by David Bourne
A Storm of Feelings
Ray rushed behind Chris toward the communications center.
“What’s going on?” he gasped, while trying in vain to keep up with Chris. “You get me out of the hangar and start running like a greased pig on crack. Could you please tell me, what...”
Chris didn’t even seem to notice Ray’s remark. Determined and fast he raced straight for the Fort Weeks communications center. At the secured armored door, he pulled a plastic card from his pocket and slid it through a card reader on the wall. A small screen above it displayed in green letters the words “ACCESS GRANTED.” A moment later, Chris leaned against the door, which moved inward. Ray once again wondered what all of this was supposed to mean.
He followed Chris through a wide corridor that ended with a glass double door leading to the communications center. When Chris opened the door, all heads turned around to look at them. “Here he is,” Chris said.
Before Ray was aware that this meant him, the multiple impressions of the futuristic environment seemed to move in slow motion. He smelled the electronic odor of PCs that had been running around the clock for weeks. When he looked around, he saw the reason for this: A short flight of stairs lead from the platform on which he and Chris stood to a square room lined with desks along its sides. The only lighting was provided at regular intervals by the flat screen monitors hanging above the desks. Until a few seconds ago, the staff of the communications center had been busily tapping away at the keyboards. The center of the room was taken up by a rectangular conference table and several chairs, but the most eye-catching aspect of the entire area though, was the huge monitor at the far end of the room. Master Sergeant Pelletier stood in front of the LED screen and looked expectantly at Ray, yet it wasn’t the presence of the Master Sergeant that immediately shocked Ray. What made his knees weak and drained the strength from his whole body was the distorted and magnified image of a person on the display screen. She looked… different. Worn-out, but it was her. Definitely. Ray managed to utter only one word: “Melissa.”
Once the shock slowly faded from his body, the Master Sergeant walked toward him.
“Mr. Thompson, please follow me.” Without waiting for Ray’s answer, William Pelletier walked through the glass double door into the broad corridor and then turned right into an adjoining room.
Chris shrugged at Ray. “I was only supposed to get you.”
When Ray entered the meeting room, the Master Sergeant stood behind a large oak desk and pointed at an armchair in front of it. “Please, do sit down. Coffee?”
Ray slowly slid into the armchair. “I’d rather have some answers, if that’s okay.”
“You have not asked any questions yet,” the Master Sergeant said, while pouring some coffee for Ray and himself.
“With all due respect, sir, you can certainly imagine what’s going through my mind right now.”
“Can I? Well, only if we assume the information we obtained is correct.”
“So, what nice things did you find out?”
“That the woman in the picture is your ex-wife. Melissa Thompson, née Fletcher. Age forty-three years. Mother of twins Tom and Eve Thompson. Blood group A positive. Worked until the outbreak as an elementary school teacher. Was divorced from you in 2009. Furthermore…”
“That’s enough. Just what is the purpose of all this?”
“So, is the woman in the picture your ex-wife, Captain Thompson?”
“Is she still alive? What about my kids?”
“Please answer my question.”
No, it’s Oprah Winfrey, dimwit, Ray thought. He wondered what all these questions were for. The Master Sergeant surely must know that this was a picture of Melissa. Ray noticed his patience was starting to fray and right at that moment, an old, familiar inner voice chimed in to point out the connection between his current emotional state and the fact he had had not a drop of alcohol for a week. A shot of whiskey in my coffee, and I could bear this easily, no sweat, Ray thought. He quickly suppressed this thought.
“It’s Melissa. Now please answer my question, sir.”
“If we can trust our source, your ex-wife is still alive. We have no information about your children.”
“Where is she? How can I get to her? Who is this source?”
“We have reason to believe that your ex-wife is in a refugee camp in New Hampshire called Sanctuary. We got his information from communicating with a radio operator we have been in contact with during the past several days.”
“The past several DAYS? Is this supposed to mean you’ve known where Melissa is for a while now?” Ray felt anger rising up in him.
“Please do not presume to question my decisions. I did not want to inform you until we were reasonably certain that the information was credible. We received the photo this morning. Your identification proves to us that our source is reliable.”
Ray was near the boiling point. He hated this convoluted military style of speaking. He wanted to shake William Pelletier and bellow at the top of his lungs that he should pull that rod out from his ass and cut to the chase, damn it. Instead Ray gripped his chair’s armrests so hard that his knuckled turned white.
“What else do you know?”
“The information we have is rather sparse, as we only have a quarter hour window for our communication, before the low Earth orbit satellites move out of reach again. In addition, the quality of the transmission is often very bad.”
“How on earth did you think to look for Melissa?” Ray asked.
“We received a list of all refugees at Sanctuary, which up to now is almost two thousand people. We checked all the names. When we came across Melissa, we immediately informed you.”
“No, you didn’t,” Ray answered flippantly. “Are there other people at Fort Weeks who have relatives at Sanctuary?”
The Master Sergeant ignored Ray’s first remark. “As far as we currently know, there are none. On the other hand, refugees are arriving every day, according to our source. It therefore takes a while to update the list.”
