Wells watched as men in hazmat suits drove the trucks to the docks and met workers wearing t-shirts, jeans, and skullcaps. It was a strange contradiction in images: high-tech meets the East River docks, or something like that.
He found it even more interesting that when the men in the Level-A protective garb arrived at the pier, they quickly unzipped their hoods and basked in the open air. It occurred to Jupiter Wells that if there was a biohazard worthy of Level-A protection, then no self-respecting soldier or scientist would remove his gear anywhere close to the danger zone.
Do they actually need those suits?
Wells considered the bullhorn announcements and the methodical search patterns. Perhaps the hazmat gear was part of a costume, or a precautionary measure taken for their initial arrival on the island. Either way, it seemed the protection was no longer necessary, and that made him feel much better at having discarded his own gear hours ago.
Whatever the case, the dockworkers directed the dump trucks along the pier and up a short ramp. At that point the trucks emptied their loads into the hold of a small and aging freighter painted black, white, and red. As he watched from a distance, Wells realized that those loads were people. Or, rather, dead people. Furthermore, given the quantity, he suspected they were actually the now-silent zombies that had nearly killed him and the others in the bungalow district last night.
Something like a canvas tarp covered the name of the ship, and he saw no other markings, although he pegged the vessel to be a relatively small one, perhaps ninety meters long with gross tonnage in the 1,900 range with the bridge superstructure mounted to aft.
Using his binoculars, Wells also took note of the people involved. He got a good look at two of the hazmat-wearers with their hoods off. Both appeared Korean or northern Asian, although it was difficult to be sure. The seven ship workers he caught sight of represented a cross-section ranging from Caucasians from Europe or possibly America—Australia? — to others who were thin with darker skin, making him guess them to be Indonesian or at least from that region.
Still, it was all guesswork. Deducing nationalities or racial backgrounds from physical appearances was hard enough, let alone through binoculars at four hundred yards off.
At that moment Sal Galati's voice popped into Wells's head.
That guy is from North Korea, the other guy is from Sydney, and the two over there were born in Jakarta.
Yes, of course, Sal could bullshit his way through just about anything. To Galati, it seemed like every question had to be answered, and Sal would make it up and sound as sure as shit as he ticked off his half-assed reasoning.
Yet Jupiter wished his friend were along on this one, particularly now that he had separated from Major Gant and Dr. Stacy. Wells figured those two were doing what he was doing; hiding and watching. He had the distinct feeling that being found by the guys in the bio suits would be as bad as being found by another horde of those damned zombies.
* * *
Dr. Waters's Jeep came to a halt on a patch of gravel just outside a one-story stucco and thatch building nestled in the island's interior. A sign next to the open door read "MAINTENANCE" in three different languages, starting with English first, of course.
He was met by team six, a group of eight of his men wearing level-A biosafety gear that not only provided protection from any unforeseen side effects of the test, but would also present to any scared survivors an image of a prepared, well-organized rescue. Of course, the fact that the suits provided some protection against any units that survived the PX dusting was an added benefit — the last thing Waters needed was members of his team becoming units themselves.
In addition to the eight men, Waters was met by a chubby, middle-aged woman also wearing a hazmat suit. Her accent included a hint of the English midlands.
"Dr. Waters, we found this group barricaded in the maintenance shed."
The group included a tall man with glasses and a sharp nose dressed in cargo shorts and a golf shirt, a woman who was obviously his companion at about half his age wearing a tennis skirt, and a second woman of a more advanced age but in particularly good shape, no doubt due to her exercise routine, as suggested by the jogging suit she wore. Unfortunately, all the jogging in the world had not kept her safe from the plague that had swept across the island: blood from a neck wound pooled on her shirt as she sat on the ground with her back against the building.
Waters looked over the group and then threw his eyes to a fourth person who stood off to the side.
"And this gentleman?"
The gentleman did not wait to be spoken for. Despite suffering from what appeared to be extreme exhaustion, he stepped forward and spoke with an air of authority, something he had lost during the night but found again with the rise of dawn and the arrival of what appeared to be reinforcements.
"I am Agent Frank Costa of the American Secret Service. Who are you people, and have you gained control of this island?"
Waters smiled and — using his cane for support — stepped closer to the agent while the woman under his employ provided more information.
"Agent Costa here emerged from the forest in response to our calls. He says he was part of the security detail for United States Senator Kendal."
Costa repeated, "I need answers. What is the situation and who are you?"
"Agent Costa, my name is Dr. Waters. The island remains dangerous but we have the situation under control. Tioga was subject to a biological attack, the nature of which I am not at liberty to discuss. However, we have protocols in place to deal with the situation."
The tall man in the cargo shorts with the young companion added his voice to the discussion, a voice that also carried an air of authority.
"The man asked who you are. Well? Who are you people?"
Waters looked to the new voice and his watery eyes expanded as a smile grew on his lips.
"William Fencer? That is you, isn't it? The software developer."
The man nodded.
"You are one of the owners of Tioga Island."
