by Morgan Bell
“Dr. Baxter, you have proven to be an exceptional individual. You’ve survived and, as it happens, you are useful to us,” Commander Halle Preston said.
Jamie said nothing.
“Dismissed,” Commander Preston said.
The two soldiers disappeared from the room leaving Jamie alone with Commander Preston.
“I’ve reviewed your file. You are uniquely situated to help us in the current crisis.”
“How?” Jamie asked.
“I’m going to show you classified data. I want your undivided attention.”
There was a long silence. Jamie finally said, “Yes ma’am.”
“On October 17th in Kensington, England, the virus was first identified,” she said.
The lights in the room dimmed and a screen on the far wall lit up. The scene was a street where a group of people were arguing. The scene rapidly descended into a violent confrontation with people beating one another.
“Do you know what this is?”
“A fight involving rival football fans?”
The video now showed clearly destroyed bodies, with limbs missing, torsos ripped open, parts of faces shattered, still moving and trying to send messages on tech. Two badly injured people stood screaming hysterically as police and emergency responders were froze by the unspeakable spectacle.
“No, they were all fans of the same club. They were attacking one another for not being serious enough fans after their club’s loss. Of forty-six people involved in the fight only two survived after the arrival of police and emergency care staff. It seems forty-four of them were dead before the fight even began.”
“This is Dr. Wickham,” Commander Preston said.
The next image was of Dr. Wickham. At first he appeared as Jamie remembered him, an older man with pink and red skin, white hair and wire rim glasses. Jamie gasped at the next image. Dr. Wickham was pale, eyes red rimmed , hair falling out. The final image of Dr. Wickham nauseated Jamie.
“That is how we found him when our team followed up on missing personnel from the department you were covering that day.”
It was a skull on which the skin was gray, waxy and tightly stretched; if there were eyes, they were peering out from dry leather slits and the hands and arms, that protruded rudely from a badly stained shirt, were still moving; they were typing.
“Our best estimate is that you’ve been receiving constant exposure to the Kensington virus for more than a year,” Commander Preston said, bringing up another image.
It was a picture of his ex-wife. Bright, vibrant, hair auburn and gray. The familiar sneer on her face. The next was of her gray, skin taut and her thin fingers typing.
“From two sources,” Commander Preston continued.
The image was of his sister on her panel, typing a text message. The next was her gray, mouth slack, typing messages. The final image was of her, skin taut over her skull, teeth bared as she typed on the phone.
“They were infected by the Kensington virus.”
“They’re sick?”
“They’re dead. They have been for quite some time. Our response team just disposed of what was left to stop their transmissions.”
Jamie was silent.
His ex-wife was dead. Relief. His sister was dead. Ambivalence. There was a virus that was responsible for this. Minor tremor.
“How?” he finally asked.
“We are trying to figure that out. Watch this part carefully.”
The image was of a woman in her early thirties on social media posting messages and reading posts. There was a message that appeared on the screen and then the image was of the woman’s brain.
“Watch this part,” Commander Preston said.
The brain was lit up. Slowly the brain went from a Christmas tree to a single light near the brain stem, then resurged until 25% of the brain was lit up.
“That was a glucose uptake study. It followed the subject through near brain death to partial resurgence.”
“Near brain death?”
“All but 10% of the brain ceases to function. Then, as you can see, about 20-25% of the brain comes back online. It does so after the victim is dead.” Commander Preston explained.
“Dead?”
“Deceased, no longer among the living.”
“Then what?”
The camera returned to a view of the patient who was a light shade of pink, talking and texting on a cell phone.
“Who did the study?”
“Dr. Ray T. Thomas, MD, PhD.”
“I want to talk to him,” Jamie said.
“You can’t.”.
“Why not?’
“He is dead.”
“Dead?”
“He saw the message and within two days he turned.”
“What do you mean, ‘Turned’?”
“He started texting and emailing his friends and family. He was sending the same angry messages over and over. He was sending the Kensington virus.”
“How was he sending it?”
“A message, text, email, flash message.”
“But how?”
“We don’t know,” Commander Halle said. The lights in the room brightened and Commander Halle retrieved a file from the drawer.
It was odd; it was manila and had papers in it. Paper and print had been illegal for at least ten years.
The commander followed Jamie’s gaze. “It’s been a necessary precaution. From what little we do understand about the virus it can only remain alive in data streams. It cannot be contracted when the messages are printed. It can’t be transmitted from just being in their presence. They can only transmit it by a message. We don’t know why. But for now we are using print copies to protect ourselves when we review the messages.”
Jamie picked up the file. It felt odd to touch paper. The last time he had touched it had been in high school on a field trip to the science museum. He read over the messages. Thumbing through one after another he found they were a list of complaints. They reminded him of the messages from his now dead ex-wife – he felt a definite sense of elation – and his dead sister; the ambivalence persisted as it was clear she had probably been dead most of the last three months, based on what he had seen. There were differences in the messages, there was the person that they were sent to, there were slightly different grievances. But all of them were things your average fifteen year old would ignore.
“Do you have any other profiles on this?” he asked the commander.
