LZR-1143: Infection

by Bryan James

  “Okay, gents. Let’s lose the clothing and step this way. Line up against the far curtain and put your arms behind your heads,” he said in a detached, almost bored voice. “Can’t have that nasty bug coming aboard our little slice of paradise, now can we?”

  Gladly shedding clothing that had again been covered in various bits of blood and gore, the evening chill of the outside air touched my skin as the last article dropped to the floor. Self-consciously, I walked to the indicated position, covering myself until ordered to put my hands behind my head and face front. I admonished myself not to drop the soap as banjos dueled in the back of my mind. I smiled to myself, quickly straightening my face lest my mirth be misinterpreted as Fred was lined up to my left, the Indian man from the dock on my right.

  The doctor-I assumed as much given the coat-carefully scrutinized Fred. He started at the toes and worked up the legs, examining thighs, groin, buttocks, stomach, back, chest and very closely surveyed the arms and fingers before moving to a cursory glance at the face and ears before scratching on his clipboard again and dismissively gesturing to Fred.

  “Clear,” he said, finishing his notes, and moving to me. Over his shoulder, “You may put your clothing in the bin against the starboard bulkhead and you will be issued soap for the shower.”

  “Uh, Doc?” he looked back to me, paying attention to my face for the first time, “He’s not quite there upstairs-best to let me show him when we’re done.” He glanced at Fred, who was unconcernedly looking around the room, examining the pipes and ventilation tubes running the length of the ceiling while shivering violently in the crisp air.

  “Right, then.”

  He stared at my face again, and then the obvious question. “You know, you bear a striking resemblance to… ”

  I sighed. “Yeah, let’s just short-circuit the inquiry. I am him and he is me. We’re both getting a little chilly here, so if we can get this intimate little appointment over ASAP, I’d like to mitigate the shrinkage as much as possible. I do have a reputation to uphold, after all.” My teeth were chattering in waves, and I caught the marine watching the door chuckling.

  The doctor smiled. “I was going to ask you to repeat that pithy line of yours, but I see you lack the patience at present. Perhaps later.”

  He began with the toes, and gave me the same once-over as he had Fred. Finding nothing, he waved me on, scratching on his paperwork as he spoke. “You and your friend will be escorted to the showers, where you will be issued a bar of soap and strict orders to disinfect. You will be monitored, and believe me when I tell you that we expect you to be thorough or we will assist in the process.”

  He looked at me from the clipboard, not lifting his head. “We’re not as gentle as your mum when we help you wash, so make sure you pay special attention to a comprehensive scrub.” That sounded ominous. Like if you missed a spot, a large man with a jumbo Qtip was going to batter you senseless with a foamy bludgeon.

  From the other side of the curtain, I heard Kate’s voice suddenly rise. “Whoa, that’s cold! You keep that in the freezer, asshole? Jesus! At least buy me a drink first!”

  At least Fred and I weren’t alone in our five star treatment, I thought, smiling.

  I turned, following the second marine to a box of towels, which we were permitted to wrap around our waists as we were escorted to the door in the far bulkhead. As we reached the door, the sound of a commotion drew our attention back to the deck. The Indian man was waving his arms, shouting at the doctor, as the physician moved back in apprehension. The marine watching the far door moved toward the man, lowering his weapon menacingly.

  The patient stopped gesticulating wildly, instead starting to inch toward the external curtain. Was he trying to escape? Where did he think he was going?

  “I will ask you once more sir,” the doctor said firmly and loudly, clearly reiterating the question that had occasioned the ruckus, “Where did you acquire the abrasion on your ankle?”

  I looked down, noticing for the first time a small, semi-circular reddening on the apex of the man’s anklebone. His eyes were wild, shifting continuously from the doctor to the marines, to me and back to the doctor. He looked at his ankle, jerking his head up abruptly as he realized what he was doing, his body language as incriminating as a verbal admission. Unfortunately for him, the doctor, having clearly processed many others, spoke that particular language.

