The Killing Floor

by Craig DiLouie

  The irony of his situation almost makes him laugh. Despite his claustrophobic terrors, deep down he believed he was in the safest place in the country. Then again, he also thought the White House was safe, until it wasn’t.

  Boots clomp in the corridor, growing in volume. Instead of a tray of food being thrust through the slot, the lock rattles. Someone is coming in.

  Travis realizes how little he will be missed after he is gone. He has no wife or children, no other family, no real friends, not even a hobby. A quiet academic at the University of Chicago, he wrote a paper about Iran’s potential nuclear ambitions that found favor with hawks in the Walker Administration. After Walker won his second term, his people tapped Travis to join the Office of Science and Technology Policy. Travis had always hoped his study of nonproliferation would earn him some type of notoriety, but he never expected it would lead to a chain of events culminating in his execution by a junta now controlling what’s left of the government.

  All the knowledge he gained, leading to nothing. What has he done? Faced with the prospect of his death, he feels like he never lived. Is his life worth so much more than the woman the Secret Serviceman threw out of the helicopter?

  His one regret, watching her be left behind to die, will go to the grave with him. It was the one time in his life he ever felt real empathy for another human being.

  The door groans open, letting in a draft of air. Travis blinks at the figure dressed in black.

  “Time to pay the bill, Doc.”

  Just as he feared, it is Fielding.

  ♦

  Travis submits to handcuffs, his face burning with shame. Fielding grins; the son of a bitch is enjoying this. Travis braces for a lecture about karma, but it never comes. Instead, Fielding orders him to walk down the corridor. As he walks, Travis fantasizes about turning and knocking his captor unconscious, and then escaping to the surface, or making a brilliant case for keeping him alive, after which Fielding puts his own life on the line to help him escape the General’s justice.

  Any resistance would be a futile gesture with a man like Fielding, however, who would likely respond by beating him senseless and frogmarching him to his execution. Head bowed, Travis keeps moving, fuming at his lack of options.

  “Stop here, Doc.”

  Fielding slides his gloved hand under Travis’s armpit and pulls him toward a metal door, which he opens with a mocking gesture of welcome.

  Under the glare of fluorescent lights, three broad-shouldered military officers in camouflage fatigues sit behind a desk, their backs ramrod straight. Their gray-flecked crew cuts, stern white faces and astronaut builds make them all look the same.

  Fielding lifts Travis’s shoulder again, forcing him to walk on his toes to a simple steel chair facing the desk. Travis notices the black stains on the concrete floor under the chair and stifles a yelp of panic. Fielding shoves him into it and remains standing somewhere behind him.

  The officer in the center places his elbows on the desktop and rubs his leathery hands together before clapping once to call the meeting to order.

  “Dr. Price, I am Colonel Slater. This is Major McMahon, and this is Major Buckner. We have asked you to come here today because the General thinks you’re a person of interest. So they tell me you’re a scientist. I’m curious. Tell me, Dr. Price: What do you think of our current situation?”

  Travis blinks. “You mean—?”

  “I mean in the country.”

  Travis studies the man’s face briefly, searching for clues about what he wants to hear for an answer, but gives up. The soldier’s rigid expression tells him nothing.

  “I think we have less than a year before the winter finishes us or them.”

  Slater regards each of the men next to him in turn before returning his hard gaze to Travis. “See? I told you he was smart. Please elaborate, Dr. Price.”

  “We’re putting everything into winning Washington, but it’s a morale boost at best, not something we need to fight a war,” Travis mutters, trying to muster the energy to speak. “We should retrench in regions that produce things we need, such as the grain belt. We should draft people to fight instead of herding them into refugee camps. We should put those who cannot fight to work rebuilding industries we shipped overseas years ago. We need to be able to make everything ourselves now, weapons and ammunition in particular, and we need to do it fast. All fiat currency is worth nothing. Goods are becoming scarce. The government is going to have to start paying in room and board and some type of new money based on a gold standard, and it might have to employ almost everyone in the country for a few years. But even if we did all of this, and did it now, we cannot sustain even what little we have saved. When the winter comes, we will suffer another mass die off. Our one hope is it will be harsher for the Infected so we have a fighting chance in the spring. We’re so occupied with getting things normal again we fail to realize that no matter what happens, Infection has already permanently changed the world.”

