Survivors

by Z. A. Recht

  With a wandering mind, he passed under the grain lift and headed for the metal shed Hal had pointed out.

  Above Stiles, Krueger perched on the round metal platform that sat alongside the top of the grain elevator. He’d placed rusted-out, empty metal drums along the outer edges of the space, rendering him nearly invisible from the ground.

  Usually Krueger spent his downtime reading, or dozing with his rifle across his chest.

  Not today. Today, Krueger was on the hunt.

  “That’s right, bitches,” Krueger whispered, eyes fixed on his scope. “Sergeant Carlos Hathcock is taking aim at the enemy. It’s a long way off. Winds are off the chart. There’s no way anyone could make this shot. No one . . . but me.”

  Krueger mouthed the word “Blam!” and jerked his rifle back in a passable imitation of recoil.

  Half a mile away, the wooden clothesline he had been aiming at stood resolute, unaware of its brief role as target.

  Krueger threw up his arms. “He’s done it! Hathcock takes down Ho Chi Minh with a single bullet! The Vietnam War is over!”

  “Ahem.”

  The sudden interruption brought Krueger to an immediate halt. He dropped his arms, a guilty grin crossing his face.

  Juni stared at him from the top rung of the ladder. “I won’t ask.”

  “Hey, come on, Carlos Hathcock happens to be one of the best snipers who ever lived, okay?” Krueger said, then sulkily added, “Besides, can’t a guy have a little fun now and then?”

  “Here’s lunch, Vasili,” said Juni, tossing a plastic-wrapped sandwich to Krueger. The sharpshooter caught it easily, then eyed the contents.

  “Do I want to know what’s in it?”

  “Fried Spam.”

  “I just decided I don’t want to know what’s in it,” Krueger said with a grimace. He tucked the sandwich away for later.

  “Sorry. Maybe next time it’ll be roast beef,” said Juni, with a smile.

  “Sure, and maybe it’ll be ant loaf.”

  Juni began the slow climb down the grain elevator, and when her feet touched dirt, she headed for the Fac’s rear entrance. It was just past noon, and it was her turn on kitchen duty. The pickings might be slim, but she didn’t want to disappoint.

  “Excellent,” Sawyer said into his radio. “You just make sure you hold off until you get the word. I don’t want anything ruining my surprise party for these bastards.”

  Sawyer, putting the radio away with a wide grin, turned to see his second in command arrive. “Huck,” he said, motioning the lieutenant over. “Talk to me about our preparations.”

  Lieutenant Finnegan didn’t quite roll his eyes, but it took every inch of military bearing he possessed.

  “The advance units are all in place, sir. Our men are seeding themselves into Omaha and should be in their assigned spots by sixteen hundred. Minimal contact with infected, as was expected. I haven’t gotten a report from the team you sent to Offutt AFB—”

  “I have,” Sawyer said. “They have accomplished their objective and are on hot standby. Then we get Mason and Sherman and whoever the fuck else is in there and punch their tickets. The men are clear on this point, correct? Everyone in that facility, with the sole exception of Dr. Anna Demilio, is to be exterminated on contact.”

  “Yes, sir,” Lieutenant Finnegan said. “Will that be all?”

  “No,” Sawyer said. “Find Lutz and his band of idiots. Make sure they’re not in position to fuck any of this up.”

  He was dying, he knew that much for sure. He had to be. Why else would his life be flashing before his eyes?

  It was his first day on the USS Ramage. This was a day that he was sure he’d remember for a long, long time. He walked up the long gangplank, keeping one hand on the handrail, feeling the ropes holding the ship’s banner tied to it. USS RAMAGE (DDG-61) it said. Par excellence. When he got to the top, he said, “Request permission to come aboard. Commander John Harris, reporting for duty.”

  The young quarterdeck watch nearly twisted himself in half, trying to decide what to do next. He knew that they were expecting a new executive officer, and that the new XO’s name would be Harris, so he was torn between giving a quick salute and greeting to the Commander or piping him aboard over the 1MC, the general announcing system.

  Luckily for him, the Officer of the Deck came to his rescue and sent one of the messengers to alert the CO that his new second in command was reporting. Then he stepped forward and greeted Harris. It was Rico, alive and well.