  “Gentlemen,” he gestured to the marines, casually stepping back and calmly writing on his clipboard. I saw him make a linear crossing gesture, as if he was crossing out a name. Just that quick, his fate was sealed. In the single horizontal stroke of a pen, the disease had claimed one more of a dwindling number of survivors.

  The soldiers on either side of the man, each dressed out in full combat regalia, complete with Kevlar vest and helmet, stepped forward and grabbed an arm each, pulling the still-naked man between them. He struggled in vain against their brute strength, kicking his feet so violently against the deck that he drew blood, leaving a crimson trail behind him as he was dragged screaming and shouting while clearly cursing in what I could only assume to be Hindu, maybe Urdu. They roughly pushed the curtain aside and pulled him through, the screams echoing against the high metal ceiling.

  The screams turned to pleading, now in English. From a distance, we could hear his pleas. Begging, he offered up money, property, servitude. It availed him nothing. The single, sharp sound of a rifle being fired was his only response, and then there was no more noise, no more resistance. No bargaining with this disease.

  “As you can see,” the doctor read my mind, explaining in his now seemingly preternatural calm, “we maintain an infection-free status by eliminating the diseased carriers.” He pronounced it state-us. “No other way to go about it, and really,” he shrugged, “it’s much kinder to them in the long run.”

  He turned around, gathering his med kit and moving toward the doorway where we stood, mute. Catching my gaze, possibly misinterpreting my stare as judgment rather than simple astonishment, he paused and explained further.

  “All indications are that the mutation itself is painful, and we have no idea how much cognizance the mind of the infected individual retains in post-mutation form. If they were aware of what was happening, if they knew what they had become but could only watch, mutely and impotently from within the rotting prison of their own flesh as they became and acted as ravaging ghouls, feeding on the flesh of the living… well, it’s really a favor we’re doing them, yes?” he said unconcernedly.

  Behind him, the marines walked back inside, faces blank. One picked up a hose, spraying the deck where the man had spread his infected blood prior to being removed.

  He opened the hatch door, cocking his arm in front of his chest, making a directional signal and canting his head toward the hatch. His small eyes were sad but his face was stone; his countenance, if not his disposition, clearly affected by the difficult position forced upon him by his occupation and intervening circumstance.

  I didn’t answer as I moved into the ship, stepping over the lip of the metal bulkhead and following him to the showers. I wondered: what do they retain? If their brains are the engine that continue to motivate the machine, wouldn’t it be possible that those brains would continue to operate, at least subconsciously, on some level?

  It was a nagging concept that was too impossible to imagine. Indeed, it was hardly something you could believe if you were to survive. To believe that with each killing blow or gunshot struck or fired in self-defense was destroying an actual human conscience trapped in its own body…that was too much. Whether it was true or not, it wasn’t something I was ready to buy into. For my own sake.

  We cleaned ourselves, as was suggested, quite thoroughly. My own actions were motivated by an extreme aversion to having several marines help me wash my delicates, and directed Fred to do the same, uncertain of how he’d react in such a personal situation. We were issued clothing and directed to the ship’s galley.

  I had time to d
raw a cup of lukewarm coffee from the stainless steel pot, grab one for Fred, and sit down slowly. My stiff muscles protested against the combination of physical activity, cold air, and cold water, as Kate and our friend from the dock appeared. They were similarly dressed, long hair still wet from the shower, shoes squeaking slightly on the spotless floor. They were allowed to grab some coffee before we were all ushered below decks to a large room, clearly designated as a refugee holding area.

  There were more than twenty people, all in various states of sleeping, sitting, talking or playing cards. They all looked up as we entered, Fred first, then Kate and the other woman, finally me. Recognition lit the eyes of several passengers as I sat down on an empty bunk to the left of the door, resigned finally to allowing myself to be outed. Kate sat down next to me, not speaking. The lady from the docks-Nicole, I believe she had said-had moved into the crowd, talking and gesturing in my direction. None approached, but I could see various degrees of awe, admiration, judgment and disgust as they passed across weary faces.

