Some unpleasant, bulldog-faced female assistant outside the president’s office told me to wait a moment and she would “see if they were ready for me.” I knew it! They were waiting to pounce. Part of me wanted to run, but the emotionally numb part of me said to just go in and face the music. When dogface motioned for me to enter, I took two short breaths and stepped inside.
The first thing I noticed was the president standing and talking to a very distinguished, older gentleman who seemed vaguely familiar. I couldn’t place the other man, but I knew he wasn’t a ParGenTech employee.
Must be FBI.
Then off to the side I saw Phil and a couple of the other department heads, and they were all smiling at me.
What the hell are they smiling at?
Then I looked all around the room and saw a man with a camera and a big canvas bag over his shoulder, wearing a “Visitor” tag.
Oh great, they are going to take pictures of my arrest.
“My dear Rebecca!” the president gushed. “Such a pleasure to see you again!”
WTF?
He came around the desk to shake my hand, and then gestured to the familiar man and said, “And I’m sure you know Dr. Feinstein.”
Feinstein? Who the hell…Oh no, not Dr. Feinstein—the Dean of Something or Other at Columbia! I’m going to get fired, arrested, and kicked out of medical school!
“Rebecca, I can see by your expression that you have absolutely no idea what’s going on,” Dr. Feinstein said, taking my hand warmly, with a soft strength that I had only found in surgeons. As I recalled, he had been one of the best in the country. “That’s good, very good. I was afraid someone would spoil the surprise.”
“I can assure you, Dr. Feinstein, whatever happens next will surprise me!” I replied, my brain whirling in circles trying to figure out what was going on.
“Dr. Masterson contacted me several weeks ago, and we were most distressed to hear of your predicament,” Dr. Feinstein said as he thoughtfully stroked his precisely trimmed white beard. I wondered if he used a scalpel to trim it. “Yes, most distressed. We then learned of your fine work on the project and your important contributions, not the least of which was your personal battle and ultimate success against the infection. We didn’t hesitate to proceed with Dr. Masterson’s suggestion.”
I looked over at Phil and he was beaming like a proud poppa, but didn’t say a word. When I turned back to Dr. Feinstein, he was holding out a rectangular box.
“Go ahead, open it. You’ve earned it!” he said.
I still didn’t have a clue. Maybe it was some sort of commendation? I opened the box and stared at the framed certificate inside. My eyes darted around the official-looking piece of paper, and it was from Columbia Medical School and it did have my name on it, but the rest of the words just weren’t registering. Then Phil walked over and extended his hand and said, “I asked if I could be the first to congratulate you, Doctor Truesdale!”
He was vigorously shaking my hand and I was just staring dumbly at him for a few moments. Then it all hit me. I looked back at the framed paper, and it was a diploma! Thanks to my wonderful boss, mentor, and friend, Phil, he had set the wheels in motion to have my remaining course work waived. Of course, it was great publicity for Columbia and ParGenTech (that’s why the cameraman was there), but I didn’t care why or how they did it. This was my lifelong dream come true!
The president then handed me a new, shiny, gold-colored nametag that read “Dr. R. Truesdale” and I thought it was the most beautiful thing I ever saw. It probably was against protocol, but I found myself hugging him! In fact, I gave everyone in the room a hug. And just as I thought I would start crying and making a fool of myself, Phil came to the rescue.
“Okay now, before we all start singing Kumbaya, let’s get this photo op done with so I can get Dr. Truesdale back to work!”
Hit ‘em High and Hit ‘em Low: When we were alone in Phil’s office, I sincerely thanked him for everything he had done for me and my career. Then I was tempted to bring up the shooting, but I got the impression that he wasn’t going to mention it if I didn’t, so I didn’t. I could do without hearing any Dr. Kilzombie jokes. (I would get plenty of those from Cam’s friends in the future.)