  This is how I know I’m dying, Harris thought. Rico wasn’t the OOD. He was never the OOD.

  “The captain is on board and waiting for you, sir. I assume you’re familiar with the Arleigh Burke class destroyer?”

  “I am. Does that mean I don’t get the pre-report tour?”

  “Sir, no, sir. We have everything ready for you, Commander.”

  John Harris smiled then, ready to get to work. He’d put a lot of time in on other ships, and this was his next-to-last trip before a command of his own. Had it all been worth it? He’d asked himself that question many times over his long career. Time missed with family and loved ones, events that he would never get another chance at, days spent hunched over a manual, back when he was a junior officer, or overseeing a gang of blueshirts performing repairs in the engine room. So much time spent on these islands of steel.

  Instead of following Rico into the ship, he walked to the handrail and looked out to the sea. It was true, what they said: once you got it in your blood, it would always be a part of you. The siren song of the open ocean, calling you back.

  He turned and looked back over the deck and saw himself ready to leave. With something of a start, he realized that was the day they’d abandoned ship.

  I don’t get any of the good memories in between, then?

  “Secure that weapon,” he said. “Double-knot those boots, son, what do you want to do, have them come off in the mud?” He raised his hands and his voice, as if beseeching the Almighty. “Oh, Jesus, give me strength, sailor! You wear the damn webgear like this.”

  From the corner of his eye he spotted Hal, snickering at the sailors. Harris snorted at Hal’s expression. He probably thinks he’s got that smirk concealed. He continued up and down the line, dressing down whoever needed it.

  The greatest journey of his life was about to begin.

  Omaha, NE

  1 July 2007

  1734 hrs_

  BY THE TIME JUNI rang the dinner bell, the sun had settled behind a group of clouds, blunting its glare.

  The survivors filed in, some from the yard, others from their rooms, and took up their places in the break room. All were present save Anna, still working in the lab below, and Krueger, who had elected to remain behind and keep a watch while the others ate. With the sandwich to tide him over, he was perfectly willing to settle for leftovers. Hal and Stone were still at the dispatch shack, plugging away.

  “What’s on the menu tonight, beautiful?” Brewster said with a grin as he filed into the break room. “No, wait, let me guess. It’s either Spam or more pasta.”

  Juni planted a hand on her hip and fixed Brewster with a disapproving stare. “That’s just about all we have, Brewster.” Her attitude brightened. “But I think you’ll like what I’ve done with the stuff.”

  Juni presented the ragtag group with a steaming bowl of noodles, mixed with bits of green and red.

  “What is this?” sniffed Brewster.

  Juni looked hurt. “Vegetable pasta. We had some cans sitting around, so I added them in. There’s corn, and potatoes, and peas. Eat it. It’s good. I already tried it.”

  Brewster eyed the dish a moment, shrugged, and helped himself to a serving. “Dinner might be monotonous around here, but at least there is a dinner.”

  “That’s the attitude we’re looking for,” Sherman said in approval, grinning.

  “I don’t know,” said Jack the Welder, forking up mouthfuls of the dish. “I kind of like it. Nice work, Juni. You can be th
e cook every night, in my book.”

  Pleased, Juni managed a half bow. “Thank you. At least someone appreciates it.” She smacked the back of Brewster’s head as she passed, causing him to choke on a mouthful of vegetables.

  “Ow,” he managed after swallowing, rubbing at his head.

  “Maybe this will make you feel better,” she said, coming back with a handful of dark croutons. He eyed them for a moment as she dumped them onto his plate.

  “Wow, Juni,” he said, momentarily touched. “Thanks, really. I didn’t—”

  “Shh,” she said, looking at him sweetly. “Just eat.”

  With a wide smile, Brewster dug into his plate. He scooped some pasta into his mouth and worked at it, the beatific expression on his face slowly changing to confusion.

  “These are kind of crunchy. They kind of . . .”

  “Make you want to sit up and beg?” she asked, and Thomas, who could no longer hold it, let go with a belly laugh that none of the group had ever heard from him.

