Dead Fall

by Joseph Xand

  He had set out to find Reg Rollins and kill him. Well, he'd find him. Reg Rollins would be easy to find. He'd never met anyone who wasn't a Reg Rollins, at least a little bit. Yeah, Reg Rollins was out there, and Turtleman would find him, and then he'd make him pay. He would make them all pay.

  You got lucky this time, fat ass! the giant head screamed at him as he left the billboard behind. You got lucky this time!

  Turtleman didn't respond. He didn't turn around. He kept walking.

  After all, she was right. For once in his life, luck was on his side.

  Perhaps he wasn't a Tuttleman, after all. Not anymore.

  Interlude 1

  D R. THADDEUS PALMER WAS late for work. In less than an hour, he was expected to present to the board of Levinson Pharmaceuticals on the readiness for human trials of the new cancer drug he and his team had been developing. In spite of normally wearing many hats and advising multiple projects, just over a year ago the board, frustrated over the slow progress of the new drug that had cost the company and its shareholders such a large amount of money for the funding of research and testing, demanded Palmer dedicate his time exclusively to the one project, promising him a hefty bonus for getting it ready for human trials in a timely fashion. Well, the last of the hurdles of animal trials were passed yesterday.

  To celebrate, he'd treated his team to an exclusive party at a swank restaurant and bar. And in spite of the early morning presentation, they'd stayed out all night and drank beyond excess.

  Yeah, he would be late for the meeting, and the board would be slightly perturbed by his tardiness and general disheveled-ness, but in the end they would hear what they wanted to hear, unanimously approve solicitation of the FDA so that it may allow human trials to begin, and they'd all leave the meeting happy, slapping him on the back for a job well done and requesting he keep up the good work. Even if he did smell like a distillery. And by the end of the week, Thad would receive his bonus, distributed evenly via direct deposit among his several untraceable offshore accounts.

  He'd done this before.

  And there was no doubt the FDA would approve the project's progression to human trials. Dr. Palmer had followed every protocol to the letter, and he'd never once failed to gain approval for anything yet. Of course, it didn't hurt that some of the top brass of the FDA were close personal friends.

  Thad stood in front of the mirror working to tie his tie. This was his fourth attempt, and it wasn't going well. He ignored his cell phone the first two times it rang, and then ignored it completely when he saw it was Michael Tally, a colleague and co-presenter at this morning's meeting. Probably wondering where the hell I am, Thad thought.

  But when the phone started ringing for the fifth consecutive time, Thad ripped the tie off his neck, tossed it against the wall, and snagged up the phone.

  "Dammit, Michael, I know I'm running late, but there's no reason for you—"

  "Turn on the TV," Michael interrupted.

  "What?"

  "Turn on the TV," he repeated.

  Thad crossed the room and picked up the remote.

  "What channel?" he asked.

  "Any channel."

  The TV lit up to reveal what looked to be a cruise ship on fire. A small, blinking map in the corner of the screen showed the location of the ship to be about 500 yards off the coast of New Jersey, just south of Thad's penthouse in Lower Manhattan. Dark smoke billowed from the center of the ship. Fire raged from within it.

  "For the past two hours, we've been tracking a Liberty Coast cruise liner that is in obvious distress. But our sources tell us that any attempt at rescue has been met with resistance from the top levels of the administration. New York City fire boats are not even being allowed to go near the ship to at least assist in putting out the blaze that has recently erupted from somewhere on the ship. Rumors are flying that Coast Guard troops were actually arrested when they tried to mount a rescue attempt against the orders of the executive office."

  "Jesus," Thad said to no one in particular. The phone was no longer to his ear, but rather hung in his hand by his side. He crossed the living room and pulled open his curtains. Beyond Battery Park and Hudson Bay, beyond Staten Island, deep in the distance he could make out the faint traces of black smoke rising.

  Thad lifted the phone. "Let me call you back," he said into it absently and tossed it aside on the couch.

