by W. J. Lundy
Shane stepped over the rail and looked back at the captain. He frowned then kicked off the railing, tossing the grenade onto the deck of the riverboat as he sailed back. He hit the water and turned himself before he broke the surface. He then swam hard with the current to catch up to his rucksack bobbing in the water nearly a hundred feet ahead. He saw impacts with the water as the crew fired at him and then heard the clap of the grenade, followed by shouts and screams. The explosion caused the chaos he was hoping for and the distraction he needed to create distance. Shane didn’t want to kill any of them, but he couldn’t allow harm to come to the girl.
He swam hard and lifted his head often to keep track of the floating pack. The water was colder than he thought it would be. It chilled his core and made his arms feel heavy. He hoped the girl would have the strength to hold on. He took long, deep strokes, slowly gaining on the bag. He watched it roll to the side and caught a glimpse of her pale skin break the surface of the water. The sight of Ella in the water energized him and he swam harder. When the bag was just within reach, he stretched and grabbed at the nylon fabric.
Shane pulled on the bag, rolling it so that the girl’s upper body came out of the water and rested atop the buoyant pack. He forced himself into a sitting position with his boots pointed downstream before he looked up and saw the girl’s face; her hair was wet and lying across her brow. Although she looked at him calmly, he could see in her eyes that she was terrified. He reached a hand up and, feeling her clammy skin, touched her wrist gingerly.
“It’s okay Ella, I’m back,” he whispered to her as he looked her in the eyes.
Shane then twisted in the water to look back at the small riverboat and saw the white and black smoke that now hung over it. He could see it was still anchored and knew they would not be pursuing them; the crew would be busy working to put the fire out. He also knew the shots and explosion would draw the infected closer. He and Ella would have to stay in the water long enough to get away. He shifted the sling around his torso so that the rifle hung across his back, then used his arms to push them to the center of the river and into the faster current.
The cold water numbed the pain of the always present ache in his back, but he could feel the cold take effect on his limbs as well. Shane looked at Ella. Her head was resting on the bag and he could see that she was shivering—her lips had turned a light purple. He would have to get her out of the water soon. He knew he could tolerate the cold temperature far longer than Ella could. She was frail, skin and bones, and with the little food they had eaten, the shivering would use up her calories. The shivering would stop and then she would die.
Shane wanted to get distance on the riverboat but he couldn’t risk the girl; they needed to leave the water. He searched the shoreline for an opening in the trees—a place where they could quickly leave the riverbank, but still find concealment. He wasn’t familiar with the area. He didn’t know this valley where the river was fast-moving, wide, and mostly met with banks of sparse forest yet occasionally crossed by a large highway or rail bridge. A few dead towns, but not much that caught his attention. Now looking downstream, he saw one side of the river met with dark, tree-covered hills and the right bank lined with tall wetland grasses.
The forest would provide for better cover and concealment, but also a means for the infected to get close to him. The field was more open, but he could use the heat of the sun to warm the girl and the infected fled from the daylight for unknown reasons. Shane slid his hand to the girl and felt the cold, soaked jacket clinging to her back.
“Hold on, Ella, we’re gonna get out of the water, okay?” he whispered to her.
She opened her eyes and looked at him blankly without lifting her head. “Are we… we... gonna find my Momma, Shane?” she barely said above the shivers.
Shane looked away toward the bank then back into her eyes. “Yeah, Ella, we’re going to find your mommy, just hold on for me.”
As the river turned right into a bend, Shane held the bag with his left hand and swam hard to the right shoreline. Trying to break out of the current, he was able to reach the shallows and plant a boot into the rocky bottom. The current was still too strong; the swift water made the pack feel hundreds of pounds heavier than it was, so Shane gave up on trying to pull the bag in. The river bend caused a bit of a shallow corner made up of stone and gravel, so he pulled the bag close to him, guided it forward, and kicked hard toward the bank until he felt the bottom close beneath him.
