by Tom Calen
Once the decision had been made to travel to the East Side, Michelle spent Sunday’s hours of daylight in a state of heightened anxiety as she waited for evening to fall. Andrew believed she was taking their car out for a drive before heading to the library and her office to catch up on some work. She hated lying to him, but did not want him worrying needlessly while she was off on what was sure to be a fool’s errand. Beyond his notice, she managed to load the classic car’s trunk with two extra jugs of gasoline, as well as some food and water. Though she hoped the journey there and back would be completed in a day, she also knew of the car’s tendency to act up, and she prepared for the possibility of being stranded for hours until assistance found her.
After the first hundred miles, she began to regret not having Andrew with her. Not only would the interminable drive be more bearable, but his presence could have alleviated some of the fears that were beginning to creep into her thoughts. You didn’t want him rushing headlong into anything without thinking, she scolded silently. And here you go doing just that! As the second hour rolled into the third, all thoughts of turning back receded from her mind. Instead she kept her eyes focused on the swiftly darkening road ahead, and the possibilities of what she might discover in a few hours’ time.
Full night had descended, and Michelle pulled the car over to a small widening in the road. Studying the map she had snuck out of the house, she estimated she was approximately a mile from the security border surrounding the complex. Though roads connecting to Gitmo had been constructed once the island was united under what was essentially American dominance, Michelle decided to cover the remaining mile on foot. The three-quarter moon, which was still low in the early night sky, provided ample light as she stepped through the underbrush that paralleled the road.
Two security guards, Americans by the bits of conversation she was able to hear, were sitting inside a small shed on the left side of the gate. Though their attention occasionally drifted to the road, they were clearly checking for any approaching headlights, not a person on foot, thus allowing Michelle to squeeze through the small opening where the gates joined. She doubted Andrew would have been able to do the same if she had told him of her intentions and he had agreed to follow.
Her years in the mountains, learning from Paul and others, had honed her ability to seek and then melt into the shadows. Dressed in black as she was, it was an easy effort to advance rapidly in the surprisingly poorly lit compound. She did not have a destination in mind on her arrival, but now within the facility, she tracked her way towards the one massive building that shone with the most light and bustled with the most activity. Hidden behind a military Jeep, Michelle eyed the entrance to the building with dismay. Four guards, far more alert than their peers that she passed earlier, blocked the entrance. Dropping herself low to the ground, she snaked around the left side of the structure until she found a narrow, concrete stairwell that led to a steel door. After descending the steps, she examined the door and the massively thick chain and lock that sealed it shut.
Michelle smiled briefly. She had hoped that security would be more rudimentary than what must have existed prior to the outbreak. But with limited power on the island, it was clear much of the electronic security no longer functioned. She said a silent thank you to Erik for teaching her how to pick a lock years ago. It had helped then in opening trunks and closets filled with much needed supplies, and… click… it helped again in opening the lock. Closing the door behind her, she inhaled deeply as she examined her surroundings.
The hallway before her stretched a few dozen yards and was lit intermittently with ominous red bulbs that hung naked in their ceiling sockets. Pressed flat against the cool concrete wall, Michelle placed soft steps on the floor as she moved farther away from the door. Halfway down the hall, she could see the path branch left, and after stealing a glance to assure she was alone in the hall, she turned and continued to follow the maze-like turns. The air was turning cooler when she noticed the subtle declination in the floor. Looking back, she saw the barely noticeable descent she had been making. Minutes passed, and the angle of the tunnel became more evident. Eventually, a decision was forced upon her as the hallway branched off to both the left and right, and also continued straight forward. Trusting her instincts, and hoping not much rust had accumulated on them during over a year of disuse, she selected the tunnel before her and continued walking. Several more minutes passed and Michelle began to suspect that she was now several stories beneath the bay itself.
The red lights of the tunnel soon were replaced by white bulbs and Michelle could see the beginnings of a large room opening at the end of the hall. With the discovery of the lights and the room, she also frowned at another discovery. Voices. She paused briefly, glancing back, before telling herself, No, you came this far… keep walking! Her personal command lacked much power, but was still enough to drive her on. In a crouch, she crept the last fifteen feet before finding herself inside a room far larger than she had expected.
Looking up, she estimated the room’s ceiling was at least fifty feet high, its other dimensions making it more of a warehouse than a room. Her vision of its entire size was obstructed by massive metal containers, trailers to her eyes, which were stacked in twos and threes, in row after row. The voices she heard were indistinct, leading her to believe that they were still some distance away and her ears were tricked by the acoustic distortion of the vast chamber.
