by Z. A. Recht
Unlike the other labs, the sign on this one was much larger, and printed in bright red ink, reading “BL4.” A sign below that, in smaller lettering, read: WARNING: EXTREME BIOLOGICAL HAZARD.
The entryway always gave her pause. It seemed to be out of place, as if it belonged on the set of a science-fiction movie, not in a research laboratory.
It was a room within a room: a self-contained environment, held separate from the rest of the facility by several clever safeguards. Getting in, even with proper authorization, took a lot of doing. A lit-up keypad sat silently blinking next to the portal. That was Rebecca’s first obstacle.
She sighed and pursed her lips. The whole lab seemed ominous, somehow, in the dim light. Maybe it was just the knowledge that specimens of the deadliest diseases mankind had ever known were on the other side of those steel walls—including Morningstar.
Rebecca shook her head and wheeled the squeaking cart up to the hatch, punched in a nine-digit combination on the keypad. The LED embedded in the top of the device winked green, and the hatch’s dead bolts slid back with the sound of scraping metal, and in her mind she heard blunt swords drawn from stainless steel sheaths. She pulled the door open and pushed the cart inside ahead of her. She stepped through and watched the door shut firmly behind her. The dead bolts slid back into place automatically.
The small ready room she found herself in was much brighter than the corridor outside. The lab got preferential treatment when it came to using their energy stores.
Along one wall hung a rack of space suits, as Anna occasionally called them. Becky knew it was a misnomer. The things weren’t designed to handle a vacuum, but they were airtight. They were old, but still serviceable. Rebecca let go of the cart and walked over to them. She pulled one of the Chemturions free, rubbing down the corner of a strip of duct tape on the breast that had “Hall” written on it in permanent marker.
Rebecca sealed the suit, pulled a nozzle down from the ceiling, and attached it to the waist of the Chemturion. With a hiss of released air, the suit swelled up and held. Rebecca detached the hose and inspected the blown-up suit for any recent tears or leaks. Carefully, she ran a paper towel over the entirety of the suit, holding it millimeters from the surface, looking for a telltale flutter of leaking air. Seeing none, and hearing no hiss of escaping air, she unsealed the suit. It went limp in her hands as the air rushed out.
That was good. Even the tiniest rip could mean certain death.
Rebecca self-consciously glanced around the room as if looking for observers, then rebuked herself silently. She was alone—and a good thing, too, because you couldn’t wear a Chemturion with street clothes on underneath it. Any protruding buttons or zippers might cause a tear in the material.
She pulled her shirt off over her head, tossed it onto a narrow bench, then removed her shoes, socks, pants, and undergarments. All of these were similarly tossed onto the bench. She noted a similar pile of clothing on the far end of the bench—this one, by contrast, neatly folded and stacked—which meant Dr. Demilio was hard at work in the lab already. Naked and shivering in the slightly chill air, Becky retrieved her Chemturion from its rack and prepared to enter it.
“Chemical centurion,” she said, holding it at arm’s length. Rebecca unzipped the suit the rest of the way and stepped inside. Next, she pulled on a triple layer of latex gloves and used duct tape to seal the cuffs of the suit around her wrists. Finally, she adjusted her helmet and checked her seals by reattaching the air hose. Inside the suit, normal sounds were drowned out by the sounds of rushing air and her own breathing, captured and amplified by the helmet.
Rebecca grabbed the cart and pushed it over to the only other door in the ready room. She pulled it open and stepped inside.
This room was smaller and narrower than the ready room, with several nozzles protruding from the ceiling and walls, and one final door at the far end. Rebecca shook open a piece of thin plastic sheeting and laid it over her boxes, then pressed a small red button next to the door. The nozzles opened up, drenching Rebecca’s suit and the cart in disinfectant spray. The shower lasted for nearly a minute before it finally tapered off.
Rebecca pulled open the last door and stepped forward into BL4. The other rooms—the one with the Chemturions and the disinfectant shower—had merely served to prepare her for entry. She would have to go through the exact same routine in reverse when she wanted to leave. She wheeled the cart up against a table and pulled a nearby air hose down from the ceiling. As she attached it to her suit, she looked around the lab for Dr. Anna Demilio.