  “Fucking dog food,” Brewster said, and Thomas laughed even harder. Sherman was so surprised, even he stopped eating. He, Denton, Jack, and Trev all stared at Thomas.

  “What?” he asked, the laughing finally tapering off. “I don’t get to laugh, ever?”

  Denton shook his head. “Never thought I’d see the day.”

  Mbutu Ngasy smiled widely and dug into his dinner. “Good omen to start a meal with happiness.”

  “Happiness and dog food,” Brewster moaned, which started Thomas off again.

  “Jesus Christ, it really is the end of the world,” Denton said.

  While the survivors were all grouped together, Sherman took the opportunity to remind them of their upcoming foray into Omaha. “Remember, folks, get to bed early tonight. We’ll be heading out once the sun is fully up so we’ll have plenty of daylight to work with.”

  “We remember, Frank,” said Denton. “The supply run to end all supply runs.”

  “At least for a while,” added Jack.

  “Until we eat it all,” agreed Brewster.

  “In any case,” Sherman went on, oblivious to the banter, “make sure you’re ready to go before oh-nine. The earlier we get started, the longer we have to search.”

  “Your wish is my order, oh three-starred one,” said Brewster, which would normally earn him an irate look from Thomas. That day, however, the sergeant major just smiled.

  “Woof,” he said.

  Deep in the Fac, Anna was laughing.

  All by herself in the BL4 lab, and encumbered in her Chemturion suit, she did a rough approximation of a happy dance. The rat bitten that morning was wounded pretty badly, but . . . no signs of turning.

  “Come here, you little survivor, you,” she cooed as she tried to grab hold of the little rat. A blood sample would tell her for sure what she dared to hope.

  Finally grabbing on to the squirming rodent, she stuck it with a hypodermic and sucked some of its blood into the clear chamber. Her next thought was to dump the rat into the incinerator with the rest of its brothers, but something stayed her hand.

  At first, she thought maybe it was errant sentimentality. Should the rat survive Morningstar only to be consumed by fire? She shook her head. Maybe she was just tired. She shook her head again.

  “I’m always tired. What is it?”

  Like a bizarre statue, she stood there with a full syringe in one hand and a squealing lab rat in the other, lost in thought. Her eyes closed and opened, alternately scanning the room and looking over the body of the rat, all its wounds . . .

  “The wounds!” she practically screamed. “The fucking wounds! Why won’t Stiles’s leg bite heal up? What about the arm?” She eyed the rat carefully. “Why am I asking you, you might be wondering? Well, I’ll tell you, Ralph,” she said, leaning her hip against a stainless steel counter. “If I can heal you, I can heal him. If I can heal him . . . well, shit. I can heal anyone. Back you go.”

  She put Ralph the Rodent back into his cage and closed it, turning to take a closer look at the blood in her hands.

  One hour and a triple-check later, Dr. Demilio came out of the BL4 labs at a run once again. “Frank!” she shouted. “Come look at this!”

  She burst into the improvised Situation Room, where Sherman and Thomas were going over the map of the local area with Denton.

  “Frank!” she said. “Come on. Grab Stiles and Becky. You too, Thomas. You need to see this.”

  Mbutu and Brewster were taking their turn on the Fac’s roof, pulling guard duty. Unaware of the ecstatic discovery about to be shared below them, the pair had settled in for a long night’s shift.

  “I hate night shifts,” lamented Brewster. “Nothing ever happens.”

  “I prefer them,” said Mbutu. “Nothing ever happens.”

  “Krueger snagged a shambler yesterday. How much you want to bet we don’t see a single one?”

  Mbutu chuckled, but didn’t reply.

  A distant pop drew the attention of the rooftop guards, and they both peered over the edge to locate the source of the noise. They could hear a fizzling overhead, and a moment later, a bright orange flare lit up the twilight, suspended by a parachute. It lit up the entire block.

  “What the fuck?” wondered Brewster. “Where’d that come from?”

  A moment later, a second flare popped in midair, joining the first in lazy flight.

  At that moment, something came over the radio in response to Hal Dorne’s frequent queries. He and Stone sat straight up in the radio shack and eyed the speakers, then looked at each other.

  “What do we do?” Stone asked.

