by Bobby Adair
“I had hoped Ebola would be the deathblow to kill Western man, but I now realize it was only a first attack. I need something to follow with, something to lop the heads off the major Western governments. With no government at all in place, Ebola will thrive in the chaos and finish its work in their lands.”
Najid looked out the window, staring at the sea, looking for an answer in the blue. He smiled when he found it. “What best to cut the head off of the American chicken hawk and its British poodle? A nuclear weapon. One placed in Washington or wherever the American government is hiding. Another for the United Kingdom. Perhaps one each for France and Germany. Tell me Hadi, how are things in Russia?”
Chapter 3
Paul Cooper had been waiting days for his hearing while sequestered in a sunless, dank hole that used to house a nuclear-tipped Titan missile. The missile was long gone, destroyed in a treaty that inched the world away from the precipice of a radioactive holocaust that might have killed every plant and animal on the planet.
Now, the only species flirting with extinction was man.
Or so Paul guessed.
Since the police had taken him out of his own house and put him in the bottom of the decommissioned missile silo, he’d had no dependable news of what was going on outside. They’d taken his telephone and his watch. He certainly had no computer. They’d confiscated his belt and shoelaces. All he possessed were his sleeping bag and a claim to a dry spot on which to lay it. With plenty of standing water on the floor of the silo, not all of the new arrivals were so lucky.
Light bulbs suspended on rusty metal fixtures way up the curved walls kept the silo in an unchanging and insufficient dusk. The first few days inside, Paul developed a headache that wouldn’t go away. Now when it came he lay down and closed his eyes, often falling asleep because of it. When dreams are the only escape from boredom, sleep comes all too often.
Paul had no idea how many days he’d been underground. None of the other men in the silo did either.
They ate with a frequency that left Paul’s stomach growling most of the time. They shared buckets for their piss and solid waste. They talked until they got bored of their stories. They were all the same. Ebola survivors. Hauled in by the police. Families mostly dead. Friends, mostly dead. The world was dying, and they were the sickly treasures hoarded by a police state in a hidden hole built to quell an old fear of nuclear annihilation.
Most of the survivors were in a sad state, some barely able to stand without the aid of another. None appeared to have gotten the kind of medical treatment Paul had received. Their immune systems had fought it out with the virus the old-fashioned way, and it showed.
When the guards came to take Paul and four other men off the silo floor and into the warren of rusted steel tunnels that wound through the missile complex, Paul was curious about where he was being taken but was pleased to be out of the silo.
They passed pairs of guards sitting on stools outside of heavy steel doors like the one they’d exited their silo through. When they came to a ladder that ran up a ten-foot wide tube to a spot of brilliant sunlight a hundred feet overhead, two guards climbed. Paul and the others were ordered to follow and the last two guards brought up the rear.
Squinting in the brilliant light at the top, the five prisoners huddled together against the cold wind. Around them, squat concrete structures in the tall, tan grass marked all the places where the silo complex touched the surface. Layers of snow-covered concrete slabs four feet thick, each a door to one of the silos that used to house the missiles. Paul tried to guess which had been the roof under which he’d been sleeping.
A sagging chain-link fence surrounded most of the complex, and roads of gravel and fresh mud turned up by tires crisscrossed the flat top of the hill. The last of the guards climbed out of the silo, closing the hatch behind. The man in charge gave some orders and the prisoners were lined up and herded down a muddy footpath toward the northern edge of the complex. There, rows of military tents seemed to squirm under the buffeting wind. Beyond the tents, barracks buildings were lined in precise military rows, some complete and presumably in use, and many others under construction.
The guards led Paul and his four fellow prisoners to the doorway of a large tent. The prisoners were lined up, handed a packet of folded papers, and led inside. It wasn’t a lot warmer within, but Paul was thankful to be out of the wind.
At one end of the tent, behind a table, sat three Army officers. A few long tables down one side were stacked with papers and folders which were being handled by officers and soldiers of lower rank, all wearing goggles over their eyes, masks over their mouths, and latex gloves. Along the other wall, four tired looking men—clearly other prisoners—were seated in front of others in full Tyvek suits and handling buzzing tattoo guns. Each of the prisoners was getting a tattoo on his forearm.
