by JK Franks
“Sir, I don’t have any. We’ve tried to sterilize everything from here to the labs. The only things living that we can see are those damn vultures that keep going in after the bodies. Our gunners are killing them off, but . . . well, I’m sure some have gotten past us. Birds, rats, fleas, who knows what else, they’re all getting out. The plague is not contained. The hot zone is expanding beyond our sights whether we know it or not. It’s a matter of days until we start hearing of other infected zones outside of here. Genghis has cooked, bleached, irradiated, exposed the test samples to everything we have. Nothing kills it completely. I’m not even sure we could kill it all with a nuke. Whatever these guys cooked up down there is one vicious motherfucker. Sir, I would suggest you talk to Genghis again, see if he has any new ideas.”
Genghis was not much more helpful. The man was obviously exhausted and irritated at being summoned from his lab to brief his commander. He sat awkwardly on the uncomfortable stool.
“Chief, I don’t know what else to tell you, we’re not even sure if it’s viral or bacterial. HQ thinks the closest thing we have to it resembles Mycobacterium tuberculosis, but to me it seems much more primitive, ancient even. The way it behaves is more like a prion . . . it affects the protein structures in the spinal cord and brain.”
This man was one of the most distinguished scientists in his field. Back in the States, he would be running his own research lab. A medical doctor with advanced degrees in biology and chemical engineering and state of the art field equipment, Genghis was pretty much unquestionably - the best they had. It amazed Skybox that he worked for P-Group when he could easily be getting rich in a biotech company back home. “Doc, what’s a prion?”
Genghis pulled the shemagh tactical scarf away from his neck, wiped the grit from his face and chin and tossed it on the table. “Think —mad cow disease.”
Skybox looked at him, puzzled. “Our men are dying from mad cow disease?”
“No . . .” Genghis sighed, clearly frustrated and exhausted. “No, mad cow disease is one of the better known neurodegenerative disorders which is caused by a prion. While viruses or bacteria are the more common infectious agents, prions are a third. We don’t understand much about them, but they are always fatal, typically causing a form of encephalitis—inflammation of the brain. Prions literally fold and reshape proteins in the brain, with unpredictable results.”
Skybox nodded his head, only partially understanding. Genghis paused and helped himself to a bottle of water from the cooler before sitting back down. He might as well take his time; what else was there left for him to try in the lab?
“Maybe a little history would help. The lethality of this pathogen appears to be over ninety percent, which makes this an incredibly hot disease. By hot we’re referring to how fast it spreads and how quickly it kills. Those two parameters are usually in opposition. If a disease kills too fast, then normally, that limits how far and how fast it can spread . . ..
“Most global pandemics we know of are much less lethal than this. Bubonic plague or the Spanish flu were, at best, thirty to fifty percent lethal. See, a disease which quickly kills off all the potential hosts leaves it with nowhere else to go, so a hot infection’s zone is normally a small, well-contained one. This doesn’t seem to be the case here, however, because this thing is adapting, mutating. The newer victims are showing very different symptoms to those first infected. And the original samples we took three weeks ago are different to what we see now. That’s why Command keeps asking for new samples. What’s more, the survivors—the ten percent—appear to be completely asymptomatic. And I have no idea why.”
Skybox flinched at the mention of samples. Genghis was referring to bodies, both alive and dead. Already, a number of his men had been sealed in vacuum sleeves to be frozen and airlifted back to the States in portable self-contained level-5 containment vessels. They looked like a stainless steel coffin to him. He looked up at Genghis. “Look, I know you’re doing your best, but if we can’t stop this, we’re all going to be samples. Give me the specifics. How can it be spread, what options do we have to slow or stop it?”