  "The cruise liner has not changed course or speed at all, not that we can tell, and if it were to continue on its current trajectory, it will run aground along the beaches of Coney Island within the hour. Tom, can you zoom in closer please?" Moments later the camera zoomed in on the various decks of the ship, slipping in and out of focus. "And rescue attempts are being thwarted despite literally hundreds of people roaming the decks in need of assistance. In the past two hours, we've witnessed many people jumping off higher decks onto lower decks, and some jumping into the water. We've even seen some poor souls on fire. The administration's refusal to offer assistance is baffling and unconscionable."

  Thad moved closer to the TV to study the distorted images of the passengers on the decks. Something wasn't right about them. Hell, lots of things weren't right. Some moved faster than others, but none of them seemed to be moving with any sense of urgency. Lifeboats clinging to the sides of the cruise ship were being completely ignored. None of the people were waving their arms in the air begging the helicopters above for help. One person emerged from the smoke and his back was on fire. He didn't seem to notice. Others seemed covered in what might have been blood. Some looked injured, maybe even severely, but it was hard to tell. Many of them seemed overly concerned with groups of birds hovering over parts of the decks. Were they reaching for the birds? Trying to grab them? And Thad would have sworn he saw some birds landing on people and pecking at their heads and eyes while the people shambled around, oblivious. There were some pockets of people huddled around areas of the deck on their hands and knees, dog-piled together; there had to be something important under that pile to circumvent their survival instinct. One person went over the rail on a lower deck and into the water below. But did he jump as the reporter had suggested? Rather he seemed to just topple over accidentally. What was wrong with these people?

  Psychology was not his specialty, but he quickly ran through the possible psychiatric disorders the people on the ship could have been exhibiting. Possibly some sort of collective bipolar I disorder or a collective hallucinatory or psychotic disorder (what had a colleague called it? Folie à deux?), maybe coupled with acute stress disorder brought on by some trauma on board the ship. Maybe a collective dissociative fugue or dissociative disorder (That's also brought on by trauma, isn't it?). He even considered a collective depersonalization or derealization, although they seemed less likely.

  In every case, he knew all his amateur diagnoses collapsed around a single word: collective. While individual passengers were certainly capable of manifesting any or all of these psychiatric disorders, the prospect of all of them displaying symptoms at the same time was, well, impossible.

  The cause of such a mass psychosis would have to be chemical or…biological or…

  "Bacterial," Thad said aloud. He reached for the phone when his attention was again drawn to the television, the shot changing from the cruise ship to a boat of an entirely different nature.

  "And the most recent development in what may soon be the most significant maritime disaster in American history, a naval destroyer, the U.S.S. Gettysburg, has been deployed, leaving its port a short few miles away in the Hudson River off Manhattan's West Side Highway, and is now anchored midway between the New Jersey Coast and Coney Island at the mouth of Raritan Bay in what our sources have described as a defensive stance. Tom, do you have any news?"

  In the corner of the screen, a live video of a reporter wearing headgear and a microphone slid into view.

  "Well, Susan, we've been monitoring every military band we can think of, but so far there has been absolutely no communication between
the naval destroyer and the Liberty Coast that we know of. From up here, the distance between the two is closing fast and we'd expect one to try and hail the other, but so far, nothing. We can only speculate as to what happens if the Liberty Coast doesn't slow or change course soon— Oh my God! Give us the Liberty Coast! Go to the Liberty Coast!"

  "Tom, what's happened?"

  The live feed shifted back to the cruise liner. The front of the massive ship was engulfed in flames. Most of the people on the decks had been knocked off their feet.

  "A ball of fire has just erupted from the bow of the ship from an apparent explosion, possibly from something internal—"

  Immediately another explosion rocked the failing ship.

  "Oh my God! Another blast has just ripped a large, gaping hole into the ship's hull! The ship is starting to capsize!"