  I felt for the first time the heavy stigma of the criminal, of the outcast. Until now, I had focused on flight and survival, forgetting in the maelstrom of confusion and otherworldly events that I bore the burden of the criminally convicted and the feloniously insane. I had tried to hide my identity with Kate, more out of what seemed necessity than aversion to being recognized. But because of her peculiar background, and forgiving personality, that had worked out fine. Overall, though, I doubted that most would be so understanding. Judging by the looks being direct toward me in this small world under the deck of a ship, I was right.

  Even as society disintegrated and hell on earth asserted its claim as the new status quo, I wore the mantle of insanity as plainly as if the first zombie has never risen. I need look no further than the looks directed at me as I sat quietly on the firm bunk staring at some sailor’s poster of a model laying on a sandy beach. While it is true that some evidently discarded my criminal record for my civil fame, it was clear that fully half of those in the room remembered nothing past the final pass of the gavel and the perp walk into King’s Park.

  The hatch opened, groaning slightly as the metal was exercised outward. Lieutenant Hartliss’s face appeared through the open crack, looking around and finally finding us and smiling. Although I recognized him from before, I was able to pay more attention to him now, in the light. He was a young man, maybe no more than thirty. His black hair, cut militarily short, framed a longish, handsome face with a crooked grin. Blue eyes flicked from me to Kate and back again.

  “Cap’n would like to see you both,” he said. “Every newbie gets to be debriefed, standard stuff.” He stepped back as we rose and walked past.

  “Besides,” he said confidentially, smiling again as he shut the hatch, the heavy door clinking heavily against its frame “he’s never met a movie star before.”

  Kate smiled at me and put her arm out as if to say “after you”. I shook my head, following Hartliss as he walked briskly down the narrow corridor, up a narrow, low staircase, and through two more hatches, emerging into a medium-sized office.

  Tastefully paneled in dark wood, and with a large desk against the far wall, it was reminiscent of a study that you might find in any mid-nineteenth century, New England colonial home. Various seafaring memorabilia and nick-knacks lined the walls, each apparently screwed or otherwise fastened to the shelving. A pair of evenly spaced portholes looked out over the bay, the statute of liberty a briefly inspiring sight that prefaced the entrance of the Captain.

  He was a tall man, a slight paunch protruding over his belt line, but powerful shoulders evidencing that he came by his post after a lifetime of hard work. Cold, dark eyes trained on each of us, his large frame pausing in the doorframe before he extended his hand to Kate.

  “Captain James, ma’am. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance,” he bowed forward ever so slightly as Kate took the offered hand.

  “Dr. Kate Whitmore,” she replied, reminding me again of her vocation, and causing his eyebrows to rise slightly.

  “I was unaware that you were a physician,” he said, crossing to his desk and sitting heavily in his chair, gesturing as he did so to take our seats in the two chairs across from him. “Your vocation could be a quite a boon to us, under the circumstances.”

  “I’m a psychiatrist,” she replied. He nodded, turning toward me.

  “And you, sir, need no introduction,” he affirmed, now looking at me, expressionless.

  “Is that in a good way, or a bad?” I asked, genuinely concerned.

  “That, I believe, is yet to be seen. Tell me, if you will, how you came to be travelling with this lovely woman, and how you managed to be on the rooftop of a high school, surrounded by zeds, and, forgive me for saying, but all around bollixed if not for the good Lieutenant here,” nodding to Hartliss, who smiled as he stood at ease, hands clasped behind his back, staring at the far wall, “who chose to ignore my last order and bring you in anyway.” Hartliss’s grin didn’t fade, as James’ face bore a hint of vexation but no animosity.

  We recounted our story together, told of our flight from the Park, our loss of companions, our attempt at the docks. He nodded along, surprised at some points, interested at others.

  “Bloody good for you that you weren’t able to pass through that town to the docks. The marina is the nastiest place of the bunch. When this thing started, people crowded onto the highways, toward the marinas and airports, government buildings and police stations.” His voice was somber, his gaze distant. As if he had been there, remembering it all.