Genghis stood with what seemed to be all the energy he had and went to the board hanging on the wall of the tent. “It seems to be communicable by multiple pathways. The initial method appeared to be airborne, but thankfully, that supposition was proved false. Primarily, it was transferred by direct contact. We’ve tested it, and now it is also transmitted via blood and saliva, like rabies. It can live in a state of dormancy outside the host for long periods. We see very little degradation, so hard to say how long, but trust me, this thing was meant to survive. Also, although unlikely around here, it could be water-borne. This thing has an outer shell the viral equivalent of Kevlar.” He looked at Skybox to confirm he was following before he turned back to the board and continued.
“Inside the body, something about it changes. What we see indicates that the main infection vector is bacterial. Only that’s not completely accurate. My feeling is that this is something else. Something more closely related to an Archaea domain.” Looking over his shoulder, he saw he was losing his commander again. “Sorry, sir. Archaea are a relatively new classification of life on our planet. Single-celled microbes with no nucleus or other attributes that would classify a living organism as plant or animal—the two categories all life has been organized into ’til their discovery in the seventies. Normally, we think of them as extremophiles, living in very harsh conditions . . . think underwater volcanoes or caves that have been sealed for eons. They don’t belong to either of the other two kingdoms of life, yet they are ancient. All life may have come from them, or something like them.”
“So, these Archaea are deadly to humans?”
“Not necessarily, which is why no one seemed to be considering it. On their own, they would not be, but they possess the ability to use and manipulate other life-forms, sometimes changing those life-forms in strange ways. For instance, the tiny shrimp that live in the extreme heat of those underwater volcanoes, the black smokers deep down on the ocean floor—how are they not cooked instantly? My personal theory is that it may likely be thanks to a form of Archaea at work.”
“Okay, Genghis, but we’re not shrimp, and these Archaea aren’t assisting our survival, they’re denying it.”
“True enough, Commander, but keep in mind, this thing was engineered. If the Archaea is as ancient as we think, it may predate nearly all other life-forms. Which could also mean it’s an ancestor to other life—even all life! It may be the genetic key to the backdoor of all life! How else could it have survived so long, in such obscure places and hostile environments?
“That key—its ability to adapt and control—was likely the most intriguing factor to whatever scientist was investigating the type of bioweapon they could turn it into.
“Well, he or she has combined it with the mother of all viruses. If I’m right, the Archaea is the thing that is constantly readjusting the viral agent, something the original research scientist may not have realized in their controlled environment. The virus portion is mutating and replicating while the Archaea is looking to expand into new hosts and new environments. One of the good things about viruses has always been that they don’t often jump species. But this one can. It’s a chimera, something that should never have existed outside of nightmares.
“Sir, most infections are bacterial, viral, parasitic or fungal. This bitch is none of that, and yet it’s some parts of all of them—one mean fucking killer in a league all its own. As I said, the ancient part—the original part—could have been around for millions of years. It could be what wiped out the dinosaurs! Whoever re-engineered it, though, didn’t think that was enough. They went ahead and gave it Ironman-like super powers.”
The scientist leaned against the table and took a drink of water before he looked his commander directly in the eye. “Sir, what we have here is a nearly perfect bioweapon. Easily transferable, with a slow incubation, so enemy combatants can carry it back to vill
ages or camps, at which point, it ramps up quickly and drives the hosts insane along with all the other crazy shit. As I mentioned, it has a near ninety-one percent lethality as we speak. It’s been designed to be super-aggressive, kill large groups relatively quickly, then die out completely.”
Skybox watched as Genghis wrote all these facts on the board. “So why is it not dying out?” he asked.
Genghis thought for a moment. “Consider this possibility, sir, and admittedly it’s only a hypothesis. Life—really all life anywhere—has one real function: to survive. Typically, it does this through reproduction. Many life-forms simply die once they replicate—even human physiology begins to decline after childbearing. An ancient life-form would have to be super-effective at survival in order to expand and escape the primordial soup. It would have to replicate, fill an eco-system, expand into new territory and evolve into more and more advanced permutations. Life wants to exist, and it’s engineered to find a way. Viruses, or possibly this even more ancient Archaea, could have started it all.”