One prisoner stood in front of a table, facing the seated officers presiding over the tent.
One of the officers looked over to the table of enlisted men. “Type?”
A sergeant looked up from an open folder. “M, sir. He has Ebola strain M and blood type A negative.”
A guard led the standing prisoner to an empty chair along the wall to receive a tattoo.
Paul and his cohort were lined up in front of the table where the three officers sat.
The officer in the middle looked them over through a young, but tired, face. “I’m Colonel Holloway. To my right is Major McCardle, our doctor. To my left is Captain Willard. Pursuant to the United States Ebola Resources Act this process is mandated to occur within thirty days of detainment. Have all of you received a copy of the statute?”
One of the prisoners named Salazar took a belligerent stance and spat out a tone to match. “No.”
Colonel Holloway pointed at the papers in Salazar’s hand. “Right there.”
“I haven’t had time to read it.” Salazar dialed his belligerence up a notch.
Paul looked at the sheath of papers he’d been given just before entering the tent and wondered if Salazar was headed for a beating. He hadn’t witnessed any excessive brutality in the camp yet, but he guessed it was coming.
“You will.” Holloway was bored. He’d clearly seen this all too many times before.
With no one to push back against his anger, Salazar’s mood lost steam. He looked around. Nobody responded to his angry eyes. In the end, he gave up, unfolded his pamphlet, and examined it. Paul and the others did the same.
“Pay attention to what I’m going to tell you.” All the boredom was gone from Holloway’s voice and only authority was left. “It was explained to each of you when you were sequestered that as Ebola survivors your blood products have been nationalized. You’ll each be required to donate twice weekly. You’re here because none of you reported for voluntary donations at a designated donation center.”
“How was I supposed to know?” Salazar shouted loud enough to make everyone in the tent look up.
Other men in the line of prisoners nodded their support but Paul did nothing. He wasn’t feeling particularly rebellious, at least not for a worthless cause. Maybe if the argument was for better sleeping quarters, he’d join in. But arguing pointlessly to be contrary, he wasn’t going to waste his energy on that.
McCardle leaned forward. He glanced down at a paper and pointed at it with a pen, looked up at Salazar and asked, “Which one are you?”
“Curtis Salazar.”
“Mr. Salazar,” McCardle’s face turned empathetic, “please bear with us. We’re trying to get all of this worked out. You understand, right?”
Salazar shook his head.
Holloway looked at McCardle. “You’re wasting your breath.” He turned and eyed each man in the line, daring them to speak again. “You’ll reside in the East Denver Internment Camp until such time as the United States no longer requires your service. You will donate according to the schedule. You will not be permitted to leave. If you have any doubts on this point, go climb the fence or crawl through
one of the holes. The fence hasn’t been repaired since the site was decommissioned thirty years ago. You can get past it. Be advised that machine gun emplacements surround the perimeter. The men on those guns know everyone in here has Ebola. They will follow their orders. They will shoot to kill.”
Holloway leaned forward on his elbows. “I’ve heard arguments all day long from other internees about violations of their rights and violations of the Constitution and whatnot. I’ve listened to threats of escape. I say, go ahead. Leave right now.” Holloway stood up and pointed at the door. “Seriously, go if you want to. I need an example case to go over the fence and get shot down where everybody in camp can see. I need that to quell all the threats. Seriously, do it or stop bitching.”
Nobody in the line of five moved.
Holloway cast a disappointed look at Paul and his companions. He gave them a moment longer, then sat back down. “Since this is mandated in the Ebola Resources Act each of you may state your case. Frankly, what you say won’t matter. I have complete discretion in this matter. I won’t listen to your cases verbally. I make the summary judgment that each of you is an involuntary reconvalescent donor who will remain in the East Denver Internment Camp until such time as I release you. If you wish to state your case in writing, do so. Write it out. Give it to your commanding officer or sergeant.”