"Yes, I am. So why are you on my island, who are you, and what do you know about what happened here? I believe several people have died."
Costa held his hand up and argued, "Sir, let me handle this. I am a representative of the United States government."
"This isn't the United States," the software guru shot back. "This is my property."
Waters absolutely loved the confrontation; it was like watching two bulls in a ring. Or, more precisely, two sheep in a pen with dreams of being rams. Nonetheless, like everything else on Tioga Island, the exchange provided a fascinating spectacle.
Costa's voice grew louder and he tried to ignore Fencer as he asked, "Dr. Waters, exactly which organization are you with?"
"Agent Costa, my people are here to help. I can promise you that I will answer all your questions, but I would rather do so without, well, an audience," he said, and nodded his head toward the trio gathered outside the maintenance hut. This was Waters's way of adding to the fun. Costa took the hint for what it was meant to convey: this is too important for anyone other than you to hear.
"Understood," Costa replied. "I need to contact my government."
"That can be arranged. But first, I need to know if you have been bitten or scratched by any of the infected individuals."
The woman in the bio suit answered for Costa, "We looked him over, Doctor. He has suffered scrapes and bruises but no sign of a bite."
"I'm fine," Costa added. "I must insist."
"Yes, yes of course," Waters said, and ordered one of his men, "Escort Agent Costa to the airfield and place him on flight number two."
Two of the armed men did as instructed, leading Costa to the Jeep belonging to team six and driving off. After the vehicle disappeared from sight, Waters turned to the remaining survivors.
Clearly Fencer did not enjoy playing second fiddle, particularly not on his personal multimillion-dollar island, where he was accustomed to being king, even if he had loc
ked himself in a shed while his subjects had been attacked and transformed.
"Dr. Waters, I demand an explanation."
"Of course. First, have you been bitten?"
Fencer looked to his companion, who shook her head no. Indeed, neither of the two appeared in bad shape, other than wrinkled clothes, tired eyes, and the stench of having not showered in quite a long time.
Fencer answered, "no," with a little hesitation in his voice, no doubt recalling an act or two of self-preservation over the last day and a half, the type of things that might paint him as something other than the tough-as-nails businessman with the heart of gold portrayed in his press clippings.
"Good."
The young lady nodded toward the woman in the jogging outfit and said, "But Miss Clemons was bitten last night."
"Was she now?"
Waters walked over to the older woman, who trembled and shivered but did not respond, at least not verbally. Her eyes remained brown, and they watched Waters approach.
"Is she going to be okay?" the young woman asked.
Waters assured, "We'll take care of her. Don't you worry," and he motioned to his female assistant, who, with the help of another armed man, placed the injured Miss Clemons in the back of Waters's vehicle.
"What about us?" Fencer asked. "Have we been exposed to anything dangerous?"
"Yes, yes, in fact you have."
"Oh my god," the girl said. "Oh my god!"
The assistant returned from the car carrying a small case.
"It's okay," Waters said. "We have the situation under control. I'm going to have to give you each a small injection."
"What kind of injection?" Fencer wanted to know.
Waters accepted a needle from his assistant before changing the conversation: "Tell me something, how did the infection spread on the island? When did you first notice a problem?"
"I am, well, I can't remember. Let me think," Fencer said, and considered. "Yesterday morning we were at breakfast at the Beach Club. One of the guests, um, let me think—"
"Oh!" His young companion burst out. "It was Mr. Burgess, that accountant guy."
Fencer corrected, "Chief financial officer for one of the major banks, actually. In any case, he was clearly in bad shape. He sort of stumbled toward the veranda and then took a bite out of a waiter. The staff tried to intercede but that's when we saw several more people who were, well, apparently infected, as you say."
"It was disgusting."
"Yes my dear," Waters comforted. "I'm sure it was. Tell me something. Did anyone try to fight them off?"
"Of course," Fencer answered in a strong tone that quickly modulated. "Well, admittedly most people ran. The things weren't very fast but they were damned persistent, and there were so many of them."
"That's why you hid, I suppose?"
"Yes, of course. Of course we hid. What are you implying?"
"Nothing, Mr. Fencer. Tell me, were there weapons on the island? Was there any effective defense against the units?"
"Units?"
"Pardon me. That's a medicinal term. I mean the infected persons, of course."
The young lady told Waters, "We heard some gunshots early on."
"Probably Constable Alapai. He kept a pistol in his office. We did not want weapons on this island. It's meant to be a retreat from the world of violence. A refuge."
"I understand," Waters said and approached with the needle. "Now, young lady, let me see your arm."
She hesitated and then presented her right arm for his inspection. Waters tapped in search of a vein and then stuck the needle in. As he depressed the plunger a clear liquid emptied from the syringe into her arm.
"What, again, are you injecting us with?"
For the second time Waters turned the question in another direction.
"So you develop software, Mr. Fencer. You know, you and I have a lot in common. Let me see your arm, please."
