The Plague Years (Book 2): At This Hour, Lie at My Mercy All Mine Enemies

by Mark Rounds

  June 21st, Friday, 8:16 am PDT

  Rodgers High School Athletic Field, Spokane, WA

  Macklin looked out over the Rogers High School athletic field. They had taken over the field for training. Wallace had been busy as there were currently over 400 men and women in the field. Most of what he saw going on was physical conditioning. Most of the people in the field were drug addicts before “The Plague,” so their physical condition was not good.

  Over in one corner, Ngengi was working with a number of people who claimed to have prior military service and were in training as possible NCOs. Ngengi's training method was swift and brutal. Anyone he found lying about prior service he killed. It had a salubrious effect on the level of truthfulness coming from the new recruits.

  For those who were what they said they were, the training was harsh and unforgiving. Those that didn't measure up were sent back to the infantry. They ran more, had harsher discipline, and trained for longer hours. On the other hand, the NCO recruits ate better and had a ration of spirits every evening while Ngengi and Carlos regaled them with tales of a thousand years of experience in war. There was competition for the billets.

  Macklin heard the rumble of a big diesel engine. He turned and saw Wallace and some of his cronies driving a dump truck full of bodies. They had apparently raided another den of Slash users. When the got to the field, they tilted the bed of the truck and out poured fifty or sixty people in a drug induced stupor. They were quickly sorted out on the field. Those that were damaged in the collection process were shot.

  Those that didn't have the apparent physical or mental condition to be soldiers were used for grunt labor preparing barracks space, building training equipment, and providing food and comfort so the new recruits could focus on becoming something like a fighting force. After only a few days, Macklin could see the difference. They weren't issued weapons yet, just wooden training rifles that were little more than sticks, but they were learning close order drill, patrolling, ambush training and fire and movement in the attack. The last was considered the most important as their primary objective was to be ready to take something under fire.

  Even though Nergüi had told them little about their eventual mission, Macklin had his own ideas. He was sure they were being trained to take down the Stricklands who were now, he learned, in Moscow, 90 miles down the road. He relished the idea as they had made him look foolish more than once, and the only reason he was probably still alive was that they made his replacement, that drug-addicted failed pro-football player, Kevin Erwin, look even more foolish.

  While he was ruminating about the elimination of the Strickland clan, Wallace hopped off the truck, approached him and spoke, momentarily startling him.

  “So what’s that make; 600?” asked Wallace hopefully.

  “Just a bit over five hundred counting this load,” said Macklin after he regained his composure. “Ngengi shot twelve more.”

  “Can you get him to lighten up?” whined Wallace. “There are only so many addicts and Slash users in Spokane.”

  “I would think you would be happy with his training regime,” said Macklin rounding on Wallace. He didn’t like being startled and he was really beginning to dislike Wallace. “After all, they will be your meat shield when we take this mob into the field.”

  “About that,” said Wallace, “you know, it would probably be better for me to remain back here at the main base to, you know, coordinate logistics and everything …”

  “At least part of you will be going,” said Macklin testily. “Your sex organ is leading the parade. Whether or not the rest of you is attached is up to you. As to bringing in warm bodies, you either keep them coming or your successor will. Now get out of my sight!”

  June 22nd, Saturday, 11:12 pm PDT

  A dusty road outside of Pullman, WA

  Tom Pederson had been hired just last year by the Pullman Police Department straight out of Basic Law Enforcement Academy. He had been born and raised in Renton, Washington, and had taken the Pullman job as a stepping stone to getting a job back home. The last picture he saw of his home was from a circling drone, right before the power died for the last time. His old neighborhood had lost several homes to fires, and even though his parent’s house still stood, it was abandoned. He had heard from his parents two weeks ago; his mom had the Plague and his dad was agonizing over what to do. That was the last he had heard and it still weighed on his mind.

  Dark thoughts like that crossed his consciousness often at night. Being the junior guy on the force, he got the graveyard shift and on nights like tonight, that meant sitting on a bale of hay on O'Donnell Road. This was hardly the main road between Pullman and Moscow being the back way to the airport, and as such, the guard was just Tom and Jeremy Gibson, a five-year veteran of the force. Right now, Jeremy was sacked out in the police cruiser that was blocking the road. Three days ago, it had run out of gas and they pushed it to its current resting place. Even though it was June, there was still a chill in the night air.

  Less than a hundred feet away sat an old camper trailer. The four militia men from the Idaho National Guard were only a little more comfortable than he was. Two of them were sitting on lawn chairs peering into the darkness like Tom, and two more were playing cards at the table inside in the weak light of an oil lamp.

  One of the guardsmen who was sitting outside was apparently overtaken by boredom and shouted out.

  “Hey Tom, anything going on over there?”

  “It's a really wild night alright,” said Tom. “I’m over here listening to Jeremy snore.”

  “Beats the heck out of the card sharks over here,” said the guardsman. “I don't think they ever sleep!”

  “Did you see that?” said Tom as he sat bolt upright on his hay bale.

  “That was funny the first time you did it,” said the guardsmen. “It's a little stale now.”

