The Wastelanders

by K. S. Merbeth

  Beckham leaned over to look out his window. Below, the shadow of the aircraft glided across a vast, green field. They were still low enough that he could make out the shapes of several horses running freely through a pasture. The rolling hills and crystal clear creeks snaking through the terrain were serene, but Beckham still felt anxious.

  The view quickly vanished, and the horses faded into tiny black dots moving slowly across the distant landscape.

  “Which one of you is Master Sergeant Beckham?” asked a voice from the other end of the aircraft.

  Beckham raised his knife hand. He craned his neck to see the MP pulling several tablets out of a bag.

  “Take one of these, each of you,” the man said. He walked down the aisle and handed the devices out in turn. “Once you submit your electronic signature and fingerprint, you will have access to a classified briefing from Colonel Gibson, commanding officer of the United States Army Medical Research Institute of Infectious Diseases. Mission details will be provided at the end of the briefing.”

  The MP stopped and handed Beckham his tablet.

  “What about me?” Dr. Ellis asked, his voice more eager than before.

  “I’m sorry, sir, but this briefing is for military personnel only. Master Sergeant Beckham will ensure you have all the information you need to help make this mission a success, but I should remind you that you are here only as a consultant.” The MP returned to his seat at the other end of the craft and melted into the shadows.

  Ellis spoke louder. “How can I consult if I don’t know what’s going on?”

  Beckham glanced over at the doctor and gave him a reassuring nod as if to say, Don’t worry, I’ll tell you everything I know. But that would have been a lie. He didn’t like the fact he had to drag a civilian along with them, and neither did his men. Even if Ellis did bring a medical opinion to the mission, civilians typically ended up becoming liabilities and only slowed his team down.

  Beckham looked out the window to catch a final glimpse of the sun as it made one last valiant effort before disappearing over the horizon. Darkness filled the aircraft until a bank of lights blinked on above them.

  With a quick flick of the touch screen, Beckham activated his tablet. He linked his headset to the device with a small cord, and a message appeared immediately.

  CLASSIFIED—TOP SECRET

  EYES ONLY—DELTA TEAM GHOST

  Examination by unauthorized persons is an act of treason punishable by fines up to $100,000 and imprisonment up to fifteen years.

  If you are Master Sergeant Reed Beckham, born 13 March 1978, please enter your electronic signature and then hover your index finger over the display for acceptance.

  Beckham looked down the aisle at Horn and Carlos and then across the way at Edwards, Riley, and Tenor. Their faces were all illuminated by the same white glow radiating off their tablets. One by one they removed their gloves and signed the display.

  It was odd being warned about the repercussions of sharing any classified information. In fact, it was downright patronizing, especially for a Delta Force operator. Beckham had given his entire life to his country. Chosen Her over a wife and kids and spent time away from the small bit of family he had fighting in faraway lands. But there was something else about the message that went far beyond insult. Its very existence made him uneasy; something didn’t feel right about this mission.

  Whatever it was.

  Beckham considered what he already knew. The facts were slowly coming together. Their leave had been canceled only a few days after returning to Fort Bragg from Afghanistan. That told him brass wanted a team that had been in the field recently and was sharp. The lack of a formal briefing from Command told him that someone higher up was in charge. The CIA instantly came to mind, but that didn’t explain Ellis and the involvement of the CDC.

  Without further hesitation, Beckham signed the display and pressed his index finger over the scanner. He was anxious to know what they were dealing with.

  A video image of an older officer popped onto the display. The man was sitting in a large leather chair, his light blue eyes narrowed at the screen. He wiped a single bead of sweat off his forehead.

  “As you already know, I’m Colonel Rick Gibson, commanding officer of the United States Army Medical Research Institute of Infectious Diseases. I’ll make this briefing as quick as possible. Time is of the essence. At 1000 hours this morning, we lost contact with a top secret facility on San Nicolas Island, off the coast of California. This installation, which is known as Building Eight, is home to some of the most important medical research in the country. The scientists working inside deal with Level Four biohazards, the most severe contagions and chemical toxins known to man. Officially, this facility doesn’t exist.” He paused, throwing a glance over his shoulder, as if he didn’t want anyone to hear him.