  Indeed the massive cruise liner listed to its port side. The passengers toppled over the sides by the dozens.

  "My God," Thad said to himself. Just as the news anchors seemed swept up in a state of verbal chaos, Thad muted the TV and grabbed up his phone. Quickly dialing in a contact, he peered out his window into the distance. The phone rang and rang before going to voicemail. He ended the call and redialed. Voicemail again. Again he redialed. Finally, on the eighth attempt, he got through.

  "I'm a little busy, Thad," the person on the other end said immediately.

  "Jennifer, what's going on?"

  "That information is classified. You know that."

  "Then this is coming from the CDC. If you need me to come in—"

  "You work for a pharmaceutical company, Thad. If we need aspirin, we'll call you."

  "Jen—"

  But the line went dead. He dialed her back several times, but it went to voicemail every time.

  Thad finally sat on the couch and stared at the TV screen. He didn't need the anchors' commentary to watch the confusion and disorder unfold, nor did he need to hear the opinions of pundits to fully comprehend the complexity and enormity of the situation developing a few scant miles from where he sat.

  Eventually, he called Michael and asked him to handle the presentation to the board. Thad could do without the pats on the back for a day, and human trials would move forward without him regardless.

  No, today he'd sit at home and think about why on Earth a naval destroyer would want to sink a luxury cruise liner.

  And the more he thought about it, the more he brooded. Because deep down he knew that at some point over the next few days or weeks a spotlight would shine down.

  And he wouldn't be in it.

  * * * * *

  Following the blasts at the bow of the cruise liner, the ship took 87 minutes to sink. Once it did, the U.S.S. Gettysburg moved from the mouth of Raritan Bay, pushed through the debris field, and parked itself on the spot where the ship had gone down. Still no rescue efforts were made, but oddly there were no passengers clinging to floating debris in want of rescue. Many other boats, both rescue vessels and curiosity seekers, were turned away by the destroyer, and at some point, a circular no-boating zone was officially established and enforced around the site of the tragedy.

  It wasn't until the next day, when pundits, political leaders, and the general public were becoming more and more vocal in their demands for answers, that the President finally released a written statement to the press; he was deeply saddened by the previous day's events, an investigation into the nature of the blasts that ultimately doomed the cruise ship would be launched, but much more information than that was classified and a matter of national security.

  Of course, the statement to the press fueled the flames of dissent, especially when it was pointed out that an investigation couldn't possibly take place without studying the wreckage, but the President seemed in no hurry to allow access to the sunken vessel.

  But the anger would reach a fever pitch when video surfaced of the moments before the blasts to the bow of the ship. The video showed two shadows moving at high speed under the water towards the Liberty Coast; shadows that could only be torpedoes fired from the Gettysburg. Thad was surprised it had taken people that long to catch on.

  When the President finally held a live press conference three days after what was being dubbed the Raritan Bay Disaster (although the cruise liner was sunk before reaching Raritan Bay), or the Raritan Bay Massacre by some of the President's more aggressive opponents, he never once pointed the finger at terrorists. Instead, it was he who gave the order to sink the Liberty Coast, and that he took full responsibility for the disaster. He assured the public again that the decision was one of national security, that no one in the country was more aggrieved than he as to the events three days prior, and implored his fellow Americans to be patient and that, although information was still classified, he was expected to be able to release some information soon once initial investigations had concluded.

  Immediately voters and journalists began calling for the President's resignation and prompt arrest. Political leaders on both sides of the aisle began impeachment proceedings. No clarification would do to explain why the President of the United States would oversee the murder of over 2,000 U.S. citizens in American waters.

  Of course, Thad knew that wasn't completely true. All the President had to do was utter the word "terrorism" and the outcry against him would be quelled, at least a little bit. Ever since the 9/11 attacks the public had given the President and lawmakers carte blanche to make decisions in matters of national security when terrorism was suspected.