“You’re not telling me all of this out of the goodness of your heart, Master Sergeant Pelletier. What’s this all about?”
“I am going to explain that to you now, Mr. Thompson.”
Big Game Hunting (I)
“Please tell me what you can see, Geronimo.” Corporal Brady was obviously nervous.
A dark-haired private was kneeling next to the patrol jeep by the side of the road, while looking around carefully. He had received the nickname Geronimo, after the famous Native American chief, due to his looks and the fact that he was the best tracker on the base. His actual name was Dave Stevens, and he came from Ohio. He had never been to an Indian reservation in his life, nor did he know of any Native American ancestors in his family’s background.
What he did know for certain is that the track could no longer be discerned here. “Nothing, sir. I cannot imagine that he came along here. The track ends at the road. This damned thing ran into that group of trees, exited here and then continued on the road, which makes it difficult to track him.”
“That can’t be true. What kind of smart bastard is he? But don’t worry, we’ll get you—you ugly fucker.” Brady talked more to himself than to the others. He felt the thrill of the chase.
The corporal’s patrol drove around Fort Weeks every day. Their official task was to rescue survivors and find supplies. Unofficially, though, Bravo Patrol followed a different target. Brady desperately wanted to locate and eliminate the extraordinary zombie that had escaped a while ago.
Brady was fascinated by this particular specimen’s uniqueness. It seemed to be an undead creature whose body was not just larger, faster and especially tougher than any the soldiers had so far encountered. In addition, the creature possessed a more than rudimentary intelligence. It was obviously capable of self-protection, evaded attacks and even knew when it was better to retreat. The zombie did not blindly rush into battle and try to devour its prey at any price, like the
other undead did. The Alpha Zombie, as they called it, had known that it couldn’t withstand the patrol’s firepower and had fled in retreat. It had little in common with the regular undead, rather the Alpha was more like a huge, animalistic cannibal—an undead, very evil, bipedal Shere Khan—and Brady wanted his head as a trophy, at any price.
“Get in. We’re driving north. If that son of a bitch had run in the opposite direction, he would have gotten too close to the base. I don’t think the fucker would take that risk.”
Stevens got up, climbed back in the patrol jeep and manned the machine gun. He was pondering this special zombie while the Humvee drove along the road through the forest. He hadn’t been there when the patrol met this creature for the first time, and he had a hard time accepting the idea that besides the typical undead, there were other specimens which seemed to have mutated. This type didn’t appear to be once-normal humans who had died and then become undead creatures. This seemed to be something different altogether, and the way the other soldiers talked about this thing was proof enough. Since basic training he had been in the same platoon as Brady, Rickson and Norret, so he had no reason to doubt his friends’ stories, and the tracks he had seen in the woods were clearly too large for a human. Unless former basketball star Shaquille O’Neal is now a zombie and haunts this area. He had to smile at that idea. Brady interrupted his musings.
“Yo, Geronimo! Do you see that at three o’clock? Looks like smoke, doesn’t it?”
Dave turned right, together with his machine gun. He did see something that looked like wisps of smoke moving between the trees.
“Yes, sir. Smoke. Looks like something’s burning at the edge of the forest.”
Norret accelerated the Humvee and drove down the road in order to get out of the forest. As the Humvee passed the last trees at the edge of the forest, it suddenly got brighter. The sun stood high in the sky and was no longer blocked by the dense tree tops.
Stevens squinted. Even though he could see little, he already smelled an acrid odor, which made him exhale in disgust. The distinctive smell of burning flesh took his breath away.
“Norret, turn sharply to the right. There are vehicles burning there.” About two hundred yards away, a small convoy of vehicles, consisting of two cars and a van, was in flames. The private in the driver’s seat steered into a meadow on the other side of the road. The jeep stopped a short distance from the burning vehicles. While they were driving there, Stevens had already positioned the machine gun in the direction of the convoy.
“Three targets, sir. Probably undead.” Except for three lurching silhouettes, no other movement could be seen.
“Norret, take over the machine gun. Geronimo, come with me. We are going to take a closer look. If more should show up, Norret will provide fire support.” While still talking, Corporal Brady opened the door and got out, holding his silenced assault rifle. After three silenced shots, the undead lay in the dust next to the burning vehicles. Brady signaled to Geronimo with his hands that he would go left and the other man should watch the right side. Both of them kept approaching the vehicles. They must have been burning for quite some time, but they still radiated a lot of heat and sent plumes of smoke skyward. Both soldiers immediately noticed there was a small heap of at least five human bodies next to the smoldering wrecks. They also saw bullet holes that had perforated the vehicles. All things considered, it looked as if a human hand had inflicted a violent orgy. Geronimo knelt in the dust close to the vehicles since this position always gave him the best view of his surroundings. He took in the scenery and observed the tracks in the sand around the vehicles. A few minutes later Brady stepped next to him.
“What do you think?” He looked at the kneeling man.