Anna was at the far end of the lab, facing away from Rebecca. She was hunched over a tray holding several dozen samples of Morningstar, dropping a possible vaccine into each sample to watch for a reaction. From the way her hooded head shook subtly with each drop, it wasn’t going well.
“Bad day?” Rebecca asked. Anna didn’t respond. Rebecca raised her voice over the hiss of the air hoses. “Doctor?”
Anna raised her head and looked over her shoulder at Rebecca.
“Good morning,” Anna said.
“Afternoon,” Rebecca said.
“Already? Jesus.” Anna pointed at an empty spot along one of the lab’s far walls. “You can put that cart over there. I won’t be needing any of that stuff until later this afternoon. My cultures aren’t ready yet.”
“Any progress?” Rebecca asked as she wheeled the cart over to the designated spot.
“I wish,” said Anna, leaning over her samples once again and dropping another possible vaccine into one of the test tubes. “Damn it. Another negative. I must be missing something.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Rebecca said, shrugging. “We’ve only been here a month and a half.”
“I know, I know,” Anna replied. “Most of these vaccines take years to develop. And eggs to grow them in, which we are conspicuously short of.”
“Don’t sell yourself short. You just haven’t had enough time.”
“Well, maybe, but I was hoping to at least have gotten some idea of what direction I should head in by now,” Anna said, frowning behind her faceplate. “Instead, I’m just waltzing in a slow circle. And in the meantime, God knows how many more people are dying from the infection.”
“I wish I knew more about what you were doing,” Rebecca said over the hiss of the forced air. “I might be able to help you out better.”
“Thanks, but even with two of us, we might never find what we’re looking for,” Anna sighed.
“Well, let’s start small, then,” Rebecca said, leaning her faceplate closer to Anna’s workspace. The Doctor was using a dropper to place samples of light green liquid into test tubes filled with a red, viscous substance. “What are you doing right now, with that thing?”
“Killing time, mostly,” Anna said, then noted Rebecca’s serious interest and changed her tone. “I had the thought that if I can’t figure out where to start looking for a vaccine, I may as well start looking for a better way to kill the virus.”
“Like a cure—”
“No!” Anna said, cutting Becky off. “That’s not what I mean. What I’m working on today is a virucide. If I can’t figure out a vaccine, maybe I can make a weapon. A drug to treat an infected person with after they’ve been bitten, but before they’ve turned feral.”
“Ah,” Becky mused, leaning closer. “So what’s in the test tubes?”
“The red ones are Morningstar samples. The green ones are my virucides. So far, I haven’t had shit for luck. Morningstar is one resilient little bastard. It lives through just about anything I throw at it,” Anna explained, using her dropper as a pointer. “Except for the usual killers, like bleach, or ultraviolet light. But those are a little tough to inject and expect a healthy response.”
Becky furrowed her brow behind her faceplate and exhaled slowly, considering. Her breath formed a mist on the faceplate, which was quickly whisked away by the cool air flow in the suit.
“Mind if I ask one more question?” Becky said.<
br />
“As long as you ask it without blocking my light,” replied Anna, pointing up at the fluorescent lamp that Rebecca was standing under.
Becky took a step back. “Where are you getting all these samples of Morningstar? I know for a fact Sherman said no to the idea of capturing test subjects when Thomas brought it up.”
“It’s easy enough,” Anna said, setting down her dropper and turning to face Becky. She leaned against the countertop and folded her arms, looking intently at the pretty young woman. “I have the help of an old friend.”
“What do you mean?”
“He’s been with us since the very beginning. One of the very first victims of Morningstar, as a matter of fact. We had him shipped here once we’d finished our tests at USAMRIID so the Deucalion folks could take a look at him. He’s just in the other room, there. Want to meet him?”
Anna pointed at a small, windowless metal door in the corner of the laboratory. Becky frowned. The thought of one of the infected in the same building in which she lived, worked, and slept disturbed her. At the same time, curiosity was rearing its ugly head.
“Yeah,” Becky said, somewhat reluctantly. “If you’re sure it’s safe.”