Shane pressed the toes of his boots into the gravel bottom and then pressed down to anchor the pack. Carefully, he lifted the girl to his chest so that her head was on his shoulder. She was unconscious now, but Shane could feel her breath against his neck. He hoisted the bag with his left hand and cautiously walked to the river bank. The grassy ledge over the river was above his shoulders. He dropped the bag next to his feet and lifted the girl to the high grass before he pushed the bag up beside her.
He crouched and then jumped into the bank, grabbing at the tall grass and digging with the toes of his boots, searching for purchase. His boots knocked away parts of the bank that tumbled and loudly splashed into the water below. Already committed to the noise, he continued the scramble. Pushing with his feet and pulling with his arms, he was finally able to roll onto the high ledge above. Shane fell to his side, belly crawled to the girl, and put his hand on the cold skin of her neck; she was still out. He needed to warm her quickly, but they had to move first. He couldn’t stay in this place where he left the river; he had made too much noise. On his knees, Shane lifted his head above the high grass. The field stretched for at least a hundred yards away from the river before it met a blacktop road. To the left and right he saw nothing but open field for hundreds of yards.
Shane saw a small split in the grass, the makings of a game trail that ran parallel to the water’s edge. Looking down the trail, he watched motionlessly. Searching far out, then closer in, he spotted a muddy human boot print on the path. He looked at it closely. A heavy work boot with a four-pronged heel, the edges of the imprint had begun to crumble and showed its age. He could see where objects had blown over it, possibly leaves. Farther up, the human trail had been crossed by a small animal track. He relaxed knowing the trail was old, but it was still a trail and could be used by others; it was time to move.
He swung his rifle back to his chest then pulled the pack over his shoulders. Carefully, he lifted Ella back into his arms and patrolled toward the center of the field as he moved forward to the blacktop road. He moved hastily, but still made an effort to be quiet. He would hide in plain sight today. The field grass was waist high and it would make for good concealment while the sun warmed them, but he would have to find a harder shelter before dark—before the things came out. He began to step forward then halted and looked down in surprise at another set of prints. It was the same boot, but headed in the opposite direction. He recognized the print from the four-pronged heel.
Whatever made these prints had wandered the field, hunted, and spent an unknown amount of time there. Shane kneeled down and examined it. Like the others, the edge had crumbled and begun to dry. It was old, but not days old. Only hours had passed since it was pressed into the soft mud of the field. Shane shook off the worry and went back to the task at hand. He continued moving in the direction of the road. When he found a natural low spot in the field, he pushed away the grass to form a nest and then dropped his pack. He removed his soaked uniform top and t-shirt before spreading them out on the tall grass. The air was still chilled, but the sun warmed his skin. He laid Ella on the jacket and opened his pack before untying the waterproof drawstring to remove the wool blanket. The heavy material had picked up some water but, for the most part, was still dry.
Shane folded the blanket in half and placed Ella on top of it. He then quickly removed her soaked clothing and draped it over his uniform to dry. When she was stripped down to her shorts he lifted her to his bare chest and then tightly wrapped the blanket around the both of them to t
rap in the body heat the girl desperately needed. Shane lay back against his pack and looked up at the sun. Feeling the heat of it on his face, he prayed that he had done enough to save the girl. As the adrenalin left his body, exhaustion took hold of him. When he felt the warmth returning to her cheek as it pressed against his shoulder, he relaxed but kept his arms wrapped snugly around the girl. He cupped the back of her head with his hand, breathed deeply, and closed his eyes. He just needed to rest… only for a minute.
CHAPTER 6
The man bedecked in dark camouflage walked across the wardroom, ignoring the seated strangers. He opened a cupboard, quickly scanned the contents, and retrieved a small tin of biscuits. He leaned back against a bulkhead and pried open the tin. A second man dressed in a flight suit timidly entered the room a few seconds later and, appearing unsure of himself, stepped to the table to stand looking at the Americans.
