The Cannibal Virus

by Anthony DeCosmo

  While Stacy struggled to maintain control of her lungs and her gut, Wells took a knee and dealt with the layers of sweat that had slipped under his goggles and stung his eyes.

  Once her stomach calmed, Stacy craned her neck back and drank in as much of the heavy, humid air as her body allowed, first in fast gulps, then slower, then in a deep inhale. She shut down her thoughts about what had just happened and concentrated on little things, like the sound of insects chirping and the flutter of a very soft breeze through the branches overhead.

  "Take a drink," Gant said, offering her a small water pouch.

  She accepted the package, ripped it open, and gulped down about four ounces of water.

  Gant pulled off his night vision goggles and shared the tree with her, leaning alongside. To her eye, he appeared unfazed by what they had just endured.

  "How can you remain so calm?"

  He took a moment and then answered, "I am not calm. To be honest, my entire body feels like a bowl of Jell-O, I've got about a gallon of perspiration rolling down my back, and I realized I have not spoken with my brother in months and I would hate to die without seeing him and his kids at least one more time."

  Wells broke in from his kneeling position with a gloved hand still trying to work sweat from his eyes, "Personally speaking, I think I need to change my underwear after that one."

  Stacy told Gant, "You don't look it. You look completely in control, as if this type of thing happens all the time."

  "I have to appear in control. I am the officer in charge. It is part of the job description. As for this type of thing, it most certainly does not happen all the time. I can assure you, Dr. Stacy, we run up against our share of unusual situations. The type of thing that could drive a person a little crazy if he were to think about it. But this was a rather extreme case."

  "Okay, so, what's your secret?"

  "I try not to think about it. I let the training take over and keep my attention focused on immediate concerns."

  "So it doesn't bother you that there are walking dead — zombies — on this island?"

  "That is the secret," he answered. "Do not think of them as zombies or walking dead. Think of them only as a hostile force. Focus on the best technique to stop that hostile force, and then search for the reason behind their presence on this island. That is our mission."

  "Excuse me, Major," Wells said, standing after finally clearing his eyes, "but it kind of looked to me like there wasn't any way of stopping this particular force."

  "Something did," Gant said, pointing at the ring of motionless cadavers.

  Stacy perked up.

  "Damn, I almost forgot. Come on."

  She returned to the spot where they had first observed the bungalow, found the blue and black enhanced chemical agent monitor, and waved it through the air.

  "Okay, okay, there's something here now," she said as she walked around the rim of the tall grass. A casualness returned to her demeanor as she tried to take Gant's advice. Instead of thinking about walking dead bodies with pasty white eyes, she focused on finding answers.

  "What do you mean, 'something'?" Gant asked.

  "There's an agent in the air. A chemical agent. The ECAM can't peg it but there's definitely something in the air. All around us. Some kind of complex chemical compound."

  "Oh shit." Wells searched around for his gas mask before realizing he had left it in the bungalow.

  "If it were lethal to us we'd be dead by now," Stacy told him dryly. "Whatever it is—"

  "Whatever it is," Gant finished for her, "it is knocking these things over. Not us. And if I were to guess how that chemical agent got here …"

  "The plane? Yeah, well, remind me to thank whoever was flying that bird," Wells said.

  "Thank them?" Gant repeated and approached Wells. He stuck a finger in the soldier's chest. "Now I may not have multiple PhD's like Dr. Stacy here, but I have it in my mind that whoever knew the right cocktail to knock these things over is probably the same person responsible for them being here in the first place."

  Wells followed his line of thinking. His eyes widened and he nodded.

  "You don't know that," Stacy said. "We don't have enough information to know that," she continued, finally taking her eyes away from the scanner.

  "Yes, you are right," the major agreed. "We do not have enough information. So you and I are heading inland to find some answers. Wells—" he turned to the specialist. "Return to the insertion point and establish satellite communications with theater command. Give them a Sitrep."

  "Excuse me," Stacy interrupted, waving a hand and approaching the men. "We need to examine these … these …" she eyed the inanimate bodies, tilted her head, and went on, "… these hostiles. I mean, I don't even know if they are dead. Or if they were alive in the first place."

  "Great idea," Gant replied. "We'll just set you up in a laboratory and you can start dissecting them. How does that sound?"

  She returned his gaze for a moment, then conceded, "Okay, I didn't exactly pack a laboratory in my gear."

  "Well, then, we had better go with my idea. I think we can learn a lot more if we meet whoever was flying that plane. Besides, they might stand up again at any minute and I would prefer not to be here if that happens."

  Gant did a quick safety and function check on his M4, then stooped and grabbed his own sack of gear.

  "Wait a sec," Stacy said. "There's just the three of us. I vote we get out of here or call for a lot more backup."

  Gant turned to Wells and said with a half smile, "And you said she was awake during the briefing."

  Jupiter Wells reminded Dr. Stacy, "No backup. No extraction. We're stuck here for a while. All on our own."

  "Oh … yeah, I forgot that part."

  "Think of it this way," Major Gant led them into the woods. "You are spending some time at one of the world's most exclusive resorts."