  He stops talking, hoping at least something he said was pleasing to this man who holds his life in his fist. The officers chew on his speech.

  “So you think our current strategy pretty much sucks,” Slater says.

  “I did not use that word,” Travis says. “And I may not have all of the facts.”

  The officer laughs. “It’s even worse than you know. There were actually people in the government who did not want the military to be recalled. They were worried about our bases overseas. It’s easier to leave, they said, than to ever return.”

  Travis realizes he is expected to say something. “I don’t think the military strategy ultimately matters.”

  Slater’s leans forward. “Why do you say that?”

  “Ultimately, bullets cannot win this fight, only science can.”

  “Ah, right. The elusive cure, the Holy Grail.”

  “Or a vaccine, or perhaps even a weapon.”

  Slater smiles grimly at that. “Dr. Price, I’d like to show you something.”

  The door opens; a soldier pushes a projector into the room on a wheeled cart. Crouching, the man taps a few keys on a laptop, which produces a grainy video image on the wall showing a compound filled with soldiers and workers in hazmat suits. Men load body bags onto a truck while others unload salvaged panes of glass from another truck. Another figure in a hazmat suit feeds clothes from a garbage bag into a fire burning in a metal drum. Travis does not know who these people are or where they are other than they are somewhere on the surface.

  The video has no sound. The room is quiet except for one of the officers clearing his throat. Travis can hear Fielding, still standing behind him, breathe through his nose.

  Sensing this is some type of test, Travis studies the image intently. He blinks in surprise; a man has collapsed and other figures race across the compound to see what’s wrong. Half of them never make it, falling as they run. All around the compound, people topple to the ground and lie twitching. Travis recoils, making his chair squeak loudly; it is like the Screaming. The survivors gesture at each other. One of the soldiers is shooting the victims in the head. Others gather around, waving at him to stop, unaware the rest of the fallen are returning to their feet.

  “This is FEMA 41,” Slater says, startling him. “A refugee camp in southern Ohio, yesterday morning, at about oh-six-twenty.”

  The video switches to a view of people scrambling around a lot filled with campers and trailers. People have been living here for some time; the space in front of each camper is cluttered with tarps and coolers and other junk laid out like a never-ending yard sale. Two of the figures tackle a third and fall into a fire pit.

  “They never had a chance,” Slater adds.

  “So it would appear,” Travis mutters. The violence is shocking; he swallows hard to keep from throwing up.

  The video changes again, showing a mob of Infected surging over a retreating knot of police firing at them with shotguns. The bottom of a helicopter comes into view. Dozens of figures fly apart,
filling the air with body parts. The image shakes. Smoke obscures the camera’s eye just before the picture cracks and turns to electronic snow.

  This is not satellite imagery, Travis realizes. They had cameras at the camp.

  “I think Dr. Price gets the idea. Corporal, skip to the next part.”

  “Sir,” the soldier says, tapping keys.

  The video changes to a view of an empty field cut by an old road. A vehicle lies on its side in the distance. A man enters the image, staggering across the mud while glancing over his shoulder repeatedly. Seconds later, he exits the image on the right.

  “This is right outside the eastern gate,” Slater tells him. “Now wait for it.”

  Travis watches a trickle of people wander onto the scene in the same direction as the running man. The trickle becomes a flood. From their jerky movements and the way they stumble into each other, Travis can tell they are infected. The image fills with a massive crowd following the running man. Hundreds, then thousands.

