by J. Thorn
Juice raised one of his ham-sized hands. “How come we hadn’t heard of ’em before now?”
“Biggest names got attention first. And this one is definitely a boutique outfit. Like fifteen guys in a white room.”
Ainsley started to look impatient. “What does the email say?”
The Colonel held his gaze for a bit, then looked back to his papers. “Says the team there had worked out a method of dsRNA interference – one that suppresses a critical gene in the virus. And as a result selectively induces apoptosis in any cells containing the viral dsRNA.”
“Apoptosis,” echoed Juice. “Cell suicide.”
“An ice cream cone for the big bearded man,” the Colonel said, tapping his pen. “They also claimed it rapidly kills infected cells without harming healthy, uninfected cells.”
“We’ve heard this kind of big talk before,” said Juice. “Does their shit work?”
“They claim it had demonstrated effect in multi-celled bacteria, mice – and chimps.”
This earned a couple of respectful whistles. Chimps share 98% of DNA with humans.
“So then we’re looking at a cure,” Captain Ainsley said.
The Colonel shook his head. “Only for those the virus hasn’t killed yet. More of an antidote – if you administer it quickly enough. But useless on the reanimated. Too late after it’s killed you.”
“As J.B. Watson said,” Ali intoned, “‘When you’re dead, you’re all dead.’”
Juice snorted. “J.B. Watson’s out there walking around somewhere.”
“Touché.”
“But more fucking importantly,” said the Colonel, looking impatient, as he often did with his precocious polymath commandos, “they claim their dsRNA-i technique can also be used in vaccine development. And that they were in the ballpark of making it work.”
A few beats of silence filled the room. An antidote would mean hope for the recently infected. But a working vaccine would be a way back for humanity. Salvation.
“Well let’s go get it, then,” said Handon. “Where?”
The Colonel cleared his throat and shuffled his papers again.
* * *
“Fugly Chi-town,” said Pope in a goofy voice.
“Da Bears,” said Juice, in another, looking off into a dark corner.
The six non-command Alpha team members had been ejected from the briefing room, and were now piled into one of their quad billets.
“Fucking Chicago? Seriously?” Predator asked rhetorically.
“As in Chicago, Illinois, USA?” asked Henno. He’d obviously heard of it. He just didn’t believe it.
Despite their joking, no one in Alpha was really finding any of this funny. It was nervous tension, gallows humor. Though Pope looked dead-level and composed as always. “A U.S. mission would be an incredible stretch of our capabilities and logistics.”
“Bloody suicide mission, more like,” said Henno.
“You lose it out there,” added Pred, “you’re in a world of hurt.”
No one had heard a peep out of North America for over a year. It was assumed to be wall-to-wall corpses, from sea to shining sea. Even worse than fallen Europe. An enormous frontier country of the dead.
“Ain’t no Quick Reaction Force on that continent,” said Juice. “Ain’t no humans.”
“We don’t know that,” said Ali in measured tones. “There could still be isolated pockets of survivors.”
Juice gave her a look. “What’s the last new episode of Mad Men you’ve seen broadcast?”
“Point taken.” Ali looked down sadly. “And it’s not just in the middle of the continent. It’s also inside a city of three million people. Three million dead people.”
All of the Alpha operators knew the score. Each of them had fought numerous urban battles, both before and after the end of civilization. From engagements going back to Mogadishu, to Beirut, and even before, they knew that urban areas were bad fucking news. Time, personnel, resources – such as ammo, radio batteries, and water – cities had a way of burning through them all – usually much more quickly than expected.
Before the fall, major cities had been the scenes of epic set-piece battles between the living and the dead – and also amongst the living, as survivors battled one another for dwindling resources, access to which meant continued survival. So a city also presented the additional danger of friendly fire from any remnants of the living. If they’d survived this long, they hadn’t done so by asking questions first and shooting later.
Cities were also the perfect setting for industrial accidents, raging fires, toxic spills, navigational snafus (anyone remember “the lost convoy” from Black Hawk Down?)… and that was aside from the simple goddamned population density. That alone virtually assured any visitors of a full-tilt rollicking Zombie Festival immediately upon arrival.
If you lost your mobility or initiative in a city, if you got in trouble or bogged down, you’d generally find yourself holed up in some large structure, barricaded in. And the thing about zombies is that once they are onto you, they just will not go away. You’re now in a siege, one of unlimited duration. And in a siege, the moans of the besiegers will bring more besiegers. And the newcomers never leave either. So you could theoretically trigger some kind of zombie singularity – and find yourself at the center of a mass of all the zombies on that entire continent.
And no matter how high your walls, or how many levels above the street you’ve barricaded… given enough Zulus, they will eventually climb on top of one another until they’ve surmounted whatever it is you’ve constructed.
And even if that didn’t happen, and even if you had supplies for a long siege… you could still be hunkered down in your fortress, feeling nice and safe – and then a fire breaks out. Enjoy your fire drill. Your rendezvous and evacuation point is down there, on the corner of Dead Guy Ave and You’re Fucked Street.
