by JK Franks
“Her name. Dr. Colton,” Todd read from some notes.
Scott looked puzzled for a moment. “Okay, yeah, well, my bet is that they discovered something—something important enough for Praetor to elevate their research to the next level. Maybe not a cure, but something promising that meant that working with inert material in Florida was no longer viable, so they moved them to a remote station to continue. I don’t know, but that seems to make the most sense to me.”
Bartos looked up from the chart map he had been studying. “Todd, what does this have to do with us? I mean, aside from Kaylie wanting her boyfriend back, why is this any of our problem?”
“For several reasons, my friends.” Todd sat down and stretched his arms wide before crossing them behind his head. “Commander Garret wants our take on it. Specifically, he wants Scott's opinion, since he was the person that first brought the virus to the Navy’s attention. Second, we can identify at least one of the members of that research team by sight . . . if they find the new location, we may be called on to do just that. Speaking bluntly, separating the friendlies from the bad guys may not be possible without us. Lastly, he asked if Scott, and maybe even Kaylie, since she has some related knowledge, could give an amateur assessment of how risky it might be to launch an attack on the lab. That is, if they can find it, of course.
“Assuming you are right,” Todd continued, looking at Scott, “and they have the pathogen there, how easily could it be released in the attack? Would it kill everyone on the rig or on the ships if they’re successful? What if it gets into the ocean . . . could it make it back to land? Garret knows we don’t know much, but he trusts we know more than any of his people do. The intel we provided from our talks with DJ was their main source, and now, obviously, that’s closed to them as well as us. Keep in mind the Navy is cut off from nearly everyone. It’s not like it was before. He can’t just call up command for help. Naval intelligence is in the dark on the details, and Garret’s surviving chain of command are back in the field, many helping drive the ships out there. He has to make the decision on how to move forward.”
Scott looked around the table before responding, then blew out a breath he realized he’d been holding for a while. “Wow, no pressure. I can’t say this idea of going after them is smart, but I can do my best to get you answers. I had a friend in college that was a med tech, and Kaylie knew some of what DJ was doing. If we mention this to her, though, she’s going to get upset. You saw how she was after the attack at FSU. I’m not sure if it would give her some optimism or just dash whatever fragments of hope she has left for DJ that she’s managing to hold on to.”
“Thanks, Scott, and I understand. We’ve all grown to love Kaylie. I don’t want to cause her pain, but yeah, we need to know.” Todd looked troubled but continued. “One other thing Garret wanted me to ask. Do you think you could access the servers in DC and cross-reference some coordinates? They want to know if anything was mentioned in the Catalyst protocol files that might help them identify the exact location. I thought your friend in DC might be some help.”
“Tahir? I haven’t been able to raise him recently. Honestly, though, I’ve only had time to try the ship’s Internet service occasionally. It’s satellite-based, and I can only get a weak signal . . . not much left out there, though. Very few servers connected to the Internet still have a viable power supply. The DHS servers were still up last time I tried, so I can probably leave him a message if nothing else. But I’m not even sure he’s survived . . . DC must have been a difficult place the last few months. I’ve honestly been dreading checking on him.” Scott stood and paced before looking at his friend. “Todd, there’s something else, and we may as well discuss it now.”
Todd looked up, tensing in case Scott was taking the Catalyst side again.
“I’m not sure I agree that Naval action is the best thing. Even if the Catalyst people created this superbug as a weapon, they still must be the best equipped to find a cure. If we help the Navy destroy that lab, we may also be helping destroy mankind’s last chance at survival. We could all be doomed.”
Jack and Bartos both chimed in with a “Yeah,” and “For real,” respectively.
“Goddammit, Scott, don’t you think I realize that? I am not ignorant to the possibility, but these Praetor asshats can’t keep playing God. Someone has to stop this madness. You don’t even know if they are working on a cure. They could be creating the next, more aggressive version—an even more lethal strain. You know these people have no moral compass. Mankind’s fate is secondary to their own ambitions, their own plans.”