Fencer looked to his girlfriend, who still rubbed the spot where she had been stuck. Clearly the needle had upset her. More tears started to form in the corners of her eyes, where all manner of tears had poured forth during the night.
Perhaps because of her pain, Fencer bared his arm bravely. Waters accepted a second syringe from his assistant.
"When you're developing your programs, you go through several, oh, versions. This program two point one or two point two and so on."
"Yes." Fencer braced for penetration. "Developing a program is a process. You find bugs in each version that must be worked out. Of course the public fails to appreciate that. They want their programs and operating systems to be perfect every time."
Waters agreed, "They do not realize the complexities involved. In my branch of medicine it is very similar. You must evolve the organism, working through the setbacks, dealing with the unwanted side effects, while trying to enhance those traits that are desirable. It is a long, difficult process."
"It is," Fencer agreed as the needle punctured his skin. "There is always more that can be done."
"We are perfectionists, you and I," Waters smiled as he pulled the syringe away and gave it to his assistant for disposal. "But perfection is a long, arduous journey, with many bumps along the road."
Fencer rubbed his arm and a jolt of pain disturbed his otherwise stoic expression.
"I don't feel so good," the young lady said and held a hand to her cheek as if feeling for heat.
"That is a side effect, yes," Waters told her.
"What was that? What was the point of that injection, Doctor?"
"The point, Mr. Fencer? First, I find it fascinating what people will do for relief after a night of terror. You spent hours hiding from what were — from your perspective — reanimated human corpses. It must have been terrifying."
The girl tried to answer, "Yes … I was so, so scared. It's getting hard to breathe."
"So I show up, promising to make everything better, and you grasp for that relief, like a drowning man grabbing for a life preserver."
Fencer wobbled and his hand reached to his head.
"I don't understand. What are you talking about?"
"I find that fascinating. A real experiment in human psychology. The willingness to blindly accept a solution if it is to escape a bad situation. So much of human history is based on that premise. How many people — individuals and even entire cultures — jumped out of the frying pan into the proverbial fire because they were so desperate to escape fear?"
The girl fell over and went silent. Fencer dropped to a knee, his legendary iron will keeping him from complete collapse, at least for the moment. Waters casually took a knee in front of him, unzipping his bio suit hood as he did.
"What is that stuff doing to me?" Fencer asked, and then began to choke.
Waters finally answered, "You should be feeling irritation in your eyes, nose, and throat. Breathing will become difficult and then impossible. Your blood is losing oxygen, Mr. Fencer. All the classic signs of sulfur dioxide poisoning."
The software giant fell over and lay still.
Waters turned to the remaining members of team six and told them, "Move these two bodies with the other survivors to the higher elevated areas on the eastern edge of the island. Give them burn marks like the others, but make sure the faces on these two are identifiable. Remember, it is critical that these bodies are found after the event."
While his men moved to do as instructed, Waters stepped away and looked up at the blue sky.
"What a beautiful day."
12
For the second time in less than a minute, a loud siren blared from the airstrip, sounding something like a tornado alert or maybe an air raid warning. Certainly the noise reached across the entire island.
Annabelle Stacy — still sitting on the ground with her back against the small airport terminal building — clutched her ears to dull the sound, but it was not the noise that sent electric shivers through her spine. No, the reality of her situation was what caused her to tremble from head to toe, d
espite her best efforts to hide her fear.
She thought back to twenty-four hours before, when she had insisted on going on the mission; when General Friez's support for her inclusion with the insertion team had been welcomed.
Now she cursed that decision. It seemed her first field mission with Task Force Archangel would be her last, one way or another. If a mob of zombies had not been bad enough, this goon squad dressed in hazmat suits with assault rifles was enough to drive her to the brink of insanity. Exactly what kind of world had she elected to join?
It was one thing to read the reports on alien animals crash-landing in Florida, extraterrestrial bacteria dining on bone marrow, or even homicidal lab monkeys. It was another to be out here, on the edge. Perhaps it would have been better to have turned down the general's recruitment and remained in a relatively boring world where monsters were confined to nightmares.
"Something is happening."
Major Gant spoke the obvious from his position on the ground next to her. Other than being forced to stand so that their pictures could be taken, the two had sat in the same position for nearly two hours, all the time under the watchful eyes of a pair of armed sentries.
He referred to the increased activity at the airfield. The two transport prop planes were filling up fast, mainly with metal containers holding previously animated cadavers. She had also spied a handful of other persons, possibly island survivors, boarding those planes.
Gant added more than she wanted to hear: "One of two things is going to happen now. Either we are going to be placed on one of those planes, or we will be questioned for another minute or two and then executed."
"How can you say that so calmly?" Her lungs failed to fill satisfactorily and her breathing grew fast.
"It is just a fact, Doctor. I am sorry to upset you."
"Maybe you should keep stuff like that to yourself," she shot back.
"To be honest, Dr. Stacy, I considered that, but then I think you have earned the truth. For what it is worth, you did good on this mission. I hope we have a chance to do another together."
The Cannibal Virus Page 11