  "Yeah," Wells said as he split away on his path toward the shoreline. "Problem is, the pool boy is a zombie."

  Gant and Stacy rebuked in unison, "Hostile."

  * * *

  The helicopter descended into the center of a circle of spotlights, coming to rest atop a weathered white "H" on pale concrete. It might have been the brightest and loudest activity for hundreds of miles around at that moment on that night.

  Before the Seahawk's rotors could even begin to slow, Captain Campion exited the transport and followed a path of much smaller lights away from the helipad. A pair of technicians ignored him and approached the pilot.

  As he moved he rolled up the sleeves on his black BDUs; what would seem a small gesture for most was a rather dramatic concession to the heat for the captain; he did not usually show any signs of sweat or make any concessions whatsoever on any front.

  A man in an Air Force uniform met him on the stoop of a stucco building.

  "Captain Campion? We have General Friez on the link, waiting."

  The two men entered the building and passed a vacant reception area. The Air Force lieutenant motioned toward an open office door. Campion stepped in, turned about, and held a hand to the lieutenant's chest, halting his pursuit. Then he shut the office door. the A laptop rested on the desk, but the thickness and number of cables running into the ports hinted at far more sophistication than the typical computer.

  Waiting for him on the screen was a flickering video image of a man with a well-groomed mustache, sharp eyes, and the markings of a two-star general.

  "Where have you been, Campion?" snapped the general.

  "My feet just touched the ground, sir."

  "What's the status of Gant's team?"

  "We have confirmation of insertion from the transport, nothing since the drop. I expect communication from them within the hour and will update you immediately."

  "What about support?"

  "We have a task force en route. Colonel Thunder is coordinating with NSA and DOD. They're tracking transmissions sent from the island before the incident."

  "Yes, I know, I spoke
to the colonel," Friez shared. "She thinks satellite phones and radio transmissions were jammed from the island. Gant didn't know that before he jumped in."

  "That could mean organized opposition, sir."

  "Yes, thank you, Captain. I wasn't able to figure that out on my own."

  "Yes, sir."

  "Let me know as soon as Major Gant has checked in, assuming he can find a way around the interference. We've got about another twelve hours before we have to leak something to the press about Senator Kendal, one way or another. His wife is already making inquiries."

  "Understood."

  "What kind of assets do we have in the AO other than Gant?"

  "Sir, on my way over here I was informed that the C-17 that took them in had to reroute here to Wake. The tanker assigned to them developed a mechanical problem and had to RTB. We're hoping we can get them back here before they go bingo-fuel."

  "So we've got nothing backing them up?"

  "No, sir. I just choppered in from the Peleliu," the Captain said, referring to a Tarawa-class amphibious assault ship with a compliment of attack and transport helicopters. "She's inbound to the target island and we're trying to get into helo range as fast as possible. I'll be heading back before they are out of transport range of Wake."

  "This is taking too long." The general spoke more to himself than to the captain.

  "Yes, sir. The island is rather isolated."

  "By design, Captain," Friez remarked. "Seems like that came around and bit them on the ass."

  "General, once the C-17 gets here we can refuel and get airborne fast. I could take a detachment from Wake here and elements of the Peleliu's security detail to the island. There is a landing strip that might be big enough."

  "No, Captain. We stick to the book on this. Wait for the recon team's report so we know what we're up against. Besides, nobody on Wake or the Peleliu is even remotely trained for an Edelweiss scenario."

  Campion knew the general referred to the type of unconventional situations and enemies for which Archangel trained. One part of that training was to have the proper tactics, equipment, and psychology to deal with all manner of nightmares. Just as important, that training included the discipline to keep such nightmares a secret. That was their charter.

  "General, it is possible that Major Gant won't be able to penetrate whatever is jamming transmissions from the island."

  "Your point, Captain?"

  Campion did not need to make the point; it was plain enough. Friez did not need to respond, either. As usual, the Archangel recon team was on its own.

  Richard Campion finished, "I'll relay Major Gant's report as soon as we receive it."

  "You do that, Captain."

  7

  "It's thinning out," Stacy told Gant as she checked the ECAM again and then wiped a patch of sweat from her brow.

  The two moved parallel to one of the dozens of paths crisscrossing the island. This one led from the outer bungalows to the inner circle of the village. A few small, blue path lights glowed in the darkness, as did a couple of pinpricks of light coming from ahead.

  They had yet to encounter any functioning hostiles since leaving the field by the bungalow. However, they had come across several immobilized ones.

  "The question is," he told her, quietly, as they neared a clearing, "will whatever it is hold after it has dissipated from the air?"

  "I can't answer that."

  "I did not expect you to," he said. He stopped and turned to her. "Relax, Annabelle, you are doing fine."

  She fumbled for a reply before settling on, "I really don't like being called Annabelle."

  He pointed forward. "I count three buildings ahead. The one with the two Jeeps in front must be the administrative building. The constable's office and the island bank probably account for the buildings to either side."

  She followed his gaze and saw it all, including more than twenty bodies strewn on the ground around the cluster of one-story wood and stucco structures. Her mind wandered for a second, wondering if the bodies belonged to creatures or victims of those creatures … or whether the victims had become creatures themselves.