  “Shit if I know! You go tell someone, and I’ll keep trying to raise them,” Hal said, smacking the radio apparatus with one hand and gripping the mic with the other.

  “Right,” Stone said, running from the shack.

  As he got outside, he saw the flares, as well as the silhouettes of Brewster and Mbutu on the roof. “Hey! Hey . . . uh, Brewster!”

  “Huh? Oh, hey, Stone!”

  “Yes, Stone! Hal says he caught something on the radio.”

  Pointing at the lazily descending flares, Brewster said, “Do you think that’s them?”

  “Could be. Should we go out and see?”

  Brewster shook his head. “I can’t make that call, man.”

  Stone put his hands up. “Well, who can, then?”

  “I’m sorry about all the rigmarole,” apologized Dr. Anna Demilio. “But you have to wear the suits into BL4 or you’ll be exposed to . . . well, I’m not even sure you want to know what else is in here besides Morning-star.”

  Sherman, tugging one of the blue Chemturion suits on in BL4’s staging area, nodded in agreement. “I wouldn’t mind staying in the dark.”

  Thomas, meanwhile, seemed frustrated with his own suit, grumbling as he pulled it on. “I never signed up to be no goddamn astronaut.”

  “You get used to them,” said Anna, rolling duct tape around the joints of her gloves. “After a while, you don’t even realize you’re wearing them.”

  “I don’t know,” said Stiles, flexing his arms to get a feel for the Chemturion. “Kind of makes me feel like a space marine.”

  “That’s not far from the truth,” said Anna, checking her seals. “You’re all about to enter a completely contained environment. We keep it under negative air pressure, so if there are any leaks, air flows in, not out. It’s totally sealed off from the outside world. Once you’re inside, you have to hook up to air hoses pumping clean atmo from outside the lab. You can’t breathe the air in there. It’s contaminated. It’s the closest thing to being in space you’ll ever get to experience, short of an actual shuttle ride.”

  Rebecca, also present, worked her way into her suit without a word of complaint. She’d been through the procedure a dozen times working with Anna, and knew precisely what to expect.

  “All right,” said Anna, satisfied that her group had suited up safely and securely. “Next we go through decon.”
r />   Sherman grunted. “I thought this was decon.”

  Anna chuckled. “Oh, no, sir, we don’t take any chances when it comes to these bugs. BL4 agents, I mean. There’s a whole mess of security to pass through before we’re in the lab.”

  Sherman shrugged. “Lead on. I’m in over my head here.”

  Thomas grunted in agreement.

  “It’s not so bad,” said Stiles. “Seems pretty fun. And good company, too.” He glanced at Rebecca, but she stared straight ahead, ignoring the soldier.

  “Decon shower,” said Anna, pulling open a door and gesturing into the compartment within. “Everyone inside.”

  The party made their way into the decon chamber. Anna pulled the door shut behind them, and a bright green light on the wall clicked over to a dim red, bathing the room in a dull glow.

  For a moment, nothing happened. The occupants stood silently, waiting.

  Stiles found his voice first. “Is something supposed to—”

  Jets of disinfectant sprayed out from nozzles on the wall, drenching the occupants in moments.

  “Oh,” added Stiles, wiping disinfectant from the faceplate of his suit. “Never mind.”

  After a brace of minutes, the showers shut off, leaving the occupants of the narrow room soaked and dripping disinfectant onto the grated floor. Stiles felt thankful for the suit. Inside, he remained dry as a bone.

  “What next?” asked Sherman.

  “Next? Just open the door. We’re clear to enter,” said Anna, gesturing at the heavy metal door at the far end of the decon chamber. The red light on the wall had changed back over to bright green.

  Sherman pushed open the heavy portal.

  Tiled floors and walls gave the impression of impeccable hygiene, and every instrument on each of the numerous counters was placed just so, inches apart from one another. Everything was neatly ordered.

  “Welcome back to BL4,” said Anna, her voice muffled behind the faceplate of her suit. She walked over to a coiled nozzle hanging from the ceiling and plugged it into the back of her suit. The hiss of oxygen was audible even to her guests, and her suit swelled up. She raised her voice to be heard above the rush of air. “Find yourselves a hose and hook up.”