“Oh, it’s safe enough,” Anna said, moving off toward the door. “He’s strapped down tight. And he’s been very helpful so far.”
Anna unhooked her air hose, which let off a puff of pressurized atmosphere, and reattached herself to a hose closer to the door. Rebecca followed suit.
“Remember,” Anna said, staring at Rebecca, “he can’t get at you, so don’t freak out or try to run. You’ll rip your suit and then you’ll be in a world of shit.”
Rebecca didn’t need the reminder. “I’m ready. Let’s see this volunteer of yours.”
Anna unlatched the door and pulled it open. It didn’t squeak or groan, turning on well-oiled and maintained hinges. Within was a small space reserved for the observation of viral victims. A single gurney was inside, flanked by banks of monitoring equipment. Most of it was dark. There was no need for a heart monitor.
Strapped down on the gurney was a graying husk of a carrier. He appeared to have been in his early thirties, and was wearing a strait-jacket. Further restraints crisscrossed his body, strapping him down to the gurney and rendering him nearly motionless. His head was free, however, and when the door opened, he turned to investigate the noise.
His cracked, dry eyes widened slightly at the sight of Anna and Rebecca, and he let out a low, mournful moan. He opened his mouth and snapped at them over and over, in an almost hypnotic, rhythmic motion.
“Rebecca, may I introduce you to Dr. Klaus Mayer, formerly of Antwerp, late of Mombasa, and the closest thing the world has to a Patient Zero. How are we doing today, Doctor?”
Mayer moaned and rocked his head back and forth by way of reply, jaws still snapping uselessly.
“I’ll be back in an hour for some more samples, Dr. Mayer,” Anna said, speaking as though he were just another patient. “In the meantime, get some rest. You look a little feverish.”
She let the door swing shut as she moved away, affording Rebecca one last slack-jawed stare at the long-undead infected, before her view was cut off by the cold steel of the door.
Abraham, KS
27 June 2007
0900 hrs_
A ROUNDTABLE DISCUSSION WAS taking place at Eileen’s Pub in Abraham. The fire had been dealt with, the town had calmed down, and the citizenry had returned to whatever their normal routines were these days—all except for Keaton, Wes, Hal, Stiles, and the ragged group of sailors. They had sat around the candlelit interior of the pub through the night, nursing lukewarm, bitter beer and discussing their options.
“Omaha, Omaha, Omaha,” said Keaton, repeating the word like a Buddhist mantra, emphasizing by thumping a mug on the table. “Feels like the new Jerusalem. Or Mecca. Everyone seems to want to get there.”
“And for good reason,” said Commander Harris, sipping at his pint. The bitter taste didn’t seem to bother him a bit. “If we’re ever going to get rid of the Morningstar strain, we need what’s there.”
“Dr. Demilio, you mean,” said Wes. His beer was untouched. “I don’t understand what all the fuss is about. We’ve got a good thing going here in Abraham. We can ride out the storm here.”
“Yeah,” agreed Hillyard, brushing his hair out of his eyes. “But what’s a town to do, surrounded by nothing but the dead and the infected? Just sit here and wait to die yourself?”
“At least we won’t get infected. We’re pretty well protected,” Wes said, a touch defensively.
“Yeah, but for how long?” Allen said. “You’ve already got a bombed-up clinic, and from what Keaton said, you had yourself some problems with bandits in the past. Who’s to say another group won’t be along in the future? Infection might not get you—but a bullet does the job just as well.”
“Well, I, for one, am not going anywhere,” Keaton said. “I can’t leave. These people are my responsibility.”
“Me, neither,” said Wes. “I’m sticking it out here.”
Hal Dorne sighed. The conversation had been going on for the better part of an hour, and was leading nowhere. He tipped his glass back and drained it, slammed it upside down on the tabletop, and folded his arms in front of him. “Well, I’m definitely going to Omaha.”
His statement drew a few looks of surprise.
“Do you even think you can make it alone?” Keaton asked. “It’s a two-hundred-mile no-man’s-land between here and there, at least.”
“Oh, he won’t be going alone,” said Stiles, staring at the floor. His new crutch was leaning against his chair. “I have to go, too.”
“Why? It’s safer here.”