“Todd, they are used to power and control, but I have yet to see them exercise any desire to condemn our species. You seem to overlook the fact that they were the only ones to have a plan in place for this contingency. While everyone else sat on their asses, they had facilities built, supplies provisioned, and real plans put in place to deal with the aftermath. Whatever hand they had in creating the virus is unclear to me, but I’m convinced they are honestly trying to stop it. DJ has made that abundantly clear.”
Scott could see Todd’s face turning red but continued. “The protocol discusses all of the possibilities: the cycle of destruction. Even they said we could survive one or two national disasters, but beyond that, who knows? First was the solar flare, which took out most of the world's power grid. The government, leadership, social order all collapsed. That’s two. The economy’s collapsed, not just the US, but worldwide. Three. Anarchy, lawlessness, lack of food, medicine and clean water—let’s bunch all that fun under four. Now comes number five: a global fucking pandemic. This is a downward cycle. Each catastrophe has been the catalyst for the next. The US is not going to survive this, nor your precious Navy. At this point, I’m more concerned about the human species surviving than any particular side.” Scott was still speaking softly but was struggling to keep the lid on a growing anger.
“Jesus, Scott!”
“Todd,” Jack spoke up, “the man has a valid point.”
“Fuck . . . I knew this wouldn’t go over,” Todd stood up so quickly the chair tipped over. He walked to the window and peered out.
“Cap,” Bartos said, “you already knew all this, didn’t you? You’ve worked this shit out and come to the same place. You were just hoping Scott would see something different.”
Scott looked over at the Cajun, who was nodding supportively to the room. Scott eased up and walked over to his friend. “Todd . . . I don’t like it, but I’ll give them my honest assessment, and if I can get a location, I will supply that as well. But, if I do that, we—you and I—both need to get them to understand that their interference would likely be the tipping point. If DJ and the doctor are close to finding a treatment, and the Navy inadvertently stops that research—even causes the dispersal of the thing—then it may be game over for all of us. This may not be the right time for a military solution, and they must fully consider that.”
“Thank you, Scott.” Todd looked tired. “I know it’s not what you want—not what you feel is best. We can try and convince them, but I believe they will go through with it with or without us . . . At least if they include us, we have a chance to influence the tactics, if not the strategy, and try and save that boy.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Southeast of Little Rock, Arkansas
The hills were slowing his pace considerably, and traveling at night was proving to be a challenge. Bobby knew the terrain would even out the closer he got to Sanderson’s place, but at this rate, it was going to take several more days. While he had been traveling in the dark to help avoid detection, today he kept moving late into the morning. He would start again well before sunset. It was a risk, but he needed to reach the farm as soon as possible. Getting caught by them again was not something he could allow himself. If it came to that, well… he just wouldn’t let it.
He felt oddly good watching the sun rise over the hilltops. Briefly, he felt as though Jess was there with him. If things had gone according to plan, they would have been s
itting on the patio watching the sunrise together. She had been the one to insist that the patio go on the eastern side of the house instead of the backyard. She had never been traditional, and Kaylie was just like her mom in that sense.
He came back to himself in a moment and felt the distinction of his place in the world now. He was, in fact, a mere shadow of his former self. His clothes hung off his thin frame like a scarecrow’s. He had no idea how much weight he had lost in the last six months, how much of everything he had lost, but right now, he was fighting to hold on to the positive mood for just a few more minutes. One of his snares had caught a squirrel. He had eaten it raw, not wanting to risk a fire. It was gross, but his gnawing hunger was too strong to be ignored. The protein had reenergized him. Thankfully, water had also been relatively easy to find, as several streams fell from the steeper inclines. The water was fresh and cold. From the GPS he knew he was still over twenty miles from the farm. Somehow, he had to pick up the pace.
As he watched the sun climb higher, something glittering caught his eye on an adjacent hill. Bobby ducked into cover, assuming it was someone using a rifle scope. The telltale reflection was all he needed to realize he was in trouble. If he was lucky, it was just a hunter, but it could just as easy be the Messengers or their ruthless thugs, the Judges. The reflection did not move, however; it barely varied, in fact. Bobby didn’t move either, although he was beginning to wonder if maybe it was something else, not a reflection from a scope.