“So, all life started from an ancient virus?”
“It’s possible, yes. Not that we would necessarily identify its ancestors today as viruses, but in light of the clues, many other scientists and I say, yes, life likely evolved from a virus. Or Archaea. In other words, it’s fucking resilient.”
Skybox let out a long exhalation. His face drained of color as he considered this. “Holy shit. So, the disease is adapting, but the victims are dying. They are mutating, but they don’t survive it. If what you’re saying is accurate, shouldn’t some of them have shown signs of mutation? Shouldn’t there be an increasing survival rate?”
“Yes,” Genghis nodded, “and that’s the problem with my theory. The mortality rate and symptoms have changed very little. But we have no idea how long an Archaea might take to actually modify a host life-form. It would probably come down to the creature’s makeup. A simpler life-form might be changed in a few thousand to a few hundred-thousand years . . . more complex creatures could take millions of years. The original weaponized version…the engineered pathogen was designed with a limit to how long it could survive outside the host body. This would have been done to increase lethality, but limit spread of infection. They likely did this by tinkering with the genetic code, splicing in fragments of other DNA and RNA.
“We think it also originally had a problem replicating in colder climates. If it is indeed as old as we suppose, then the Ice Age would likely have made it go dormant or nearly extinct. In monkeying around with the code to make it withstand cooler climates, we think . . . I think they incorporated the Archaea and inadvertently gave it a hidden ability to adapt its replication process. This isn’t some computer program that will simply perform its task then shut off. It’s a living thing. To be honest, I doubt whatever mad scientist dreamt this nasty bugger up would even recognize it anymore. Anyway, it changed, morphed, grew a super suit—in short, it’s out, and it wants us dead.”
Skybox looked pained. “Okay. I actually understand a lot of what you just said. I just can’t believe those idiots would have created something so deadly.” He felt anger rising and took a moment to control it. “How do we stop it? And what the fuck is it doing? To the . . .victims?”
“You’ve seen it, heard it. It’s damn sure not natural. Our best answer is little more than a guess at this point. Since we can’t find any sedation that works reliably on the victims, we can’t get close enough to study them until they’re near death. From what we’ve witnessed, it mirrors some symptoms of rabies such as mania and hyper-excitability, followed by a persistent low-grade fever. Then something starts happening at the cellular level.
“My guess is that it is epigenetic—the victim’s base genome is being rewritten, manipulated, and with that comes unbelievable pain and . . .” he sighed heavily, “the initial onset of rage. That stage lasts several days before the bodies begin releasing shocking amounts of epinephrine into their systems, preventing them from feeling all pain. As the encephalitic symptoms begin, there is swelling in the brain as its proteins fold. The victims are only partially aware of themselves and their surroundings at this point. They appear to lack all ethical judgment and become filled with the desire to attack prey—an effective short-term method of spreading. The subjects experience acute rage, they attack violently . . . at times they kill, though more often it is simply to wound. Whatever, or whomever they attack are almost always infected in the process.”
Skybox rubbed his forehead in disbelief and groaned. “This sounds like sci-fi zombie shit.”
“Not zombies, sir,” Genghis replied. “They’re not brainless. They’re not slow. And they’re not trying to eat us, although they certainly bite. If you shoot them, they will die. You need to shoot them someplace vital, but they will die. The agent that’s driving them is primitive and efficient. It wants to grow, reproduce and survive like any form of life. Think of it more like rabies, but amped-up a hundred times. Given enough time, I think it may find a better way for replication . . . and that will be worse.”
The soldier-cum-scientist wrote two more words on the board then dropped the marker back into the tray. “Sky . . . in my opinion, while the CME might have started this, the global blackout is likely the least of our worries. This pathogen may well mean the end of the human race. Extinction, sir.” He waited a moment for a response, and when none came, he turned and walked slowly out of the tent.
Skybox heard another rage-filled scream from the Q-hut as he stared at the final words scrawled on the whiteboard: The End.