“Profiles?”
“We know the virus needs a live data stream – email, flash, text – but what else do we know?”
“Not much, that’s why we want you on board,” she replied.
“Yes, but are there more cases among men or women?”
“Statistically they’re the same.”
“What’s the oldest case?” he asked.
“Let me check,” she said, and typed in a request for data.
A second passed. “According to our records we have not had a case over the age of fifty-five.”
“And the youngest?”
“Just a moment. Twenty, the youngest we have had is twenty. “
“So we have a data virus that hits the vital age ranges. It does not hit the very young or the very old.”
“And?”
“Most communicable diseases hit the immuno-compromised; the oldest and the youngest. The middle range – young adults to older adults – have more effective immune systems; they get sick but tend to survive. Whatever this thing is, it goes after the one group that should have survivors. What happened to the two from the original Kensington outbreak?”
“The two?”
“The two that survived the fight.”
“They survived the fight, but they turned within twenty-four hours. They received messages, as did the responding officers and emergency service personnel.”
Jamie was silent.
“We only have one survivor that we know of who has been exposed to this virus directly and repeatedly.”
“Who?”
“You.” She passed over a set of tags for him.
“What are these?” he asked, looking at the multi-colored plates on a chain.
“Your security clearance, access badges and assignment designator. From now on you are military property and assigned to our division.”
Jamie put on the chain of tags, “What now?”
“Now we have an appointment at the fort.”
CHAPTER 4
FORT MEAD, MARYLAND, DATE CLASSIFED
Four Star General Thomas Talbot was in a foul mood when Commander Halle arrived with Jamie at the Cyber Warfare Base in Fort Mead, Maryland.
“It’s 1400. I expected you two hours ago,” General Talbot barked.
“Yes sir, sorry sir. We had to wait for the CDC to finish labs to get clearance to travel,” Commander Halle said.
“Those damn civilians are chewing my ass on this one,” the general said and sat down. “So is this our golden boy?”
“He is. This is Dr. Jamie Baxter,” she informed him.
Jamie didn’t know whether to salute or offer his hand. Since he was being spoken of as a non-entity he decided to stand still.
“Any military back ground? Training?”
“File shows none,” Commander Halle confirmed.
“You ever been in a fight?” General Talbot asked.
“Not that I can recall.” Jamie answered.
“Never? Even in school? No bullies that you knocked on their ass or kicked your ass?” the general asked.
“We had the Behavior Amplification Displacers in our schools.” Jamie said.
“B.A.D. was a damn stupid idea,” the general said. “Bunch of wannabe thugs beating themselves. It bred out the survival instinct. We need bullies, they keep us strong and our reflexes sharp.”
Jamie couldn’t disagree with the general more, but B.A.D. also helped to suppress dissent. So all he could do was stand mute.
“Married?” the general asked.
“Divorced, sir.”
“There might be hope for you yet,” the general asserted. “In life Jamie there are always conflicts. What decides victory is the little things. I’m telling you this because the way you test someone comes down to a very simple proposition.”
“And that is, sir?” Jamie asked.
“Sink or swim.”
Jamie’s world went black as strong hands seized him and a hood was forced down over his head.
∞
“General, I must protest,” Commander Halle said as they stood in the observation bay platform.
“Duly noted,” the general remarked.
“He’s our best chance…”
“He’s a useless exception if we can’t do anything with him. The blood tests are negative. Genetic profile is unremarkable. So whatever it is that keeps him from getting the virus isn’t something we can copy, bottle or distribute. That means we need to find out if he is the real deal.”
“Dr. Baxter,” the general’s voice boomed as he spoke into a microphone..
Jamie stood, trussed, restrained and held by two pairs of hands, the hood still firmly pulled over his head.
“Sorry, take the hood off of him,” the general commanded.
Jamie was momentarily blinded by the lights. As his vision cleared he saw he was in a large bay with white walls, a tiled floor and four drains near the center of the tile floor. At the far end of the bay, thirty feet up, was a large glass observation room where the general and Commander Halle stood side by side.
“On the table behind you are a standard issue 9 mm side arm, five bullets and a standard issue field knife. In ninety seconds this room will have twelve turned Kensington virus carriers in it. They will all have your cell number, email accounts and glasses.”
“Glasses?” Jamie asked.
A pair of goggles were strapped onto Jamie’s head and the lenses lit up with a standby notice that his data stream experience was being customized. Jamie felt the hands release the restraints and the soldiers ran backwards out of the bay, securing the door behind them.
Jamie spun around to see the table. “What am I supposed to do?”
“Survive,” the general snapped.
There was a loud alarm noise, a red light flashed and at the far end of the bay a double door appeared as a seam in the far white wall. Then they came in. They were shuffling slowly. Their movements were oddly grotesque, like a parody of walking and living. Some, whose skin was gray and cracking from the tension, groaned. Others who were still mobile, but devoid of the colors of life, spoke; all of them had panels and even the most wizened fingers were racing across the screens spelling out messages.
“Damn it,” Jamie groaned, as the first message appeared on his glasses.