  Beckham felt his muscles tightening, an involuntary reaction he experienced whenever he felt nervous. He waited for the officer to continue.

  Looking back to the camera, Gibson said, “So what does this have to do with your team? Protocol is to activate an emergency operations team, contact CDC, and deploy a response. Along with Doctor Ellis, from CDC, and the assistance of two men from my division, you gentlemen are that response. I’m not taking any chances in this situation, and I’m told you can get the job done.”

  A lump formed in Beckham’s throat. He didn’t know what the job was yet, but he had a feeling it would take him inside Building 8. Level 4 contagions were his worst fear as an operator. He’d much rather face a building full of insurgents than walk into a viral hot zone.

  “These next videos will give you an idea of what we are dealing with,” Gibson continued, his image fading. “This was recorded on the twenty-fourth of March. Location is a WHO field hospital in remote Guinea. The patient tested positive for the Ebola virus.”

  Beckham tightened his grip on the tablet as the image enlarged. The body of a frail African man lay coiled on a cot. A pair of nurses protected only by masks stood by his side, one of them bending over to wipe a trail of blood leaking from his right eye. The thin blanket draped over the patient’s bony body looked like the apron of a butcher, speckled with dark red blood.

  Beckham had seen images of patients infected with Ebola before, but not this bad. This man hemorrhaged blood from every orifice. The nurses’ attempts to dry his forehead with a red-soaked sponge ended when he lurched forward, black vomit streaming out of his mouth.

  Beckham blinked and then focused on the man’s ghostly stare. Something about his detached eyes reminded him that the enemy, in this case, wasn’t human. It was a microscopic contagion, one that he couldn’t simply shoot or blow up. The revelation scared the shit out of him.

  “The second video was taken inside the isolation wing of a hospital in Guinea’s capital city, Conakry. One hundred and four new cases were confirmed on the twenty-seventh of March. Of those patients, ninety-eight have died since the recording.”

  Beckham watched men in white bio suits approach a pair of guards holding AK-47s. After checking for clearance, they opened the glass doors. Inside, the videographer panned the camera across the room, revealing dozens of beds, all of which contained the same scene: blood-soaked blankets and patients hemorrhaging out their insides. A doctor waved the camera away, yelling, “Get that thing out of here!”

  The video fizzled, and Gibson reappeared on the screen. “I’m sure many of you heard about this outbreak in recent news. The virus is thought be a stronger version of the Zaire strain, the worst type known to man. It has spread to Sierra Leone, Liberia, and Mali. We have confirmed cases in Europe, the Middle East, and Asia. It’s just a matter of time before this strain hits US soil.”

  Beckham’s eyes shot up. He scanned the faces of his men. They all wore the same bold look, seemingly undeterred by the images.

  Glancing back down at his tablet, Beckham saw Gibson’s features had changed. The man checked his wristwatch. Then, with a new sense of urgency painted across his
face, Gibson looked up. The creases on his forehead deepened.

  “As you can probably guess, the researchers at Building Eight were working on a cure. Doctor Isaac Medford, the team lead, contacted me two days ago to say he had made a breakthrough. He’d extracted chemical samples from a weapon called VX-99. Many of you may have heard rumors of its use in Vietnam. Some of them are probably true. Anyone injected with a single dose is transformed into something that makes the criminally insane look like Girl Scouts. The weapon was designed to make supersoldiers. It was used in 1968 on a platoon of marines; they were to take a small but heavily defended village. Instead, the entire platoon turned on one another and turned the jungle red. They killed in the most barbaric ways. Most of the marines were found without their weapons, having used their bare hands to murder each other and the VC that ambushed them. The chemical was discontinued after its use was found to have irreversible effects, as you are about to see.”