As the sun climbed and the shadows faded, he could see more of what it was: definitely not a person. He moved to his right several hundred yards to get a better view. He let out a breath. It was not exactly good news, but he had seen several of these in the past few months. The reflection was coming off a charred vertical wing with a red and white striped logo: the tail section, he believed, of a crashed passenger jet. American Airlines, he guessed.
The wreck would have crashed last August. Chances were, no one had even noticed it yet; this part of Arkansas was pretty remote. Any food or bodies would have been lost to the scavengers by now. He really felt he should check it out—he needed clothes and supplies, as well as food, decent boots and socks. Maybe some luggage was still intact at the very least.
Bobby realized he was talking himself into doing something catastrophically stupid. Stop and think, you idiot, he chided himself. He needed to find a place to sleep for a few hours. He would move closer to the wreck site and hunker down. He would rest, but also watch for any signs of people. If this was a trap, he wanted to know well in advance.
Cautiously, he wound his way across and up the hillside. Well before he was close to the crash, he began seeing clues of what lay ahead: a plastic bag with the airline insignia, a tattered diaper and then a shred of a thin blanket. Animals, he assumed, had strewn the remnants of the plane and occupants all over this hill. The side of the hill was blackened for hundreds of yards around the wreckage in all directions. Bobby slowed his pace, then stopped a few hundred yards from the edge of the burned land. He could not see the actual crash from here but eased sideways until a depression in the forest gave him an unobstructed view. He stopped and listened, and listened. For almost an hour that was all he did. Then he cautiously moved deeper into shadows, covered himself with some blackened limbs, closed his eyes, and immediately fell asleep.
When he awoke several hours later, he remained still and took a moment to assess his surroundings. The sunlight filtering through the branches was softer now. The angle of the sun let him know it was midafternoon. There was a slight smell of smoke and decay, but it was not strong. He struggled to focus his hearing, paying attention to the forest sounds. Was anyone out there, waiting nearby to ambush him? He heard songbirds and squirrels chattering nearby. He felt a slight breeze and in it heard the small tinkling sounds of metal on metal from the direction of the wreckage. It was so distinct that he conjured up a picture in his head: a seatbelt hanging over the side of the seat frame; the wind knocking it against the seat every few minutes. He imagined the many times he had sat in tree stands hunting deer or in duck blinds waiting on game birds. He had used the same skills then, but now his life depended on being good at it.
He lay there, frozen until he was confident of every smell and every sound. Cautiously, he lifted his hands and began quietly moving the charred, skeleton-like limbs that had covered him. As soon as he could see out, he stopped and swept the entire hillside with his eyes, processing every item. Confident he was the only one there, he extracted himself from the hide and began walking in the direction of the American Airlines aircraft: just one of thousands that had fallen from the sky that fateful day.
The Boeing 737 had taken off from Dallas on its way to Charlotte that fateful August morning. The 115 passengers on board had mostly been business travelers used to flying. They were 75 miles southwest of Little Rock when the lights had flickered, and the engines suddenly went silent. Cruising at 32,000 feet, most quickly realized the horror that awaited them. The captain of the doomed flight, a thirty-six-year-old ex-Air Force pilot named Ward, and his co-pilot had fought to keep the bird in the air as long as possible. With avionics out, engines silent and no radio, they were flying blind. More accurately, they were gliding blind to the extent that you could glide a 100-ton piece of metal.
The 737 had a glide ratio of around 17-1, which meant that, even unpowered, it should move forward through the air seventeen miles for every mile it dropped. From six miles up, the jet theoretically could glide almost a hundred miles. If Captain Ward had any control over his craft, they potentially had time to turn and reach an airstrip. Several were within the almost 100-mile glide path. Sadly, the beautifully-engineered and reliable jet ignored all the crew’s frantic attempts to steer. The fly-by-wire systems had replaced the older mechanical-hydraulic control systems many years prior. While the older systems had manual options for a total failure, the newer model’s backup was also electronic. Flight 1403 with Captain Ward at the useless control wheel had stayed in the air an amazing forty-three minutes before crashing into the side of the unnamed and unremarkable hill. 1403 was just one of thousands of flights lost that day.