  “I'm not pulling your leg this time,” said Tom. He was standing now, pointing to the north. “Over there, up that hill, can you see it?”

  “Shit!” exclaimed the guardsman. In Moscow, unlike Pullman, they still had a couple of generators and fuel to run them so they had flashlights for emergencies. He deployed his now, looking at the crest of the hill. There were maybe two hundred Infected coming down the hill. They were pretty far gone, mostly naked and very emaciated.

  “Halt,” shouted the guardsman but all that did was focus the Infected, who began coming directly at him. He fired a three round burst from his M-16 into the ground. That only accelerated their charge down the hill.

  Tom opened up with his shotgun, though the range was quite long. Nonetheless, he managed to drop one and then another. The guardsman went to full auto, firing off the remainder of his magazine into the charging crowd.

  “Guys, get out here!” shouted the guardsmen. He managed to seat another magazine and began firing. Then they were all around them. The guardsmen ducked back into the camper and locked the flimsy door. Several long bursts were fired through that door in an effort to keep the Infected away. The Infected merely circled around and began rocking the camper. In the confusion, the oil lamp crashed to the floor, spilling burning oil on all four men inside. They began to scream as the flames took hold, and panic set in when the Infected rolled the camper on its side.

  Tom's shotgun was empty, hanging limply in his hand. He had not tried to reload it as he was mesmerized and horrified by the sight in front of him. Then some of the Infected started looking his way. He almost fouled himself when a large hand grabbed him from behind.

  “Get in the damned car!” shouted Jeremy as he began firing his shotgun over Tom’s shoulder. The spell was broken and Tom bolted for the car. He dove into the backseat and he left the door open for Jeremy who was rapidly emptying his shotgun. Tom finally had the presence of mind to pull his pistol to engage the Infected who were closing on Jeremy.

  Jeremy pivoted and headed for the car, his empty shotgun useless in his hands. The Infected were faster and reached him before he cou
ld get in the car. With his last conscious act, he slammed the door in Tom's face, his blood-stained hands leaving a trail down the window. Then he was dragged down below the level of Tom's vision.

  The sounds that followed were gruesome, but Tom never mustered the courage to look over the top of the door. That probably saved his life, because the burning camper and the smell of the burning bodies of the guardsmen drew the Infected away from the police cruiser when they were done with Jeremy.

  A roving mounted patrol from Moscow found him there hiding in the backseat of the cruiser. The door latch in the back was so designed so that Tom couldn't open the door or roll down the window, so all he could do was listen to the macabre sounds of The Infected feeding on his late partner. He was no longer wholly sane. When the Moscow mounted guardsmen saw him and pulled open the door, Tom fired instinctively into the chest of the soldier from Idaho who fell to the ground.

  They wrestled the gun away from him, and he began crying and was still crying when they deposited him at the hospital. Luckily, the Kevlar vest the mounted guardsman was wearing stopped two of the bullets. The third deflected off the armor and embedded itself into the guardsman’s arm, thus he found himself in the same ward with the man who shot him.

  June 23rd, Sunday, 11:47 am PDT

  The Washington-Idaho state line west of Moscow, ID

  “I demand that Officer Pederson be remanded into our care!” shouted Mayor Henderson.

  Henderson was standing in the middle of the Moscow- Pullman highway. Behind him was the Pullman PD MRAP along with ten Pullman PD policeman in riot gear. There was an officer in the turret with a scoped M-24 Remington sniper rifle in 300 WinMag. Also gathered around were approximately fifteen of his thugs who were armed with a variety of firearms.

  On the Moscow side of the state line, there was a platoon of National Guardsmen along with LTC Amos, Chad, and Sheriff Barkley of the Latah County Sheriff’s department representing local law enforcement. The standoff had begun early this morning when the relief for the security team came upon the gruesome remains of last night’s ambush.

  “We have asked the young man about his preferences,” said Amos calmly, “and he prefers to stay where he is. He is receiving the best care available from both the staff at Gritman and Air Force PJ's ...”

  “All we have is your say-so!” said Henderson forcefully.

  “We have offered to allow anyone, even you, Mayor Henderson to come and chat with him,” said Amos.

  “Only after they are subjected to an invasive medical procedure!” shouted Henderson.

  “Three drops of blood is hardly invasive,” said the Lt Col, his voice now starting to show some of the frustrations he was feeling. “Officer Pederson has been tested and found to be disease-free.”

  “How do we know you aren't just trying to infect us!” shouted Henderson. “How do we know the Pederson hasn't been infected as part of plot to infect all of the citizens of the Free State of Pullman?”

  “Why would members of the United States Armed Forces ...” began LTC Amos but he was interrupted again by Henderson.

  “There is no U.S. Government. All we have here is a group of ex-military men trying to usurp the lawful Government of the Free State of Pullman ...”

  This time Amos, who had finally had enough of Henderson's bluster pulled out a bullhorn from the bag at his side and cranked the volume.

  “I am done debating with you,” he said. The volume on the bullhorn at fifty feet silenced even a hardened politician like Henderson. “Washington State and the surrounding area, including Pullman, is under martial law as declared by the President of the United States. Our local commander, Gen Antonopoulos, who was here just a few days ago, has ordered us to test the population of this enclave for infection.