His flight suit was adorned with an American flag patch on the shoulder. Insignia that Brad didn’t recognize was in gold over the name ‘HOWARD’ on a black badge pinned to the man’s chest. Stuart looked up at the man nonchalantly and said, “Please have a seat, Doctor Howard.”
Stuart paused to sip his tea before addressing Brad’s team. “You’ll have to excuse our friend. We just recently pulled him from the drink. He’s still a bit soggy, I suppose.”
The man in the flight suit gave Stuart an uneasy look and then took a seat at the far side of the table across from Brad and the others.
Sean looked Howard over. “Doctor Howard, is it? I assume you’re an American by the flag on your shoulder.”
Howard raised his head to look at Sean. “Well yes… of course I’m American. I am a doctor for Christ sakes… with the United States.” Howard scowled. “I’m with the Public Health Services. I demand to know why these people are detaining me!” Howard shouted.
Howard’s sudden outburst caused the camo man to set down his tin and walk closer to Howard’s side. He spoke softly in a thick English accent. “Now, c’mon mate, what’d we discuss about yer temper?”
Howard looked over his shoulder at the camo man, then back at Sean. “Can you do anything to get me out of here? These men have been keeping me prisoner!”
Sean looked at the camo man in the face. “Special Boat Service?” he asked.
The man smiled and shook his head. “Close, mate; Lieutenant Meyers, Reconnaissance Regiment,” he answered.
Sean returned the smile and nodded. “I see… so Meyers, why is it you’re detaining my friend?” Sean asked, ignoring the others in the room.
Stuart laughed at the question. “We aren’t detaining anyone. We responded to this gentleman’s distress call. If we hadn’t pulled him out of the water when we did, he’d most likely be dead by now. “
Howard leaned forward and slammed his closed fist on the table. “Listen to me, you fools, we are wasting time. You have to get me back!” Howard yelled.
The sudden movement caused Meyers to drop a heavy hand onto Howard’s shoulder. He looked to Stuart for a sign. Stuart shook his head. “No, allow the doctor to stay. I’m sure he can behave himself.”
Meyers smiled, squeezed the doctor’s shoulder before slapping him on the back, then walked back to the tin of biscuits and pretended to ignore the conversation.
Stuart cleared his throat, causing the doctor to lift his head and look back at the men now staring at him. Chatham poured a glass of water from a pitcher on the table and then placed the glass in front of the Howard. Without speaking, Howard lifted the glass and gulped down the liquid. “We don’t have a lot of time. The sample could already be lost, or degraded,” he mumbled as he tapped the rim of the glass to signal Chatham to refill it.
Sean shot Howard a puzzled look. “The ‘sample’?”
“Yes, the damn sample! Every minute we wait, we risk its degradation or loss. We shouldn’t be here chatting, we should be headed back.”
Stuart lifted a battered tan leather bag and removed a heavy folder which he slid across the table to Doctor Howard. “Maybe if you caught our friends up from the beginning, they would be more receptive?”
Howard shook his head. “I have already explained all of this!”
Sean looked at the folder. Stapled to the cover was a white sheet of 8x11 paper with ‘CDC’ printed on it in bold blue letters. “Please, Doctor, humor us. We are extremely interested.”
Howard grunted. He opened the folder and flipped through sheathes of paper before removing a large color photograph. It was an image of a limb with an open wound. Howard looked at the picture intensely then slid it across the table to Sean. “What do you see?” he asked.
Sean took the photo and held it up to look at it before he showed it to both Brad and Brooks. Brooks reached for the photo and examined it closer. He slid the photo back to Howard. “Looks like a grade A Primal bite.”
Howard nodded. “Primalis Rabia, yes, of course, a Primal. It cannot be confirmed, but we do believe the patient was bitten by an infected individual, a… Primal as you put it. Now, what else do you see?” Howard said as he slid the photo back.