I was also tempted to ask if he had contacted the dean about getting my diploma because he thought I was going to die, but decided I didn’t want to know, and I didn’t want to cast any negative light on this wonderful occasion. I had busted my butt for this, sacrificed my personal life, plunged myself into a deep abyss of student loans, and I wasn’t about to let a mutated zombie parasite rob me of this glorious moment. No matter what happened, I was now and forever Doctor Truesdale.
As I was pinning my new nametag onto my lab coat, Phil started to bring me up to speed on all of the efforts to stem the rising zombie tide. For starters, the QK drugs that had saved me (and almost killed me) were being modified and refined. One of the research facilities in Rochester was working on an oral version; a “morning after” pill which hopefully was effective if taken within 24 hours of being infected.
Nothing had as yet been effective in end stage infections, where mature parasites had already woven their tangled web inside the spinal column and throughout the brain. However, even though they had been unable to kill these parasites without killing the human patient, they did find some limited success in inhibiting the ZIPs growth by using implanted electrodes. The ZIPs took control of the body by “completing the circuit” of linked parasites, and then sending electrical currents along their path that mimicked those of nerve cells. By disrupting those signals with electrodes implanted in the brain and along the spine, researchers had been able to “short circuit” the ZIPs temporarily, but they always regenerated.
Other studies were being conducted with antiarrhythmic heart medications and antiepileptic drugs that worked to block sodium channels in human nerve cells and reduce their conductivity. They seemed to be equally effective in disrupting the electrical flow of the ZIPs, but caused the patient a host of side effects, such as dangerously low heart rate and a host of neurological problems.
Progress was indeed being made on several fronts, and as Phil emphasized, the goal was to “hit ‘em high and hit ‘em low, and knock out those bastard ZIPs” by any means possible. Unfortunately for now, the only cases of actual cures, such as mine, were the result of injecting the QKs into the spine and bloodstream with early stage infections, but it was hoped that would soon change with the work being done around the world.
I assumed I would be getting back to work on the QKs, but Phil shook his head and said they had something else for me to do, something related to my previous project.
“But why should I go back to those projects when the ZIPs are the obvious priority?” I asked, completely disappointed.
“No, Becks…I mean Doctor Becks,” he added with a wink, “You will be working on the ZIPs, but we want you to approach the problem with the techniques you had been developing.”
I was confused, as I had been working on genetically modifying certain common parasites to inhibit their ability to infect human hosts. It was all theoretical and experimental and had yet to yield any practical results.
“I don’t see your point. There just hasn’t been enough time to even know where to begin. We’ve never even seen organisms like the ZIPs before, and we know very little about them.”
“That’s not entirely true,” he replied, looking a bit sheepish as he handed me a file stamped TOP SECRET in red ink.
“Are you kidding me? Did you buy some gag rubber stamp, or is this the real deal?” I asked, suddenly feeling like I was in a James Bond movie.
“It’s the real deal. Take this back to your desk and let’s meet up again after lunch.”
What You Don’t Know Can Hurt You. In Fact, It Can Kill You.: “Son of a bitch!” I said out loud, not caring if everyone else in the adjoining cubicles could hear me.
They knew! For over a year, they knew that these mutated parasite
s had been spreading across the globe. Outbreaks had been occurring in dozens of countries and “special teams” were always sent in to “contain” the victims and “sanitize” the region. To explain small scale containment and sanitizing operations, they relied on a list of standard scripted explanations, such as Ebola or plague-carrying rats. When the operations were on a large scale (involving leveling entire neighborhoods), terrorism was always the blanket excuse. The list of countries complicit in the cover up read like a Who’s Who in the United Nations.
The ZIPs had quietly been very busy, as well. They had been happily mutating into at least fourteen different varieties, and government labs already had the complete DNA profiles of them all, along with reams of experimental data. However, the Hudson Valley outbreak was a new ZIP altogether, and to summarize its features that distinguished it from its cousins, it was quite simply the toughest, meanest parasite on the block.