  Beckham felt several pairs of eyes on him from across the aisle, but he did not look up. He focused on his tablet. The smiling image of a soldier dressed in uniform appeared. Gibson continued his narration. “This is Platoon Commander First Lieutenant Trevor Brett. He was awarded a posthumous Bronze Star for his actions during a classified mission in Vietnam. His family believed he died a hero. His file simply says KIA. But this is far from the truth. Ten years after his last mission, Lieutenant Brett showed up in a rural village outside Son La, over one hundred miles south of where his platoon had dropped in and injected VX-99.”

  A map appeared, with a red line leading from the upper mountain area to the city of Son La. Beckham recognized the area instantly. He’d spent several weeks of leave there when he first joined the military.

  “Remember that red line,” Gibson said.

  Next, an image of a man in torn clothing emerged. Even though the picture was blurry, Beckham could tell there was no humanity left in him. He’d seen others like him in the slums of Mogadishu, the remote villages of the northern, tribal areas of Afghanistan, and the filthy alleys in Fallujah. War zones tended to produce the look quite often.

  “This was a photograph of the lieutenant taken by a British journalist in 1980. Take note of his appearance. His lips, eyes, skin.”

  Using his fingers, Beckham enlarged the image. Brett had been transformed into a monster, with hair clinging to his head in clumps. His skin was almost translucent; blue veins crisscrossed his exposed flesh. His eyes had developed some sort of second layer or membrane that was reminiscent of a reptilian eye. His irises were yellow, and his pupils had morphed into slits. But the most striking change was the man’s lips. They had bulged into a grotesque sucker that reminded Beckham of a leech.

  “And his necklace,” Gibson continued.

  A new image filled the display. Some sort of cord lay across the surface of a metal desk. Beckham thought he saw dried pieces of flesh. But was that possible?

  As the image magnified further, his stomach lurched. He’d never seen anything like this. He’d heard of men keeping ears and other trophies, but there were more than just ears on the lieutenant’s necklace. There were other things—unspeakable things. Now Beckham knew why Dr. Ellis wasn’t allowed to watch the briefing. If anything got out about this chemical weapon, the military would not only be paying out large settlements to families but politicians would be hosting a barbeque on the Hill, grilling anyone connected to VX-99. Gibson would likely be the pig being slow roasted, with an apple in his mouth.

  “What you saw are the effects of VX-99. Like I said earlier, the idea behind the serum was to create a supersoldier. What we got was Lieutenant Brett.” Gibson paused again and then said, “That red line on the map of Vietnam I told you to remember? That was the path Brett followed for ten years. Murdering and eating anyone he came across. VX-99 didn’t simply transform him into a monstrosity; it transformed him into a criminally insane soldier, one that stayed alive all of those years with a single goal: to kill.”

  Once again Gibson’s tired face faded, replaced by a video feed of the ocean. Beckham found himself wondering what Brett’s fate had been. There was no way the marine ever saw the light of day again. He’d likely died a long time ago after enduring countless tests by the Medical Corps.

  What a fucking way for a soldier to go out, Beckham thought as the camera panned to a beach.

  “Your target is a sample of Doctor Medford’s research. My men will know exactly what they are looking for.” Gibson crinkled his nose. “I know what you’re thinking. Why not just bomb the place? We would if we could, believe me, but I need to know what Medford created. It could be invaluable for future Ebola research. I need that sample.”

  Beckham mastered his anger with a deep breath, tuning Gibson out for a moment to think. This mission meant Team Ghost was cannon fodder. That wasn’t new or unexpected. He’d signed the papers. He knew from the beginning what he was getting himself into. But this? His team was being sent into a potential hot zone with no real intel besides some shitty briefing about events that had happened nearly fifty years ago.

  Ghost had dropped into remote locations with less information than they had now, but those missions had never dealt with Level 4 contagions. This was a different type of enemy.