“Looters, Sir. An ambush. The whole thing was over fast. Looks like they stopped the first vehicle and then just sprayed the convoy with bullets. I can only see the tracks of three persons who left the vehicles.”
Brady had examined the wrecks carefully. “An unequal fight. The corpses in the vehicles were mostly unarmed. They only had baseball bats and clubs. The bastards took whatever they needed and then set everything on fire. There are also children’s corpses in the pile next to the van. How can human beings do that to each other?” The corporal spat on the ground.
“Homo homini lupus—man is wolf to man, sir.” The corporal didn’t know whether he should be amazed that Stevens displayed a philosophical strain, or angry that he was so right in his statement.
“There are tire tracks leading north, away from the woods. These bastards must have a lead of several hours, but if there’s one thing I’m good at, it is tracking people.” Geronimo stood up and pointed in the direction of the tracks. He had hit a nerve with the corporal again, for Brady had already come to the same conclusion.
“He who sows the wind shall reap the whirlwind. We don’t allow something like that in our area.”
Geronimo nodded. “Yes, sir. Let’s give these bastards hell. Even if it takes us all night.”
Many Questions
“The message from Sanctuary is not the only contact we currently have with the outside world.” These words by William Pelletier were fraught with meaning.
Ray considered them. The outside world. What at an earlier point might have sounded like someone talking about a prison now referred to Fort Weeks. They were cut off from an outside world where chaos, destruction and death ruled. However, there seemed to be some exceptions—exceptions like Fort Weeks. Or Sanctuary. There also appeared to be additional places where humans lived. Ray tried to remain calm, even though numerous thoughts were racing through his mind. He only gestured with a nod for the Master Sergeant to continue.
“We are talking about the USS George Washington. She is currently located off Long Island.”
Ray lifted his eyebrows, “The aircraft carrier?”
“Exactly. What do you know about the Washington?” the Master Sergeant asked.
“Not much. It was named after our country’s first president. Space for about eighty planes, right?”
“Eighty-five, to be exact. Normally, her home port is Yokosuka in Japan. However, due to necessary maintenance operations, the USS George Washington was heading back to the US, when the chaos erupted. Do you know what this means?”
Ray seemed to sense a touch of euphoria in Pelletier’s tone, which was usually so formal and level-headed. “No infected people?”
“Not just that. There is also no direct threat from these monsters. The aircraft carrier is like a floating fortress. It has supplies for several months and space for over five thousand people.”
Ray frowned. “What are you driving at, Master Sergeant? Do you think the aircraft carrier is like Noah’s ark for us? Do you want to move there?”
“No. By now, Fort Weeks is relatively well-protected. As of today, an evacuation is neither planned nor necessary. We have other plans, and that’s exactly where you come in.”
“Excuse me, sir, but irrespective of what you are going to say now—my plans have fundamentally changed during the last fifteen minutes. I hope you understand that I want to head over to Sanctuary as soon as possible. I have to know how my children are doing. And I have to see my ex-wife.”
The Master Sergeant smiled. “You will. Plus, we will even support you with any means at our disposal, so you can see Melissa and, if possible, move her from Sanctuary to here.”
Ray was taken aback. “Why would the military be interested in me seeing my ex-wife, let alone bringing her to Fort Weeks?”
“It is quite simple. We expect something from you in return. You are going to get someone else out of Sanctuary for us.”
“Could you please be a bit more specific?”
“I cannot do that at the present moment. Let me just say this: There is someone on board the USS George Washington who is very interested in having our target person get out of Sanctuary unharmed—and we are very eager not to disappoint this certain someone. Any questions?”
“Yes. Since w
hen does the military obey the orders of a certain someone?”
“I cannot comment on that.”
“Who is this someone?”
“I cannot comment on that.”
Ray sighed. “Okay, last question. Why in God’s name is it so important to cater to this someone’s wishes?”
William Pelletier looked Ray straight into the eyes. “Because this someone knows who is responsible for the virus outbreak.”
When Ray left the communications center to return back to the hangar, he felt a throbbing pain in his head. The information overload he was subjected to during the last half hour seems to have fried his brain. Melissa appeared to be alive. In a refugee camp called Sanctuary. From which he was supposed to rescue a person who was extremely important to someone on the aircraft carrier USS George Washington. And this someone must not be disappointed, as he knew something about the origin of this catastrophe. Ray had asked the Master Sergeant for additional details, but didn’t receive any. He either didn’t actually know anything else, or he didn’t want to tell Ray. In the end, this didn’t influence Ray’s decision: He would accept the job.
Halfway to the workshop he stopped and massaged his temples with his index and middle fingers. His mission was already supposed to start tonight. According to the plan, he would get to the aircraft carrier first and receive additional instructions there. That was all.
Hardly any information.
Many unknown factors.
Ray noticed his hand was starting to tremble slightly. Over recent days, he had managed to make it through to where now and then his desire for alcohol seemed to be a faded memory of his former life. Right now, though, this old desire flared up so vehemently that it frightened him. He quickly walked to the hangar workshop.