Bobby’s boots crunched upon the charred ground. It took him a moment to assess the flight’s angle on impact. The largest remaining piece of the fuselage was the vertical tail, which canted over at a sharp angle. It was farther down the hill. He deduced that he was looking at the cockpit now, but very little else was recognizable. There were no seats intact, though he could see their springs and frames. He saw no bodies, only numerous charred lumps from which blackened bones stuck out. The sound of the seatbelt tinging off the metal frame got his attention, and he saw it at the far side of the jet. Walking gingerly in that direction, he noticed part of a seat frame with the blue vinyl seat mostly intact. The ratchet mechanism for the seatbelt was indeed hitting the frame below. His eyes were drawn down to the skeletal remains of a human hand resting near a singed but recognizable book.
He picked up the Bible and noticed a slip of paper folded inside the cover. He unfolded the charred and brittle note. The penmanship was shaky and rushed, but it was still legible. As he read, he dropped to his knees.
To Thomas, My Love,
I hate writing this, but I now know this will be my last act in this life. I don’t know what happened, but the engines on the flight cut out, and the lights. We’ve been descending for the last half hour, and I can see the ground getting closer and closer.
The crews have been telling us to stay calm and in crash positions, but after this long, we can’t. The plane’s hot, it feels like there’s not enough air. The sounds are awful. The wind outside, people are crying and shouting. No cell phones either. I tried. I wanted to talk to you and the girls once more.
The Captain just came out, said we should prepare for the worst. I always thought a plane crash would be quick. I’m sorry, I know you always hated all the travel. You were right. I was an idiot, a selfish idiot and now I’m dead.
If this n
ote survives and finds you somehow, please tell Alice and Bree I’m so sorry. Make sure they know I love them and was thinking of them at this moment. I’m sorry to be leaving you as well, honey, but you’ve always been the better parent. Love them enough for both of us.
The trees are so green here, it won’t be a terrible place to stop.
I love you, Tess
Bobby folded the note and put it back in the Bible. Noticing something in the ashes below the skeletal fingers, he reached down. The delicate, silver wedding ring had a small dent just below the impressive diamond. His eyes were filled with tears as he slipped the ring back onto the bony finger of the severed hand.
“I’m sorry for you Tess,” he whispered. Looking at the Bible, he remembered the comfort and compassion it once had brought to him as well. Instantly, he also felt the rage at what the Messengers had turned the book into, for him and thousands of others. They had made it a symbol of hatred, oppression and death. Pushing back against the anger in his own mind, he gently replaced the weathered book underneath the woman’s skeletal hand. This was her grave; he would not desecrate it further.
Moving through what was left of the fuselage he found several travel bags that had survived the crash. He began making a pile of the bags inside the tree line. Once he had collected them all, he would go through them to see if there was anything he could use. He also discovered a crushed galley cabinet. Several of the metal carts they filled with drinks and snacks were still wedged inside. It took Bobby considerable time to free them from the blackened frame, but inside was a bonanza of trays with packets of pretzels, cookies, small liquor bottles and bottled water.
Finding a rough-looking and rather smelly backpack nearby, he crammed everything he found into it. After searching for almost another hour, he gave up. This seemed to be all the site had to offer. Retreating to the small luggage pile, he went methodically through each of the bags. It was amazing to him the items that people packed. He saw the normal clothes and toiletries, but also truly bizarre items, including a football and what appeared to be an urn full of ashes. The more useful items were less common. There were not a lot of clothes or shoes that would do him much good. He removed the laces from many of the shoes, and he finally found a pair of expensive hiking boots in his size. Also, there were several rain jackets and a pair of jeans.