  The tension in the troop hold lingered like a thick fog of humidity. Beckham didn’t need to scan his men again to know they all felt it. Never once had he questioned a mission before. Orders were always orders. And no matter how bad things were at Building 8, he still had a duty to his country.

  Breathing deeply through his nose, he quelled another surge of anger.

  “As I stated before,” Gibson continued, “the target is on San Nicolas Island. Everyone working outside Building Eight has been evacuated. When you arrive, the only personnel left within a twenty-mile radius will be the scientists locked beneath the surface.”

  Beckham studied the screen. Sapphire waves crashed onto the shores of San Nicolas Island under the moonlight. The video, taken by a low-flying chopper, gave a full view of the terrain. Snaking across a background of brown sand was a landing strip with a cluster of buildings nestled around the perimeter.

  Gibson continued, his voice growing more anxious. “My men will have a GPS locator with them. They will guide you to Building Eight. It’s off the beaten path, away from the rest of the facilities. They have never been there, and neither have I, due to the sensitive nature of the research,” he said with a slight pause. “It’s one of our smaller labs, with a staff of only fifteen. Navy personnel on the island do not even know Building Eight exists. They’ve been told they were evacuated due to a toxic spill.”

  The video transitioned into a building layout. Beckham assumed the blueprints were of Building 8, but it was difficult to tell with the dim lighting in the cargo hold.

  Gibson continued to narrate. “My men will give you access to the facility. Your mission is to protect them and retrieve the sample of Medford’s work.”

  Protect his men? Beckham thought. From what?

  Gibson coughed deeply into his hand and very politely said, “Excuse me. There are three levels in the lab. Your target will be somewhere on the lowest level, where Doctor Medford would have stored the samples. Level One is decontamination. You won’t need to worry about activating the chambers because you will be equipped with CBRN suits, but keep in mind that if there is a loose contagion, you are only safe inside your suit. A single tear will compromise you.”

  Level Two popped onto the screen. “These are the personnel quarters. Navigate your way to the far end, where a final hallway will take you to Level Three. There are four labs on the final level. Each is color-coded and represents a different toxic level. You are looking for the red one. That is where Medford would have been performing his tests.”

  Gibson’s profile reappeared. “Make no mistake, gentlemen—the likelihood of anyone inside being alive is slim to none. You may be walking into a morgue.” He paused briefly and then added, “In approximately one hour from this briefing, yo
u will land at Edwards Air Force Base. From there you will rendezvous with two men from our Emergency Operations Center: Major Walt Caster and Major Brian Noble. Major Noble is a virologist and a damn good one. You will then be fitted for your protective suits and further briefed. After securing your equipment, you will proceed to San Nicolas Island by helicopter. By this time tomorrow, I hope to be congratulating you all via conference call after you acquire the sample. Good luck.”

  The video fizzled out, and Beckham looked up to meet the intense stares of his team. Their eyes pleaded for reassurance, for Beckham to say something inspirational.

  He sat there trying to think of something, but his mind raced. Suddenly, a single image froze there: He could see the black, detached eyes of Lieutenant Brett as vividly as if he was staring right at the man. He finally understood why they’d been activated. They were protecting Gibson’s men from a possible Brett.

  A distant voice snapped Beckham from his thoughts. The youngest and smallest member of Team Ghost, Sergeant Riley, stared at Beckham from across the aisle. An overhead light illuminated his youthful features, reminding Beckham why the man had earned the nickname “the Kid.” With light blue eyes and an enthusiastic and contagious laugh, Riley was the team’s little brother. He wore a constant cheerful grin.

  “Guess we aren’t going to the Keys after all?”

  “No,” Beckham replied grimly.

  Riley pulled a bandanna with an illustration of a smiling joker’s mouth over his own and let out a deep laugh. “Good. I didn’t want to go anyways.”

  Several of the other men chuckled. Big Horn reached over and smacked the kid’s armored knee. “Think of this like a game of football. That’s what I do,” he said, crossing his arms. “War is easier when you compare it to something you’re good at.”