Whereas all the other types of ZIPs were slower to take hold of the human host and could be eradicated with some conventional drugs, the HVZIP thumbed its nose at existing treatments. It had also accelerated its growth from egg, to larvae, to mature parasite, and had “learned” to release more potent neurotoxins, especially when under attack.
While I could never forgive these governments for withholding this information from the public, I could see where they had been totally unprepared for the current crisis as they felt they were dealing with something well within their ability to control. Messy, expensive, and inconvenient to deal with to be sure, but something that could be dealt with and eventually eradicated. No one expected the Hudson Valley Uber-ZIP.
I wouldn’t have been surprised if steam was coming out of my ears as I read the “Global Assessment” section of the file. Studies had been conducted and it had been determined that if news of the ZIP outbreaks had been reported, the ensuing panic would have “damaging repercussions on an already fragile world economy,” so it was best kept secret. Never mind the hundreds, or thousands—or was it even more?—of lives that had been lost, we certainly didn’t want to damage the fragile economy—especially not with 2012 being an election year.
After reading, and rereading, the entire file, I had to take a break and go outside. I made myself walk around the building several times to let my anger subside beneath a nuclear level. When I went back to talk to Phil, I wanted to make sure I approached him as a rational scientist—as a doctor—who had a rational plan to neutralize the ZIP threat.
“These fucking bastards should all be shot!” I shouted, slamming the file down on Phil’s desk. His eyes were wide and he clearly was uncomfortable with me mentioning anything to do with shooting. But I immediately changed my demeanor, smoothed out my lab coat, straightened my new nametag and continued. “That being said, with the information you’ve provided, I think I can begin to develop a strategy.”
Graduation Day: I easily could have worked right through the night at ParGenTech, but there was something I simply had to do. The sun was sinking fast as I sped out of the parking lot, and I hoped I would make it before dark.
Twilight had settled onto the eastern slopes of Rockland Cemetery as I pulled in. I expected to be alone at this time of the evening, but several mourners were still lingering from the days’ many funerals. At least, I hoped they were mourners!
There were still a few rays of crimson sunlight illuminating the tops of the polished granite stones as I pulled alongside the Truesdale family plot. Just to be on the safe side, I left the engine running and the door open as I approached my parents’ graves. I knelt down and held out my diploma. I said out loud that I was sure they were even happier for me than I was for myself. I said a lot of other things, too, maybe some things I should have said when they were alive, but I knew they never had any doubt as to what was in my heart.
Comforting warmth suddenly swept over me, and I made believe that they were putting their arms around me—or maybe they really were? In any event, the tranquil moment was broken by the sound of twigs snapping and something rustling through the underbrush in the trees not far away. Perhaps it was a deer, perhaps not. The sounds grew closer and I ran back to the car. My pistol was in my bag over my shoulder, but two shootings in two days would definitely put me over the edge. And I certainly wasn’t about to shoot someone on my graduation day!
As I looped the car around to head back down the hill, I saw a figure emerge from the shadows of the woods behind me. I couldn’t be certain in the dim light, and maybe it was just my imagination, but the figure did seem to have that distinctive staggering gait.
I didn’t want to look any more. I didn’t want to know. Dead or alive, whoever it was would smell my burning rubber as I got the hell out of there as fast as possible.
Extraordinary Measures: Hidden deep within most town charters is a standard line that reads, “And the said municipality will exercise its right to enact extraordinary measures in times of extraordinary circumstances.” It’s just seventeen simple words that have been included in these legal documents in this country since before the Founding Fathers broke free of the British lion’s grasp.
As with so many things that have been around for centuries, these words have been repeated so often that no one questions them. Perhaps someone should have been paying attention, however, as they just might be the most dangerous words ever committed to parchment and paper. Because they can, in effect, suspend all Constitutional rights and bring swift and brutal frontier justice to the most urban setting. Think of Martial Law on steroids.