“I know, I know,” Stiles said. “I didn’t say I wanted to go. I said I have to go.”
Hal shot Stiles a warning look. Don’t tell them, it said. Don’t say a word. Conversation around the table died down as the sailors saw what was coming next. Allen was shaking his head slowly.
“They’re looking for a vaccine for Morningstar there,” Stiles said. “I could help. You see, I—”
Stiles was interrupted as the door to Eileen’s creaked open and two people entered. One was a toughly built young man with a bum leg; it looked as though it had sustained an injury that was still healing. The other was a perky, pretty young woman who wore her hair tied up in a topknot. The pair seemed to be together, as they never moved more than a few feet away from one another.
The male spoke first. “Eileen! It’s Miller time. Katie and I are thirsty.”
Eileen, a heavyset woman and the proprietor of the establishment that bore her name, looked up from behind the bar. “I’ve told you already. No tabs.”
“Relax,” said the man. “I come bearing gifts.” The pair approached the bar and heaved a thick plastic bag onto the polished oak surface. “See? Katie and I found a patch of potatoes when we were out scouting. Figured you could make a stew out of them. Or maybe brew some vodka.”
“Well, well,” said Eileen, eyeing the sack. “Maybe I misjudged you, Ron. All right . . . a pint per pound.”
Ron shook his head. “Two pints per pound.”
“One and a half.”
“Done,” Ron said, and shook Eileen’s hand on it.
The roundtable discussion continued as Ron and Katie bartered with Eileen—except for Stiles. He stared, slack-jawed, at the newcomers.
“It can’t be,” Stiles said after a long moment, his gaze locked on the couple at the bar. The conversation at the table ceased again, and all eyes turned to him.
“What can’t be?” asked Commander Harris.
“It can’t be,” repeated Stiles, still staring at Ron and Katie. “It’s not possible.”
The newcomers, meanwhile, had noticed the silence at the large table and turned away from the bar to see what the fuss was about.
They did a double take when they spotted Stiles.
“Mark? Mark Stiles?” asked Ron.
“Ron! Katie!” Stiles shouted, leaping up out of his chair and stumbling a bit on his bad wheel. “I can’t believe it!”
“A lot of that going around,” murmured Harris, taking another swig of his beer.
Ron’s look of elation quickly faded. He backed up against the bar, holding an arm across Katie’s chest to prevent her from getting any closer to Stiles. His expression became unreadable. “You’re supposed to be dead. We saw you die.”
Stiles sighed. “No, you didn’t. You saw me lead the crowd of infected off on a side street so you could get away clean.”
“But you were—” Ron began.
“Yeah. I was bitten.”
At this, every occupant of the pub backed away, some knocking over chairs in their haste. Only the sailors, Hal, and Harris remained seated.
Stiles caught the patrons’ reaction and let out a bitter laugh. “Yeah. That’s right. I’m infected. I’m a carrier of Morningstar. But keep those weapons holstered. I might be contagious, but I’m not going to turn on you.”
“I don’t understand,” Katie said, a confused look on her face. “How. . .?”
“I guess I’m immune,” Stiles said, speaking slowly and clearly. “I don’t know why. Or how. But I never turned.”
“What happened to you?” Ron asked, reaching behind himself for the pint glass of beer Eileen had offered him. He downed it quickly.
“That,” said Stiles, “is a long story. After I led the infected away from you—which was not easy, let me tell you—I found an old shop and barricaded myself inside. And I waited to die.”
The pub was silent, intent on Stiles’s story.
“For a while I thought about suicide. I didn’t want to turn. I found an infected in the building with me and I thought, That’s not going to be me. I’d do anything for that to not be me. But I couldn’t do it. I sat there and put the barrel in my mouth and almost pulled the trigger, but I just couldn’t. Over and over, like it was some kind of ritual. But something wouldn’t let me. So I sat and waited. After the first week passed, I realized I wasn’t getting sick. Then I thought that maybe it would just take longer for it to affect me, so I sat and waited some more. Can you imagine . . . can you even imagine what it’s like to sit and know that you’re going to die? That it’s only a matter of time before you become what you’ve been fighting for months?”