“The wound is clean, probably a child—possibly a small female… wait… there are no signs of infection here, but this here,” Brooks said, circling the wound with his finger, “superficial bruising around the injury. This can’t be a Primal bite even though those are human teeth marks. How old was the injury?” Brooks asked, looking confused.
“Yes, finally! Are you a medical professional?” Howard asked, showing more enthusiasm.
Brooks shook his head. “Only in the ‘field experience’ sense, but I have treated… I mean, I have come in to contact with the… recently infected.”
Howard began to look excited as he flipped another page and pulled another photo which he lifted and slid across to Brooks. “Now look at this; same patient, nearly forty-eight hours later.”
Brooks lifted the photo. “Impossible, the wound. It’s… it’s healing! This couldn’t have been a Primal bite.”
“Yes, it is healing. It certainly should not be a Primal bite. The prognosis is six hours, ten at best, but there’s more. Look at this,” Howard said. His excitement was growing as he hastily searched and then pulled medical reports from the stacked papers. He laid them down in front of Brooks and pointed. “See? The patient’s blood tested positive for the virus. Then later tests indicate that the patient is showing signs of effective antibodies, and then… see here? The virus is gone.”
Brooks stared at the reports. “How?”
Howard smiled. “Exactly, how? That’s what we need to decipher. Of course all of this is very simplified, but we hold three concise facts that need to be examined further. The patient was attacked, the patient’s blood was positive for Primalis Rabia, and then the patient was clean.”
Brooks pulled the lab results from Howard’s hand and examined them closely. “I don’t understand. The patient recovered from acute signs of the infection? This is impossible. What was the treatment?”
“There is no treatment; the patient was given minimal care for pain management. Most of the patient records are missing and all that is noted is that the patient’s other family members failed to fight the infection. More likely, they didn’t survive initial contact with the virus.”
“Has this happened before?” Brooks asked.
Howard shook his head. “No, this is the first ever reported incident of a spontaneous recovery of the Primalis Rabia infection. Now, you must understand this could have been possible before but many patients, especially the weak such as the child in the photo, do not survive the initial attack. That’s also what makes the vector so virulent. Only the strongest among us tend to survive the initial transmission of the virus. So it is the strongest among us who then become the carriers.”
Brooks, looking more excited, said, “Who is it? The patient.”
“She, the patient is a she. Her family was attacked near Atlanta—attacked very badly. The father was able to fight them off and break away. He was fo
rtunate enough to get the child past the barriers and to a FEMA center, one of the few that still accepted walking wounded for treatment, but mostly for study. The mother… she was a loss. A shame, she may have shared the child’s trait because the father certainly did not.”
“What about the father?” Brooks asked.
“The FEMA camp allowed them in but put them under quarantine and took blood samples, of course. The father quickly succumbed to the infection and was put down. But the girl, she never turned.”
Sean put up his hands. “Okay, enough. What does all of this mean?”
Howard looked, gleaming at Sean, but Brooks spoke first. “It means this girl could hold the cure.”
Howard chuckled. “Not exactly, but it could at least be a treatment, or maybe the starting point for a vaccine!”
“Well, where is she then?” Brad asked, speaking for the first time.
Howard put his head down and looked at the papers in his hands. Stuart coughed, causing the others to look at him. “Well, Doctor, go ahead. Explain to the gentleman where your patient is currently residing.”
“Fort Collins, a small base. Technically, it’s a National Guard Armory on the Carolina coastline. It’s of little importance to anyone—”
Stuart clapped his hands, interrupting Howard mid-sentence, and then extended his neck to emphasize his point. “And, Doctor, why is it you are not at Fort Collins with your precious sample?”
Howard sighed. “We did the best we could. One of our reaction teams had initially secured the patient from the FEMA camp, but no air transport was available. They attempted to reach Fort Bragg and had to divert to the coast after they encountered heavy buildups of infected populations. Our first contact with them was after they reached Fort Collins, one of the last remaining hard sites in the region. They were able to get a transmission through to us using the Armory’s secured networks,” Howard said, holding up the folder.