Chapter Seven
Present Day
Northern Gulf of Mexico
“AG Base, do you read, do you copy? Come in. Polo to base, come in . . . Still nothing, Jack. I don’t think it’s getting through.”
“Turn it off then, and pull down the slackline antenna, too. We gotta move, they may have already gotten a fix on the transmitter.”
He and his crew had been ducking in and out of inlets and small coves all day trying to avoid the open sea. The four men on the recently acquired and renamed Marco Polo had been making pretty meager trade stops down the coast to Louisiana. The thirty-five-foot Hike Workboat was a beast, a real find for the gang in Harris Springs. Bartos had spent two months retrofitting the craft to be less conspicuous. While it no longer looked like the coastal patrol boat it was, it certainly didn’t look like a shrimp or fishing boat, either. The man originally called to preach was now more of a merchant, trading goods from the AG up and down the coast.
With no working radar, they usually stayed moored in shallow harbors at night. That changed two nights ago, though, when they saw running lights from both the east and south heading directly for where they were anchored. They had fled into the labyrinth of rivers and bayous. They knew pirates, or whatever they wanted to be called these days, were beginning to work the coastal regions. They had heard about them mainly operating between Houston and New Orleans; the pickings over this way were pretty slim: no big towns or ports until you got to Mobile, which was under Naval control.
The cargo hold of the Marco Polo was stocked with food, bourbon, sugar and other supplies they had been trading for. One more stop down the coast for seafood, rice and ammo, and they would be done. Jack looked at his marine pilot. “Scoots, what’s your call?”
The young man removed his ball cap and wiped the top of his bald head. “I think we’re fucked either way. Dem launches dey was usin’ had to be high-speed cigarette racers or something, no way we can outrun ’em. Most likely have a mother ship out there farther back, too. Soon as we poke our head out, dey gonna close the noose on it.”
That was the problem with the end of the world. Yeah, food, fuel and porn were scarce, but you pretty much had your pick of boats, cars, houses . . . more stuff than anyone could ever have use for. “Keep us as close to shore as possible,” Jack replied. “If they have radar, I want us to look like just another sandbar. Slow drift us when you can, but let’s keep heading west.”
>
“West? You don’t wanna try for home, Preacher?”
“Nope, we got one more stop to make, and I’m counting on them having exactly what we need to make it back to Harris Springs Marina in one piece.”
“Roger that,” Scoots dropped the idling motor into gear and began to nudge her out into the channel.
“All eyes on the horizon,” Jack yelled. “We need as much warning as possible if they spot us.”
While they spotted reflections on the horizon several times, somehow, they seemed to escape detection. By late afternoon, they were feeling more confident and running full throttle toward their next destination. Jack was troubled, though; he knew the only way home was right back through the noose. If Todd had been there, they would have just taken the boat out to deep water and gone around that mess. But none of the crew were real sailors, and even Jack preferred to stay in sight of land at all times. Todd had his hands full trying to keep the AG and what was left of Harris Springs functioning, as well as looking out for DeVonte, whom he’d taken in after the boy’s family was murdered over near Mobile.
At nightfall, they anchored several miles up the Old Pearl River, which was also the state boundary between Mississippi and Louisiana. Slidell, their next stop, was still several hours farther west. As Jack studied the maps, Scoots came over to offer a suggestion. “Once we make dis last pickup, we could head straight out the Rigolets and across Lake Borgne to Bay Boudreau. Then we could leapfrog much of our way back using all those little islands for cover.”
Jack had already considered just such a move and dismissed it.
“Don’t think so, that lake is a wide stretch of open ocean, probably ten miles at least. I’m not sure why they even call it a lake, it’s just a big bay. The islands are a maze . . . the boat will be too heavy for the shallows. I don’t think we could refloat her if we got stuck, which means if we ran her aground, we’d be dead men. I also don’t think we can take on enough fuel to make it that way, assuming our friends over in Slidell still have some to trade.”