  The President's reluctance to point to terrorism as the culprit only further proved what Thad had already discovered from his brief phone conversation with Jennifer; that is, the CDC influenced the President's decision to sink the ship.

  Once again, the President's words did nothing to calm the fervor, and if nothing else, only heightened it. For the next few days, passionate fury reigned.

  But suddenly on the fifth day following the sinking of the cruise ship, the Raritan Bay Disaster was pushed to the back burner on the news cycle, replaced by something fresher and more terrifying.

  Because the fifth day was the day the passengers of the Liberty Coast walked out of the surf and onto the beaches of Shoreline Hook and the carnival grounds of Coney Island.

  * * * * *

  At first, the news was sketchy and wrought with misinformation. Emergency personnel had responded to a domestic disturbance along the coastline of Shoreline Hook. Several beachgoers had been injured. The police had the situation under control. It was certainly not enough to dethrone the Raritan Bay Disaster as the top story. Although it was mentioned locally on New York 1 and scrolled across the ticker every few minutes on the cable news networks, nationally it got no other mention. At least initially.

  At the time it happened, several news crews were on the beach, though a few miles down coast from Shoreline Hook. They were covering a gathering of the Liberty Coast passengers' friends and families. Their loved ones were planning an all-day protest in preparation for a midnight vigil. Originally they'd hoped to hold the protest in Shoreline Hook and use the U.S.S. Gettysburg as a backdrop. However, Shoreline Hook sits on a national preserve, and the government wouldn't allow it. So instead of hundreds of protesters, the Shoreline Hook coastline was populated with the traditional beach-loving rabble—sunbathing women, sand castle-building kids, surf-diving teens, drunken treasure hunters with metal detectors—most of whom saw the Gettysburg on the distant horizon as simply part of the landscape.

  When on-location reporters first got word of trouble further up the beach, none of them were willing to leave their posts at the protest for fear that they'd miss something truly important. But when amateur video hit the internet showing grotesque, bloated, often-naked creatures sloshing out of the water, falling onto and attacking unsuspecting sleeping sunbathers, news vans were suddenly racing to the scene.

  Before they got there, more amateur videos made their internet debuts, and each was lifted from YouTube and other websites and streamed on
every major network, complete with revelatory graphics introducing the shaky camera work as "Breaking News" or "This Just In." Maudlin-esque news anchors warned the public that "what you are about to see may not be suitable for children." One video showed sleeping sunbathers attacked. Another focused on people in the water, casually chatting afloat colorful inflatables when they are one by one pulled underwater screaming, some unseen entity yanking them by their dangling legs. Another showed a man crawling out of the water, his legs mangled, only to have some humanoid-looking creature emerge from the surf behind him and fall on top of him, and then another. One of the last videos showed policemen zapping one of the aggressors with a stun gun with no effect. One officer shot one of the assailants repeatedly, but the creature kept walking. Officers were injured and overwhelmed, screaming into radios for backup. In the background, more grayish-white, bloated figures streamed out of the reddening swells.

  Eventually, the jerky, ramshackle camera work was replaced by the unwavering video of professional videographers. Nervous but trained reporters stepped into the pictures, describing the chaos. Hordes of ambulances and EMTs pushing gurneys raced back and forth from the ambulances to the beaches. Sometimes the paramedics came back wounded but heroically pushing an injured victim. Other times they wouldn't come back at all. The voices of the reporters were barely audible over the constant barrage of gunshots. At least two of the more ambitious news crews reporting on the attacks got too close to the action and were themselves attacked. One cameraman was killed by friendly fire.

  The incident lasted less than three hours. That's how long it took for the attackers to be dispatched, the dead and injured removed, and a large portion of the beach to be cordoned off as a crime scene. All in all, thirty-nine attackers had emerged from the surf, killing thirteen people, including two children, four police officers, and two EMTs. Two dozen more were wounded, many seriously.