  “Here are the rules set forth in his General Order Number Three. All citizens residing in enclaves with limited or no infection will be tested immediately to ensure the safety of those in the enclave. Individuals found to have ‘The Plague’ will be treated humanely with Slash and kept in a safe, contained treatment facility. That includes you Mr. Mayor, and everyone in Pullman. Gen Antonopoulos has been apprised of this situation and has given us a special order that all police and militia in this area will be tested immediately. All the Idaho and Washington National Guard troops on this side of the board have been tested. I am placing a signed copy of this order on the ground between us. You can read it at your leisure. Any of your personnel found in the city limits of Moscow will be tested. You can shout at the hills for all I care, Henderson. I am through with you.”

  As soon as he finished, LTC Amos strode out into the silence that followed, leaving a copy of General Order Number Three on the state line held down with a rock to keep it from blowing away. Then he retreated to the barricade that had been hastily erected.

  After a moment, the Pullman Chief of Police, Don Yates, went forward and brought the paper to Mayor Henderson. There was a heated discussion between Henderson and Yates which ended with Henderson wadding up General Order Number Three and throwing it on the ground. He and most of his entourage boarded the MRAP or other vehicles and left the site. For a few minutes, Chief Yates was manning the post without supervision.

  Yates went forward and grabbed General Order Number Three and quickly unfolded it and scribbled a few words and then let the wind take it. The prevailing wind picked it up and carried it over the state line where it lodged on a barbed wire fence. One of the Guardsmen started to go get the crumpled paper, but Chad restrained him with a look. Sure enough, as if on cue, an old pickup truck came back to the border site and a civilian got out, clearly one of Henderson's monitors.

  Chad carefully noted the position of the paper and later that evening, when the light had faded, Chad went out under cover of darkness and picked up the paper. There were just ten words on it:

  Meet me at the ambush site tonight at midnight.

  Yates

  June 23rd, Sunday, 11:58 pm PDT

  A dusty road outside of Pullman, WA

  Chad joined the security team at the ambush site as part of the changing of the guard shift. Dave had decided to come along just in case. LTC Amos authorized the use of some of the precious gasoline that had been off-loaded from the helicopter, both to provide transport because of Dave's hip and to facilitate any potential movement of folks from Pullman.

  Precisely at midnight, Chief Yates appeared, seemingly from out of nowhere from a shallow gully.

  “Hello!” shouted Yates. “Friendly over here, not infected!”

  “That was some pretty good fieldcraft, Chief,” said Dave as he walked over to where Yates was standing.

  “I was a Ranger for four years as a young punk,” said Yates. “I guess some stuff you just don't forget. Of course elk hunting in the fall does tend to keep you aware of your surroundings.”

  “So what can we do for you?” asked Chad. “Your note was a bit cryptic.”

  “Mayor Henderson is getting more and more paranoid,” said Yates apologetically. “I had to take the opening I had. So, some basics first, what happened here? Who were these people?” He carefully went to one the bodies that were strewn across the field. Using a stick, he pulled up the wrist of one of the corpses.

  “This one has a Rolex,” he said, who then strode over to another that looked like it had been gnawed like ear of corn.

  “This one, though she is practically naked and the body has been mutilated has diamond earrings that I would be willing to bet before the Plague were worth a month’s pay, assuming we ever get paid again. They are at least a carat each. These weren’t poor folks. How did they end up here?”

  “We have had reports from the west coast that there were groups who tried to treat themselves with Slash.” said Chad wearily. “As we said in our first briefing, Slash actually makes it easier to get infected. What we have learned subsequently and briefed locally is that after you stop taking the Slash and become infected, you retain a certain resistance to the disease. As the disea
se takes hold, however, your calorie needs ramp way up.

  “If I were to speculate, I would say that this was a group of high end drug users, pushers, and hangers-on. Say someone like sports or media figures, who had some resources. They may have contracted the disease early or picked it up later on. They probably believed or at least hoped the Slash cured the Plague. So rather than quarantining infected members of their group, they just got high. The disease can be sexually transmitted so it moves quickly in groups like this where they don’t take basic precautions.

  “Anyway, it is likely everybody was infected and when the Slash ran out, symptoms came back with a vengeance. They probably went through all their remaining supplies and went out to forage. The membership of the group would change as the weak ones got eaten and other strong Plague sufferers joined up. These groups are pretty common near big cities. I suppose it was only a matter of time before a group like this formed here or leaked south from Spokane.”

  “It would have been nice to know this, we might have had better security for these outposts,” said Yates with some heat.

  “We only heard about this yesterday,” said Dave. “We briefed this social dynamic during our morning intel briefing, which you were invited to. Even then, nobody, including Dr. Grieb, the epidemiologist out of Fort Lewis, thought we would see this behavior out here. I know Henderson made attending difficult, but believe me, no one was freezing you out or setting you up.”

  Yates was quiet for a moment and then said, “but that isn't the main reason I am here. Test me.” He started rolling up his sleeve and getting ready.

  “Really, we just need a few drops of blood,” said Chad motioning to the PJ. “Your finger is fine.”