“Where do we get the pen and paper?” asked Salazar.
“Walmart.”
“There’s a Walmart in the camp?” Salazar asked.
“No.”
McCardle passed a folder to Holloway. The Colonel gave it a glance. “Each of you will be assigned jobs. You will do your job to the best of your abilities. This camp will be self-sufficient. Or you can sit this out in one of the cages.” He looked back down at the folder. “Mr. Salazar, step forward.”
Salazar took two steps.
Holloway looked at the other table. “What is Mr. Salazar’s type?”
One of the enlisted men sat up straight. “Mr. Salazar recovered from Ebola strain N and has blood type B.”
“Type N,” Holloway confirmed. He looked at Salazar, then rifled through pages on a clipboard as if searching for something. “What type of work did you do before?”
“Director of Marketing,” answered Salazar, “at Mitchell Electronics.”
Holloway didn’t hesitate. “You’re assigned to Sanitation Crew Eleven. You’ll report to Sergeant Ohr.”
“Just like that?” Salazar asked.
“Understand this, Mr. Salazar, the camp is segregated by strain. Everyone on your work crew has recovered from strain N. Don’t fraternize or physically contact anyone who contracted a different strain.”
“I have to pick up garbage?” Salazar was getting his anger running again.
“No,” answered Holloway. “Sanitation Crew Eleven hauls the dead to the fires. You might not believe it but I’ve got worse jobs that need to be filled. Would you like to complain some more?” Holloway stared at Salazar, daring him to say more.
Salazar clenched his teeth and didn’t respond.
When it was clear Salazar wasn’t going to take the dare, Holloway pointed at an empty tattoo chair. “Get marked. When you’re finished,” Holloway pointed at the doorway, “go out, follow the signs to Compound Eleven. Ask for Sergeant Ohr. You’ll see the perimeter fence on your way. Feel free to test it.” He looked at a folder on the table. “Paul Cooper.”
Paul took two steps.
“You’re Paul Cooper?”
Paul nodded.
McCardle said, “You’ll need to respond verbally.”
“Yes, I am Paul Cooper.”
McCardle reached over and tapped a finger on the file in front of Holloway.
Holloway looked to the officer at one of the other tables. “Doctor Fisher, do you have the folder on Paul Cooper?”
“Yes, sir.” The doctor lifted a folder off the table and showed it to Holloway.
“Is Paul Cooper fit for physical labor?” Holloway looked at Paul as he spoke.
“Yes, sir.”
“Type?” Holloway asked.
“K,” answered Dr. Fisher.
McCardle leaned close to Holloway and said, “We’re having a hard time coming up with Ks.”
Holloway nodded.
McCardle said, “We need somebody in the K3 clinic.”
Holloway looked at Paul. “Any medical experience?”
“I…” Paul wasn’t sure how to answer. “I was pre-med for a couple years in college. I volunteered at the hospital.”
McCardle gave Holloway a certain nod. He opened a folder and pointed at something.
Paul decided to assert himself with a request. “I’d like to use a telephone.”
“We don’t have any phones here.” Holloway didn’t bother to look up from the file while he spoke.
“Do you have a cellphone?” Paul pushed.
Holloway nodded, again without looking up.
“May I use it to call my daughter?”
Holloway looked up at Paul and stared for a moment, blank-faced. “The time when lending someone a phone has passed. It’s no longer a risk of minutes, it’s a risk of life.” Holloway’s eyes narrowed. “You wouldn’t want to risk my life to provide you the convenience of a luxury, would you?” Holloway’s voice notched toward anger. “Are your wants more important than my life? Is that what you’re telling me, Mr. Cooper?”
Paul gritted his teeth and glared at Holloway as he tried to come up with a counterargument. Of course, Holloway’s point of view was absurd. But, maybe it was dead on. Paul looked at his feet.
Papers shuffled. Hushed voices conferred on the other side of the table.
“Mr. Cooper, you were taken into custody. Is that correct?”
Paul looked up at Holloway. “I was kidnapped.”