  “In every major camp in the country where we sent troops, we set up a sophisticated video surveillance system feeding data to local commanders and analysis teams here at Special Facility,” Slater explains. “Our commanders use this data for rapid detection and response to outbreaks and riots. The cameras on the wall teach us how to improve camp defenses. In this case, it gave us a blueprint for how we lost more than a hundred thousand people to Wildfire.”

  “That man in the compound, the first who fell,” Travis says. “Was he the index case?”

  “You mean was he the first person in the camp who showed symptoms of Wildfire?”

  “Yes,” Travis says. “The primary case. Victim zero.”

  “He’s the first one who showed symptoms, that’s right,” Slater tells him. “But not the first who caught the bug.”

  “Are you suggesting an Infected entered the camp who was asymptomatic?”

  “Like a Typhoid Mary, you mean?”

  “Yes. A carrier.”

  “The analysis team narrowed it down to a single uniform mike—an unidentified male. This man entered the camp a short time before Wildfire appeared. And he was the last to leave. That was him we just saw.”

  Travis stands, unable to contain his excitement. “But how? How did he spread it to so many people so fast?” Other questions race through his mind: Why didn’t the Infected attack him? Why are they following him?

  He feels Fielding’s hand on his shoulder, pushing him back into his chair.

  Slater shrugs. “We don’t know. The important thing right now is to evaluate him for response. We know he is a threat. What we want to gauge is his potential value as an asset.”

  “If that man is a carrier,” Travis says, “he may carry a pure strain of the Wildfire Agent, which offers amazing research opportunities.”

  “You see, Dr. Price, that’s just the thing we’re curious about,” Slater tells him. “From where we sit, we can’t tell if he represents a cure, or whether he’s a superweapon created by the virus.”

  The corporal brings up another image. Glowing blotches of red sprawl across a black landscape, like diseased cells under a microscope. Travis realizes he is looking at a thermal image of a large area of ground, taken from the air. The blotches are large crowds.

  “As you can see,” the Colonel continues, “the uniform mike has built an army for himself. They were all moving southeast as of an hour ago, when they stopped and surrounded the farmhouse you see at the center.”

  “Does he know what he is?” Travis asks.

  “We don’t know anything about his range of free will. He might be a mindless agent of Wildfire, some poor guy who can’t understand why everyone he meets falls down and turns into a monster, or something in between.”

  “We need to study him. This man’s blood. . .”

  Slater points at the thermal image and whistles, imitating a falling artillery round.“Boom,” he says.

  “. . . can end Wildfire,” Travis finishes awkwardly, confused.

  “The Chiefs want to drop some bombs and put an immediate end to the threat. That’s the smart move, don’t you think?”

  “You—you can’t be serious!”

  “I’m dead serious. He’s a little over two hundred miles from Washington, Dr. Price. If we do nothing and he shows up with a hundred thousand Infected tagging along, we’ll lose everything. Even if he shows up without them, he could infect our troops.”

  “You don’t know where he’s going to go.”

  “Doesn’t matter. The region is filled with refugee camps. The man’s a threat to us wherever he goes.”

  “I know it’s easy to see this man as a threat—”

  “A threat?” Slater laughs. “He’s a walking, talking biological superweapon, Dr. Price. Less than a day’s drive from our front lines.”

  “Colonel. Sir. You have to listen to me. As far as we know, this man is a unique mutation of Wildfire. He’s the chance we’ve been waiting for.”

  “What kind of chance are we talking about?”

  “To beat Wildfire, we need to characterize it,” Travis explains. “To characterize it, we need to identify it. We haven’t been able to do that yet. This man’s blood might be the key to a vaccine or even a cure.”

  “What about a weapon? A virus to kill the virus and anyone or anything that’s got it?”

  Travis considers this, and nods. “Yes. That’s possible as well. A weapon, or maybe a repellent.”

  “You’re sure, then, he’s got such a thing in his blood? You’re one hundred percent positive he could produce material we need to win?”

  “Of course not,” Travis says.