Such was the case in late August with Hudson, New York, which was founded back in 1785 and was actually the first city in the state to receive a charter under the new federal government. The zombie population there had exploded, gangs of human looters were running wild, and the old section of town was rapidly becoming a No Man’s Land for the undead, and people who didn’t deserve to live. In a secret meeting of city and federal officials, local law enforcement, and the National Guard, a plan was put into place to deal with the crisis.
Its scope was unprecedented in U.S. history. From 7th Street down to the river, from Union and Allen Street to the south, and Dock, Mill, and Clinton to the north, “Operation Grid” would systematically clear out every building with a relentless and impenetrable envelopment from all three land sides. It was scheduled to commence at dawn on Tuesday, August 28. Just as the sky began to lighten, loudspeakers on Humvees blasted messages, and a massive, automated direct calling took place to all businesses and residences. Everyone was informed that they had just ten minutes to “pack a small bag of essential items” and exit their buildings.
They would then proceed—supposedly in an orderly fashion—on foot, and follow the bright orange arrows to the baseball fields on Harry Howard Avenue, where an “Assessment Camp” had sprung up overnight. Tests would be performed on every individual, and those found to be in the infectious stage would immediately be placed on trucks and taken to “the appropriate facilities.” Anyone who did not comply would be considered to be “terminally infected” and would be dealt with “in the appropriate manner,” which essentially boiled down to being shot on sight.
Some people ran out into the street in silent terror. Others rushed out yelling things about the Constitution and Nazis and storm troopers. Most barely made it into the street on time, and it was an almost comical array of people in pajamas and underwear, with one leg of their pants on, hopping up and down to get on shoes and socks as they rushed into the streets. Children screamed, women and men cried, dogs barked, and if it wasn’t for the presence of cellphones and the uniforms of the police and National Guard, it could very well have been a scene out of Poland during World War II.
The procession of scared and angry people actually did start out in an orderly fashion, until the zombies came out. Staggering out of alleys, basements, and wherever they had been gathering (they liked to stay in groups for some reason). They had been drawn by the noise and movement, and to their primitive cognitive abilities, the evac
uation route appeared as one big buffet.
The first attack occurred on 3rd Street. A pack of at least a dozen zombies descended upon a few families moving slowly because they had babies in strollers. Parents valiantly fought to protect their children; others ran in all directions in panic. A Humvee with a machine gun mounted on the roof raced in and started mowing down zombies. Of course, in the struggle it was impossible to always determine the difference between the living and the dead, but by the time the gun went silent there was no confusion—they were all quite dead.
Everyone started running, at least those who could, and many of the elderly, sick, and handicapped were left to fend for themselves, and try to fend off the zombies. Many brave police and National Guard soldiers ran in on foot to defend the helpless, but they couldn’t be everywhere. Unfortunately, zombies feasting on indistinguishable piles of bloody meat were too often the result of their encounters with the slow and the weak.
Despite the panic, the attacks, and the general chaos, people did begin to stream into the Assessment Camp, where they were immediately forced to take the urinalysis test—in full view of the assessment teams, and everyone else (privacy was a luxury no one could now expect). Anyone showing the slightest hint of blue on the filter (simple chemically treated, coffee machine-type filters had replaced the more expensive and bulky cups) was hustled into a livestock truck and taken to god-knows-where. If people refused to leave their infected loved ones, they were allowed to go with them, which as we all know now was a virtual death sentence.
Meanwhile, the noose around The Grid slowly tightened, and on the surface, the streets of Hudson became a killing field of unparalleled ruthlessness, as unarmed men, women, and children were gunned down. In reality, of course, these were zombies or those so far gone they were beyond help. And if you needed someone to have a gun in their hand before you would fire upon them, you weren’t going to last very long. Many of the National Guard troops had seen fierce fighting in Afghanistan, but what they witnessed that day went far beyond anything they had ever experienced before.
HVZA (Book 1): Hudson Valley Zombie Apocalypse Page 8