With an easily remembered grace, Michelle wove a cat-like trail among the containers as she advanced further and further into the warehouse. Soon the progression of containers ceased and gave way to a giant circle of medical laboratory equipment illuminated by large white spotlights, burning her vision briefly. Moving between the various machines and instruments were near a dozen figures garbed in hazmat suits of white, their faces covered with plastic shields and gas masks. The figure nearest to her, its gender indeterminable, was walking towards a metal examining table. Michelle stifled a gasp as her eyes took in the human form strapped to the table. Though well hidden, she was close enough to see the man on the table strain against the bonds that held him. Muscles contracted under taut skin as a guttural snarl escaped his lips. She did not need to see the man’s bent neck to know he was a Til.
She watched in frozen shock as the hazmat figure placed a tray of vials on a small metal cart beside the table. It had been well over a year since she had last come this close to one of the infected. She did not fear the man, restrained as he was, rather her shock stemmed from his existence on the island. The Council had assured the citizenry that all the infected had been eradicated from New Cuba. Either they lied, or Duncan is the only one on the Council that knows about this, Michelle thought. She knew that the panic which would ensue and probably destroy the island, would be immediate if what she was seeing became known.
The figure in white administered an injection that instantaneously calmed the Til, a reaction she would have been surprised to see if not for what her eyes had glimpsed at the moment of injection. Her brain warred with her eyes, the former doubting the accuracy of the latter. Turn around! her mind’s voice shouted. As if in compliance the figure once again turned back to its patient, and Michelle felt the second shock of the night. Dr. Marena!
She moved back slightly so that the scene was completely hidden from view. Her breath came in short, rapid spurts, and she could feel the pounding in her eyes as blood raced through her body. He was at the engagement party! How could he not tell us about this? Forcing herself to regain control of her body, she inhaled deeply to stave off the feeling of hyperventilation. As breath and pulse began to steady at a controlled level, Michelle returned to spy what Dr. Marena was doing. Instead, she was met with the sight of him wheeling the examination table through a door at the other side of the circle of equipment. Cursing herself for taking her eyes off him, she quickly rose to her feet and backtracked through the hills of containers until she found herself aligned with the door through which Marena had exited.
What the hell am I doing here? she repeatedly screamed in her mind. I’m doing this because of a damn picture and some whispering? Though she tried to convince herself it had in fact been a fool’s errand, her discoveries had already been worth the risks she had taken. Someone’s covering up having a Til on the island, and I’m going to find out why!
Focusing now on the room in which she had so blindly placed herself, Michelle could see a long row of what appeared to be cells, lining both sides of a wide corridor. As the drumming of her heart subsided in her ears, she began to hear soft muffling, though she could not determine its exact location. Cautiously stepping forward, she could see the interior of the first set of cells. To her left and her right, a Til stood in each respective prison. Even with the bars between them, a shudder shook her body, so much so, that she startled herself and shuddered again. As she continued walking down the center of the corridor, the Tils’ crooked necks slowly followed her path. Cell after cell revealed more Tils, all standing stone still, all studying her with a predatory fascination. When she dared meet eyes with one, the creature, once a man, bared its teeth and let a low growl roll towards her. Two dozen cells on left and right she walked past before reaching the end of the corridor and its lone door with thick chains. Fumbling nervously as she picked the lock, she said a silent prayer that she would survive the night. In her heart, she feared she had stumbled into something far more dangerous than she could survive.
Chapter Nine
A gentle breeze stirred the air yet did little to relieve the oppressive heat of the afternoon. Paul believed the Cuban summer had been a burning challenge, though by comparison the dryness of the Texan heat made each breath a struggle.
San Antonio was much like the smaller towns they had passed along the way, if slightly more congested with buildings. Years of neglect were evident in the debris-covered streets, as well as the hulking skeletons of the apartments and businesses. Large table umbrellas in a multitude of colors made a haphazard rainbow along the once-famous River Walk, though most were torn and upended. Strings of dead lights twined through the untrimmed trees and often tangled with ropes of colored flags that stretched from store front to store front. It was clear to Paul that the one-time tourist destination had offered peaceful and leisurely afternoons for the many visitors that toured the various restaurants and shops that bordered the narrow waterway. Partially submerged boats, open-decked and lined with benches, sporadically broke the surface of the placid river. From the balcony of the El Tropicano hotel, his view was unobstructed as his eyes scanned the area.
He had briefly despaired at leaving the sanctuary at Ingleside, but after days searching and no signs of survivors located, he knew it had been time to head north. The encounters with infected along the way had been infrequent, usually no more than a dozen Tils at a time attacked the convoy and were quickly dispatched under the heavy artillery of the vehicles. Upon reaching San Antonio, nine days after landing at Ingleside, Hicks had been the first to see indications of survivors. Under Paul’s direction the team swept and secured the hotel, its structure and location offering a modicum of safety, and established smaller groups to divide and search the city. Hicks’ tracking abilities had exceeded even Paul’s expectations when on the second day he announced finding a trail. Perhaps a mile from the hotel, the trail ended at a small storefront that had windows and doors securely boarded shut from the inside.