  That focused her thoughts.

  "They had a clinic of some sort, right?" she asked.

  "I thought we would start with the constable's office," he said. "If there were any problems on the island, a report might have been filed."

  "Major, we're not talking about the usual sort of criminal activity. I'd bet Sgt. Franco's life on it that whatever happened here was treated like an illness or sickness first. That means the clinic or hospital or whatever it is they have around here would be our best place to start."

  Gant smiled, a little.

  "I'll be sure to let Biggy know you were willing to wager on his wellbeing. But in the meantime … well, in the meantime I suppose you are right. I believe we will find a small health clinic about one click east of here."

  She took his military jargon and translated it into normal-speak, arriving at an answer of one kilometer or slightly more than half a mile to the clinic.

  They turned to move off through the overgrowth and palm trees. Dr. Stacy stumbled.

  "Sorry, sorry," she said as he caught her arm for the second time that night. "I'm a little, well, tired."

  "Do not apologize." Gant took a deep breath and she saw his eyes sag, too. "It's the heat. This is a lot hotter than I expected. It doesn't seem … it does not seem quite right."

  "Wait, there's a volcano around here, right? Is it active?"

  "You are in the ring of fire," he pointed out, referring to the South Pacific. "Everything is active around here. Don't you have a PhD in geology?"

  His tone leaned toward humor. She appreciated it.

  "Didn't get that one yet. We could be feeling a buildup in the volcano. Maybe steam venting?"

  "I suppose that is a possibility."

  She forced her legs to move, saying, "Then let's get going. I really don't want to be around if that thing starts spewing lava. There's really no place to go."

  They left the trio of main buildings behind and headed into a lightless stretch, staying near a wide gravel road that, after two hundred yards, split into two. Gant used his night vision to read a set of road signs and led them toward the "Health Center," as indicated by a blue arrow.

  They had traveled another three hundred yards or so and had just reached the edge of the clearing by the clinic when Gant touched her shoulder and whispered, "Wait one moment." He crouched and held still, his eyes and ears at full alert, scanning for … something …

  Ahead she saw what must be the clinic surrounded by a white stone parking lot. A lamppost near the entrance created a sphere of illumination in the otherwise dark lot. An old van sat idle nearby and the front door to the clinic stood open, allowing a glow from within to seep out.

  "Listen," he said holding up a finger.

  Stacy heard the distant whizz of what might be a bat and several assorted chirps and groans attributed to the various exotic animals either indigenous to the island or shipped in to add ambiance.

  Then something else.

  A snort? A grunt?

  No, not quite. Still far away and … and coming from behind. As her ears adjusted, she understood that she had heard a loud noise, but a distant one.

  What she thought might be an animal's snort or grunt took better form in her ears. It was not the sound of something living, but the sound of a machine. A rumbling machine with a revving engine. Not a car; something heavier.

  It grew louder and, hence, closer.

  Not just one machine, several. Several different kinds, in fact. Some with the throaty, industrial grunt of a diesel engine; others more smooth and high-pitched.

  "They are moving toward the village center," he said. "That means—"

  "That means they'll be coming this way soon. Gotcha."

  "Let's move."

  Gant led her from the shadows across the gravel parking lot. In the open, the sound of the machines came through more cle
arly. To her ear, it seemed as if a construction company had begun a project at the center of the village. She even thought she heard a shout or two: foremen barking instructions. Yet they were too far away to discern anything specific.

  Dr. Stacy stopped at the open doors to the clinic. The lamppost provided enough light to illuminate a trail of bloody footprints exiting the building. Gant gave them a quick glance, too, and then hurried her inside.

  The prints afforded a clear back track to the rear of the clinic, where they found the storage room door open and the gory remains of the struggle that had occurred there more than twenty-four hours before. Buzzing fluorescents brightly lit the entire scene.

  "You were right," Gant conceded as he approached the rear of the chamber.

  "What? About what?"

  "It started here."

  Stacy peeked down one side aisle, turned about quickly to check behind, and then approached him at a spot near the back wall. She could not shake the fear that something would jump out from one of those blind bends.

  Then she saw what he saw.

  A medical gurney sat alongside an open and empty morgue drawer. Stacy saw a set of keys lying on the floor alongside a pair of particularly thick pools of drying blood, as well as a white shoe, a watch, and a mass of flesh—is that a nose?

  Her stomach lurched once again but she forced all the sickening thoughts off by concentrating on the mystery.

  She told Gant, "Someone was dead, or they thought so. Brought the body back here for storage."

  He picked up for her: "Then they found out it was not dead at all. I am guessing whatever it was killed someone else right here, in this spot. One becomes two. Judging by the footprints leading out the front door, there had to be at least three, maybe four by the time they broke out of here."

  "And it spread," she hypothesized. "Whoever they came in contact with they overwhelmed, and it spread."

  Major Gant said, "On an island like this, something that could spread by contact would do so fast. And—" A thought crossed his mind. "And this is a very isolated island. Very remote."