It was a classic flame from his sister about her childhood, their parents, her marriage and her family. Except it wasn’t his sister but was one of the twelve people in this room, whose name was Sally. Another message appeared, this time via panel text. It was an ‘angry ex’ rant. The author was named Phil and he was berating someone, not Jamie, about the way they were treating him. Soon the messages were coming in back to back. The goggles let him know he had texts, emails and social media awaiting his attention. He tried to press his eyes closed but he could feel the messages and hear the groans and the verbalized hatred of the shuffling, texting monstrosities he was locked in with.
“They can go on forever,” the general pointed out. “You can’t.”
Jamie turned to the corner table. He struggled to walk the short distance to it. He picked up the gun, released the clip and placed the five bullets in the clip. He returned the clip to the gun, drew back the receiver and the first round was chambered. He picked up the knife in his left hand. It was heavy, the blade was long and double sided, coming together at a point.
“My mother still doesn’t understand what a bitch she…” A texting figure complained.
Jamie whirled about, placed the gun against the thing’s forehead and hesitated.
“My ex-husband is an abusive, bullying…” Jamie fired.
The thing’s skull exploded and it crumbled to the floor, still texting its message. Jamie stamped the phone out of the dead thing’s hands. Then he moved forward. Four more shots, four more of the things dropped, heads gone, hands still typing away. Four more phones destroyed under Jamie’s boots.
Jamie felt the pressure of the messages ease slightly and he moved into the thick of the remaining seven. With violent precision he punctured each skull with his knife, then kicked away the phones until they were all in the far corner.
“What was the time on that?” the general asked.
“Two minutes seventeen seconds to destroy all twelve and their phones,” a soldier reported.
“What is he doing now?”
“Cutting off the hands, sir. “
“Get him into debriefing and get him a uniform,” the general said. “We’re going hunting.”
∞
It had taken four soldiers to haul Jamie off of the bodies where he was sawing through wrists with his knife. Once he realized who was grabbing him he did not resist, but he did look back at the pile of quivering bodies with an undisguised loathing. In a gun metal green room they strapped him to a steel chair that was bolted to the floor. They took off the goggles, which were registering no incoming messages, and then they left. He sat and waited.
General Talbot, accompanied by Commander Halle, came into the room. The general was looking at Jamie with interest. Jamie was staring at the far wall.
“How did you know to shoot them in the head?” the general asked.
“I didn’t,” Jamie said.
“But you shot five of them in the head and stabbed seven in the skull with your knife.”
“Yes.”
“You hesitated on the first one; what happened there?”
“I’d never killed before.” Jamie shrugged.
“Why did you start?”
Jamie thought about this for
a moment. “She was complaining about her ex. It reminded me of my ex-wife. She sent me messages like that.”
“Then you fired.”
“Yes, then I fired.”
“What were you thinking when you did it?”
“Which time?”
“Any time.”
Jamie hesitated.
“What were you thinking?”
“I wasn’t.”
“What…”
“I saw my ex-wife,” Jamie admitted. “I saw her sending me those messages still. I knew you couldn’t just kill them, you couldn’t just destroy the brain, you had to get the technology away from them.”
The general was silent for a moment. “Dr. Baxter, whatever you are, you are a natural. It took us three months to come up with the head, hands and tech protocol. You didn’t waste a bullet or a motion. The only thing you wasted time on was the hands. If you had a bigger knife you could’ve done that, easily. How would you feel about helping us hunt down the KVs and find the source of this thing?”
“I’m in, but on one condition.”
“What’s that?”
“I get a machete.”
Jamie, despite his bravado, collapsed moments after the general dismissed him. Hands caught him before he fell and he felt his body being lifted and carried away. His body, not an ideal specimen prior to his induction into Cyber Operations, was atrophied and his joints inflamed. The only comfort he had as his mind receded into the darkness of exhaustion was the satisfaction of having finally acted. In that place where dreams unload the luggage of life Jamie could see his ex-wife among the army of the texting undead. He was thrashing his way through a sea of texting, complaining bodies, sending heads, hands and tech spinning away. Moving purposefully toward the one, the first, the unrelenting. When he arrived there he made no preamble, no statement. He thrust with precision, he sent heads, hands and text on their separate way with no satisfaction. Just the knowledge that what he had done was a mercy; even if it was only a mercy to himself and the rest of the world. Jamie’s eyes flickered open briefly to see a fluid dripping into his arm through an IV. Then there was dreamless sleep.
As before, Jamie’s world became a series of brief, vivid moments, separated by long gaps of unconsciousness. Of the more memorable moments were the ones where he awoke screaming, his body on fire. Med techs, and others – who he hoped to be qualified physicians - hovered over him and spoke in hushed tones. Decisions were made and something warm and soothing sent his burning and frayed nerves back to the land of peace. Then there came the moment when he woke to a world without pain, without noise and without hovering faces. Jamie looked around, the room was operating theater green and the bed he was on was not a bed, but a table. It was the sort of table upon which surgeries were done. Jamie was alone, strapped to the table naked, except for a sheet covering him .