  “All it took was an accident, an attack inside a car, whatever, and the highways were jammed up within the first few hours, beltways around Washington and Philadelphia reportedly bumper to bumper cars, with growing packs of zeds moving from car to car, highway to highway. Marinas went the same way, crowds of people sinking boats in their drive to board anything that floated, fights breaking out between armed groups vying for transport. Police opening fire into civilians that were trying to get into the stations and government buildings. Add zeds into the right mess the humans were already making of it all, and it was a regular pandemonium. Nasty business.” He turned to a cabinet beside him, drawing out a bottle of scotch and three glasses, not bothering to offer.

  “I’m sorry Captain, but the crewman on the chopper and now you, you’ve said ‘zeds’-I’m assuming your talking about the zombies?”

  He tilted his head back and laughed, pushing our glasses across his desk toward us. “I suppose if I had said aluminium you would have deduced what I was saying? Zed is what you yanks call “Z”. We’ve dispensed with the ‘zombie’ nomenclature. Makes it too unbelievable. We’ve reduced them to zeds. Takes away some of the… oddity… of the situation.” He glanced at Hartliss and back to us.

  “I’m going to be honest with you now, Mr. McKnight,” he said, looking at me seriously across his desk.

  Uh oh. Here it comes.

  “I’m not overly fond of the idea of harboring a convicted criminal on my ship, especially one that just escaped from an institution for the criminally insane,” he said slowly, holding his glass of whiskey in one hand.

  I stared back, no clever response coming to mind.

  He continued in a slightly softer tone of voice. “But I’m also inclined to believe that no one who was truly criminally insane could have made it as far as you did, while winning the respect of an honest doctor,” a nod to Kate, “so I am going to permit you to remain and we will allow you passage to England with the remaining refugees.”

  I nodded thankfully as I geared up my courage for the next comment, which I knew might be inconsistent with his expression of confidence in my sanity. My conclusion earlier made in the helicopter ride to the ship was weighing heavily on my mind. I had thought about this over the last few hours, and was more confident than ever that it was what I needed to do. While I thought it might not hurt to ask, I suspected I would find little support from this venue. But I had
to try.

  “Thank you Captain. But I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you one last favor,” I gulped and pressed forward. He cocked his head inquisitively, eyes slightly curious, questioning.

  “I’m going to need a lift back to shore.”

  He stared at me, then at Kate, then back to me. Believing, perhaps, that this was a joke that he had not yet been let in on, he smiled suspiciously. Suddenly, he erupted in deep, body shaking laughter.

  Chapter 16

  It was the laughter of disbelief. He paused, seeming to believe for the first time I was serious. Still smiling, he leaned forward, dark eyes severe and unblinking.

  “Mr. McKnight. Do you fully appreciate what has happened here? Do you know why your arse is sitting on a British destroyer instead of an American Coast Guard ship or Navy vessel? Your country is disappearing, sir. Your military is stretched too thin, and half of the armed forces left in your country were caught in the initial wave. Bloody hell, man. Your entire Navy is on its way to Florida! We may be the only operative combat vessel left in the Northeast!”

  “Florida?”

  He stood up, moving to a map on the wall. Our eyes tracked his hand as he pointed at New York City. “First cases, New York, Philadelphia, Boston, D.C.” his finger punctuated each city name, pointing to each in turn.

  “Infection spread from there, very quickly. Moved out from the cities, into the suburbs, then into the rural areas.” He traced a wider arc around each city. Moving his hand to the Western borders New York and Pennsylvania, he continued.

  “Your National Guard tried to draw the lines at the state boundaries, contain the zeds to the initial outbreak states through impromptu blockades outside cities and on major highways, but that idea was a no go. Like I said, large numbers of your military and police were either caught in the initial wave before they could even report, or overcome at their initial positions because their commanders didn’t appreciate, no one appreciated, how many they’d be dealing with or how fast.” He turned back to us.