A somewhat stunned silence had now descended over the team.
“And what’s up with the op designation?” Predator said, finally. “Secunda Mortem? I opted out of Latin at Ranger School, but I’m pretty sure mortem means death.”
Homer looked up. He hadn’t spoken until now. “Secunda mortem – second death.” He looked back down to where he held his crucifix before him, pressed between his palms. “It’s a Biblical reference, Christian resurrection theology. ‘Blessed and holy is he who has part in the first resurrection. Over such, the second death has no power, but they will be priests of God and of Christ, and will reign with him a thousand years.’” He looked up into the room again. “Revelations, verse twenty, chapter six.”
Predator snorted and stood. “I’ve gotta take a shit.”
“Sounds like a plan,” said Juice, rising and following him out.
* * *
Ainsley, Handon, and the Colonel now sat in the latter’s office in the dim light. They were going over the high-level tactical options that had been produced by the planning staff so far.
“…Yeah, we could insert by air direct from here,” the Colonel said, leaning back in his chair. “We could just about pull off the logistics of the flight and the refueling. The problem is support.”
“Sir?” Ainsley said.
“Once you arrive in theater, you haven’t fucking got any. Not a sweet rat’s. Totally on your own. Now I know you Tier-1 guys have got a collective death wish. But being air-dropped, eight guys alone, into the middle of Zombie City U.S.A. might be too much for even you dubious sons of bitches.”
“Okay, so then it’s a sea voyage,” said Handon. “On what? Frigate? Destroyer?”
The Colonel didn’t answer. Handon tried, “Catamaran?” He didn’t know if the Waterworld reference would be lost on the others.
The Colonel tapped his pen. “Carrier.”
“There are no carriers,” Handon said.
The Colonel tapped his pen once. “Carrier strike group.”
“Come on.”
“Carrier Strike Group Six. The USS John F. Kennedy.”<
br />
Handon squinted unbelievingly at the Colonel. “The Kennedy’s still floating. Seriously?”
“Seriously. But it’s been need-to-know until now.” The Colonel spared a look at the mission status board mounted on his wall, cables snaking to the floor. “Basically, some people thought that it might become Noah’s freaking Ark – the last bastion of the living on Earth. Hasn’t come to that yet. But she’ll make a hell of a transatlantic cruise liner. Not to mention a hell of a forward operating base for your mission. About half her support ships are still floating, too.”
“Jesus,” said Ainsley.
“Just so,” said the Colonel. “This whole goat rodeo may prove to be an impossible job. Not one of you hardcases may be coming back. But if there’s any possibility of a cure, we’ve got no choice but to do it. Unless you’ve been sitting on a vaccine we don’t know about.”
Ainsley was thinking that it didn’t matter very much whether any of them came back. As long as they were able, somehow, to transmit back the secret to ending the plague.
The Colonel tilted his chair forward again, and spun around a map pack on the desk. “Okay, from the Atlantic coast to Chicago is too long a stretch for a helo insert, and we don’t need you going in there all noisy and waking the dead, anyway.” There was evidence that the dead went dormant when all prey in their region had been devoured. That when the last survivors went down, the undead world went quiet.
“So we’re thinking if you do a HAHO jump, the aircraft won’t even need to overfly the city… You parachute in on the prevailing winds off of Lake Michigan and land right about here…” The Colonel stubbed a spindly finger on the map. “This is just a very early, high-level concept. I’m gonna get us all in a room with joint mission planning staff before the sun goes down tonight.”
The three men leaned in, and tried to imagine a way in.
And maybe a way out.
For everyone.
SEEING GHOSTS
Major Grews paced the floor, glancing at the radio operator every few seconds, his irritation growing by the minute.
“Hail him again,” he said. “Get him on conference.”
The comms officer tapped intently at his keyboard, his hands twitching nervously, but he kept it together. The major was always like this when things were tense. He could become insufferable if left waiting for too long.
Grews hated being stuck in an office, commanding from a chair. It just wasn’t his style. Despite the fact that he’d been ordered to stand back and cease leading from the front, he still yearned to be out there. This was the first real outbreak he’d had the opportunity to handle, even if you counted the defensive year when Zulus walking out of the water regularly threatened the coasts. Since then, there had been small outbreaks across the country, but this was different. He glanced at the clock on the wall. Eight minutes. Eight minutes and that damn plane would level half of the town, along with everything he had worked to rebuild. And CentCom wouldn’t give a damn if it meant losing a hundred infantry with it.
“I’ve got him, Major,” said the radio operator. There was a pop and a high-pitched buzz as the microphone picked up the speakers and fed them back.
“Bordell?” asked the major.
“Speaking, sir,” answered a voice. The signal was weak and dulled by static.
“Status.”
The was a cough from the other end. “Situation is stable, sir,” answered Bordell. “There are a few still wandering around, but the main concentration has been destroyed.”