With a disappointed shake of his head, Holloway pointed to his right. “You know where the fence is. Go if you want.”
Paul didn’t move.
“That’s what I thought.” Holloway sighed. “You’ll be assigned to the clinic in Silo K3. Silo K3 is one of the security areas for criminal volunteers. You’ll be going in with privilege. That’s to say, Mr. Cooper, you’ll be something of a trustee. You’ll have duties. You’ll perform them. You can’t leave the missile complex without express permission from Dr. McCardle or Sergeant Marazzi. Follow the rules, do your work, or sit in a cell in the bottom of Silo K3 with the other malcontents and felons. You pick.”
Paul said nothing.
“Pick. Which will it be?”
“Clinic,” muttered Paul. “Why do I have to get tattooed? I don’t want one.”
Holloway glared at Paul.
McCardle leaned forward. “Supply chain management, Mr. Cooper. We have to control every step in delivering plasma from donor to recipient. The best way to make sure that the plasma you donate is properly marked is to tattoo the skin where the needle goes in. When mistakes are made, people die.”
“That’s a stupid system.” Paul wanted to make sure his tone underscored his choice of words. “Why not give me a bracelet with a barcode.”
“Bracelets come off. Tattoos don’t.” McCardle looked back down at his folders.
“Get a flower tattooed over it when you get out next spring—to match your wife’s tramp stamp.” Holloway nodded toward a vacated tattoo chair. “Get your mark then go to Silo K3. Report to Sergeant Marazzi.”
Chapter 4
Sergeant Marazzi was a tall man with an S-shaped posture and a pregnant belly. In a nasal voice, uncharacteristic for such a big guy, Marazzi said, “Lieutenant Meeks fell out last week.”
“Fell out?” Paul asked, not because he didn’t guess the meaning, but as a way to get Marazzi talking. Rapport, Paul guessed, would lead to friendship, and friendship with his warden would make his life better. The strategy worked with crappy managers, why not Marazzi.
“Ebola.” Marazzi looked Paul up and down as Paul turned away from the ladder. Marazzi’s sour look told Paul that Marazzi d
idn’t have a high opinion of his lieutenant.
Paul looked up a hundred feet of ladder. “Is that the only way in?” He smiled so it wouldn’t sound like a complaint.
Marazzi didn’t answer but waved Paul to follow down the same hall Paul had followed earlier when leaving the warrens on his way to the hearing. It was like walking through the winding carcass of a giant earthworm, passing through circles of ribs of rusting steel and flaking paint. Bulbs burned in metal cages along the ceiling at intervals widely spaced enough to leave most of the warren in shadows broken by pools of feeble, tainted light.
Paul hurried a few steps to walk beside rather than behind Marazzi.
Marazzi made no protest.
After passing through several curves and two intersections, Paul said, “This goes on for a while.”
“Remember your way.” Marazzi groaned at the effort of having to point at spray-painted letters and arrows on the walls. “Silo K3. The letter in the silo name designates the Ebola strain of the volunteers inside. The number,” Marazzi groaned. “It’s a number. We got three silos for K strain. We got three more silos for other strains.
“This leads to all the missile silos?” Paul asked.
Marazzi nodded. “Follow the signs.”
“Got it.” Paul kept a better eye on the signs. “We’re going to the silo first?”
“Yes. We keep the volunteer reconvalescent donors there. You pick them up three at a time and take them to your clinic where—”
“My clinic?”
“Yeah.”
“I don’t understand.” Paul pictured a clinic with beds and laboratories and medical machines.
“What’s not to understand?”
“I don’t think I’m qualified to do anything in a clinic. Colonel Holloway said my—”
Marazzi stopped and turned to face Paul. “Don’t get pretentious. Your clinic is a room. That’s it. Three beds and three plasmapheresis machines. Don’t ask me what they used the room for when the Air Force ran this place. I don’t know, and I don’t care. Your job is to take the list you get each day and accompany the guards to the silo. You pick the three volunteers from the list, and you and the guards bring them to your clinic. The guards restrain them so they can’t get away. You give them an injection and then—”