Several raps on the wooden blockade at the door received no response. Paul ordered the men with him to break through and within minutes he had taken the first step inside. The smell that greeted him was the first affirmation of Hicks’ instincts. Though not the smell of death and decay, the odor that hung heavily was that of human waste. Past the racks of Lone Star souvenirs, Paul had to steady his legs as he took in the sight. Seven people, one a child not yet in his teens, huddled together with fear evident in their eyes. Tattered clothing hung from stick-thin frames. What flesh was visible stretched tightly over arms and legs that had long since lost muscle, while bones seemed ready to break through the skin at any moment. Their horror-filled eyes were sunk deep into faces so gaunt with starvation that one would have thought them corpses, save for the shaking that wracked their bodies.
“My God.” Lisa’s anguished whisper mirrored Paul’s thoughts as he knelt down slowly and extended his hand. The man closest to him, shirtless with a stomach that practically outlined the organs inside, flinched back from the gesture.
“It’s okay,” Paul said softly. “We’re here to help you.” He removed his water canteen and placed it on the floor and slowly backed away. The man looked warily from Paul to the canteen, but thirst eventually won out and the man snatched for the water like a feral cat.
With a barely audible whisper, Paul spoke over his shoulder, “Get the medics.” He could hear the scuffle of boots as one of his men exited to carry out the order. Lisa and Hicks edged forward, placing their own canteens on the floor, and with slightly less distrust the frail man took both bottles and helped those with him drink.
In a voice as weak as his body, the man looked to Paul and said, “Thank you.”
While they waited for the medics to arrive, he briefly explained to the starving survivors who he and the others were, that protection and rescue had finally come for them.
“We have a base at a hotel. If the medics give the all clear, we can move you there and…”
“No!” the man managed to shout, though the effort left his body spasming with a fit of coughing. Through the fit, he tried to speak, “No. They’re out there. Once they see us, they’ll take us!”
Paul could feel the sadness of pity growing within him. Though their bodies had survived, and he doubted even that would have been much longer, their minds had become that of prey for a deadly predator. The rescues he and his team had made among Cuba’s neighboring islands had found far healthier survivors, both in mind and body. The creatures before him now—starved, filthy from head to toe—bore injuries that would take years to heal, if ever.
“The infected can’t hurt you now. I have men with me, soldiers, and we can protect you from the infected,” Paul said with as reassuring a tone as possible.
“Not the infected…the Horde!”
--
Paul had not yet had the chance to speak further with the man or the other survivors. When the medics arrived, they set about their tasks with such blind diligence that as he tried to talk to the man during their ministrations, he was quickly shooed away with glares. Though he might command the unit, when the doctors were working on patients he might as well be their subordinate.
When the time came to move them, the survivors lashed out with a panicked force that surprised him, given their weakened condition. Once sedated, they were loaded into the Med-Evac and quickly deposited into proper beds at the hotel, where the doctors continued the work of hydrating and tending to wounds. Frequent updates regarding their status came to him while he waited on the balcony of his room. Beyond the obvious malnutrition and dehydration, the list of ailments suffered by the survivors included early stages of dysentery and tapeworm infection—most likely due to the proximity of their living and defecation areas—as well as a few minor infections of wounds. The Med-Evac was equipped with
the required medications and the medics administered what was needed, and various other preventative treatments. One of the survivors, a woman in her mid-forties by the name of Beth, was in the worst shape and exhibited the signs of end-stage breast cancer. It was unlikely she would survive much longer, and Paul ordered that she be given enough pain medication to keep her comfortable.
As the first rescue of the mission, Paul struggled to view it as a success. Their numbers were few, their conditions unimaginable, and one of the survivors was unlikely to see the end of the month. He wished Lisa was near at hand so that he might benefit from her usual encouragement, but she had not wanted to waste any daylight and had taken out another search team. The silver lining, he assumed it could be called that, was that no Tils had been sighted or encountered. He shook his head with a smile and thought of his own outlook, How quickly you fall back into the old patterns… it’s a good day when disease-infected savages don’t try to kill you.
“Sir?”
Hearing the voice from inside, Paul turned and left the balcony only to find the heat within more confining than without. Chris Nieves, his head of intelligence, stood formally at the door to the suite. A former enlisted man, his sense of protocol had not been forgotten.
“More news?” Paul asked.
“Barnes said if you’d like to speak with the survivors, a few are awake now, sir.”
“Thanks, Chris, I’ll head down in a minute.”
Caleb Barnes, the chief medical officer on the team, had just graduated from medical school when the virus hit. A Floridian from birth, Barnes and several friends had taken a small ship from one of the marinas in Miami and in doing so escaped the risk of attack. The five had survived through fishing and a large supply of canned goods before eventually being found by the first ships ferrying survivors from Florida to Cuba. He now waited for Paul outside one of the dining rooms that had been converted to a makeshift infirmary.