Grews sighed heavily, feeling the flood of relief soothe his tattered nerves.
“Wait one, Bordell.” Grews turned to the second network operator sitting across the room, waiting.
“Tell them to stand down.”
“Yes, sir.” The operator nodded and flicked up his headset microphone.
“Three Acres Actual orders stand down on the air mission.”
The major turned back to his microphone.
“Bordell. You still there?”
“Yes, sir. Still here.”
“Good work, soldier. Many casualties?”
“Only five of ours, sir. Civilian casualties total eight. But, unfortunately we lost everyone in the outgoing team that were in the hotel. Well, all but one.”
“Christ. That many?”
“Afraid so, sir. We have one survivor, a Captain Martin. Oh, and we also have one of the security detail from the tunnel.”
The major closed his eyes, once more feeling the pressure building between them.
“Clean up, Bordell. Tell everyone good job.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Bordell?”
“Sir?”
“Send me this captain and the security bloke. If they check out, of course. I still have to send out my quota tomorrow.”
“Sir.”
“And get back here as soon as you can. We need to decide which squad is going instead. I have no choice on this. You know that, don’t you?”
There was a pause at the other end.
“Yes, sir.”
“Grews out.”
The line went dead. The major sat back in his chair and sighed. “Great. I have twenty-four hours to get another crew together or my arse is going to be in a sling.”
“Sir?” called the second operator.
“Yes?”
“CentCom confirms stand down on the air mission.”
“Good. Excellent.”
“But sir…”
“What now?”
“They said to inform you to prepare for a full-scale sweep of the area and also for an excavation team on the tunnel.”
“They what?”
“They are going to open the tunnel up, sir.”
“Why? What the hell was their reason?”
“They didn’t say, sir.”
“Get me CentCom and ask for Colonel Mayes.”
* * *
“Andrew, I have no choice. I’m under orders just like you are.”
“Bob. You know that opening the tunnel up is just crazy. We always knew it was a weak point.”
“Yes. I know that. But we didn’t deal with it as we should have done. You also know that. We have to get it right this time. It also means that we can clear up what was left behind. Don’t you want to do that?”
Grews exhaled heavily. The refugees. He had tried to put them to the back of his mind over the last two years, but the video surveillance from the tunnel still haunted him. They had expected some kind of riot at the French end of the tunnel when the gates were closed. But a full-scale assault by civilians, one that completely overpowered the already dwindling French security forces, was much worse than they had anticipated.
Their civil affairs advisor had told them that most French refugees would spill out into the streets and the harbors. And that the south of England should be reinforced on the coast to stop a wave of unauthorized entries by boat. But it didn’t happen that way – it happened much, much faster. The disease was already amongst those in the queues, in cars and vehicles backed up for miles.
So Grews had watched as the tunnel was overrun. He had watched as the mass of bodies pushed its way to the trains; trains that wouldn’t be running regardless of what anyone did. No fuel. No power. No train. The last one out had already left. In some ways, Grews thought the terminal being overrun had been inevitable, even though he hadn’t voiced the thought at the time.
Instead he had sat there, staring at the screens that showed views from the cameras dotted all over the complex. He had sat there watching, awestruck and, deep down, somewhat proud of those people who dared go into the tunnels themselves. He would never forget their determination and bravery, even when he had been forced to stop them. They couldn’t get across the Channel by train, so they were damn well going to walk the whole way.
Or so it had seemed.
“They won’t live more than a few weeks, even if they manage to stay in there and keep the dead from following them,” the security operator had said.
The man was bald and fat and was sweating profusely as he sat there flipping through the camera points as Grews had ordered him to.
“What?” asked Grews, his attention not really shifting from the screen.
“No food, unless they have some with them,” continued the man, who looked like he could probably last a few months without food himself. “No water.”
“Indeed,” Grews had said, inwardly wishing the sweaty security guard would shut up, and damn sure he would swap him in an instant for any one of those poor folks running into the tunnel. If there was one thing Grews couldn’t abide, it was overindulgence, and this guy was off the scale.
“Oh, hang on,” the operator had said, and stopped switching cameras, shifting his hands to another terminal. He started flicking through lists on the screen, bright coloured lines flashing by, his eyes squinting above a deep frown.
Grews had leaned over, impolitely shunting the man’s chair so that he could reach the controls. Twenty minutes of watching and he’d already figured out how to flip through the cameras. Click. Click. Click. There they were, right down the tunnel by at least two miles. What the hell were they doing? Were they smashing a door down? Some kind of access route? There were at least thirty of them that had made it this far. He couldn’t tell the ages or genders. They were just shadowed figures in the dark, and some of them were small.
“Oh, God. They could.”
Grews snapped his head from the screen.
“Could what?”
“When we cut the power and closed the gates. There was a train outbound. They left it on the tracks because there was no time to get it to the French terminal and turn it around.”
