproof. Each helmet will be outfitted with a receiver and transmitter connected to the communication's net as well as a head’s up, 3-D display. In addition to the orders and operation updates‑‑we will feed music loudly into your ears. Through exhaustive testing at the Center we've discovered that music with a certain beat‑‑a syncopating beat‑‑upsets the nerve flow patterns between the heart and the brain. In other words, this music will effectively command your attention. This has been proven in the lab to negate the Apoc's power of mind control. We’ve found that songs from a young lady named Kate Perry work near-perfectly.