  “Well, see, that means all you’ve got is a theory.”

  “A hypothesis, yes. If he does carry a pure sample, though, it could end all this.”

  “We’re not even sure we can get him,” Slater tells him. “Since we don’t know how he spreads Wildfire, will a standard MOPP suit be enough to keep someone from catching the bug from him? Not to mention how we would separate him from a hundred thousand crazies.”

  “It’s worth the risk,” Travis says.

  “For who?”

  “You could send a—what do you call it, a search and destroy. . .”

  “Snatch and grab?”

  “Right,” Travis nods. “A snatch and grab team. Special Forces. Navy SEALS.”

  Slater says, “Dr. Price, I hope you’re listening to me carefully. There’s no way I would risk our best men on your shit theory.”

  “Well,” Travis says, stunned.

  “Do you play poker, Dr. Price?”

  “No, I don’t.” He enjoys cards, but not the social aspect of most card games.

  “The General plays. Damn good, too. He’s a man who likes to hedge his bets. That means if there’s an even tiny chance you’re right, he will want to give it a shot. If he does, we’ll pull a squad or two off the line and drop them between Typhoid Jody and Washington. It will be their job to find this guy, grab him and bring him to an isolation facility.”

  “Perfect,” Travis says, happy to see any effort made. “Since you’ve identified the carrier, do you have any records on him? Anything would help.”

  “We have no idea who he is.”

  “But you called him Jody.”

  Slater laughs, and even the stony-faced officers flanking him crack smiles. “Jody does not actually exist, Dr. Price. It’s a nickname for the Infected going around. More military speak.” He chuckles again. “Let’s talk about why you’re here. If the General decides to send some of our people, you will go with them as mission science adviser.”

  “Me? I’m not a soldier. I don’t know how to fight the Infected.”

  “Who does? But millions are somehow managing. Now it’s your turn to step up.”

  “But you’ll need me here to run the tests after we pick him up,” Travis pleads. “You’re not being very logical about this.”

  “I heard you lost your lunch in front of the President of the United
States when he asked you what was going to happen after he nuked one of our own cities,” Slater says. “I almost admire you for that. It might have been the only sane thing to do. But it tells me something about you. It tells me you’re a weak sister. You want to see the epidemic put to an end but only if you don’t have to get hurt doing it. So let me put my offer to you another way, Dr. Price: Now would be a very good time to make yourself indispensable to the war effort. Do or die, so to speak.”

  Travis nods dully. He’d forgotten his knowledge of the coup makes him a liability to the new regime. “I understand.”

  “You’ll have forty-eight hours to find the carrier,” Slater informs him. “Captain Fielding will go with you. Bring him alive, bring him dead, bring his left foot—I don’t care what, as long as you get what you need. If at any point it appears to the Captain you will fail, we will drop every bomb we’ve got on Typhoid Jody and his friends, and the Captain will tie up any final loose ends in the field. Do I need to explain what that means?”

  “No,” Travis mutters.

  “Don’t look so sad about it, Dr. Price. On the bright side, if you succeed, you will get more resources than you dreamed possible. If your theory is right—shit, Congress will probably award you the Medal of Honor. People will name their babies after you. You’ll never pay taxes again as long as you live. I’ll give you a big, fat kiss myself.”

  The officers smile again, like sharks.

  “How does that sound to you, Dr. Price?” the Colonel asks. “Does its logic appeal?”

  “It’s a great opportunity,” Travis says, feeling sick. “Thank you.”

  “See? I told you. Smart guy.”

  Travis shudders as he realizes he is about to be released from his imaginary terrors down here in this underground prison and face the very real terrors ravaging the surface. He feels Fielding’s hand slip under his armpit, lifting him from his chair and propelling him toward the door.

  I’m still alive. They’re not going to shoot me, at least not right away. I have a chance to win this. I have a chance to survive.

  “We’ll let you know what the General decides,” Slater calls after him.