George Magnum

by Dead Again

  He remembered the words of General Moore There are only two ways out of this mission. But that statement now dawned with new meaning. Two ways out: the redemption of his soul, or death.

  The civilians clearly had no energy left, their last bit of reserves completely gone. They huddled up against one another, as if by some protective instinct, like gazelle herding together in order to increase the chances of survival of the whole. It was odd how much humans could resemble animals in times of panic. Peterson knew that some of these survivors could be counted on, while others would be big trouble—the type that would stop at nothing to save only themselves.

  In life and death situations, Peterson knew, some people will throw themselves on a hand grenade to save another person’s life. But other people will throw their neighbor on the hand grenade to save themselves. He knew that in just a little while, once they started getting their energy back, both the ugly and the good would rear its head amongst the survivors. And when it did, Peterson had already determined, he would make certain the folks of good character would be the ones with the lethal power. At least, that much he could do for them.

  Nurse Dee helped a man onto one of the beds. He had a nasty wound, and was bleeding badly. Once on the bed, she pulled up the man’s blood soaked shirt. Underneath was a very nasty bite wound, already turning black around the edges. Peterson wondered how many people in this crowd were infected. The Nurse placed her hands around the wound and gently touched the surrounding area.

  “Nurse!” Peterson almost shouted.

  She turned to him, startled.

  “If you insist upon providing first aid,” Peterson lowered his voice, “wear protective gloves. That’s an order.”

  Tag sat down on the floor, and clutched the bite wound on his arm. Blood had soaked clear through his bandages. His face had turned pale, dark circles had formed around his eyes, and cold sweat look liked tears on his forehead. He twisted in pain. The virus is moving through him, Peterson realized.

  Tag had been fighting without blinking an eye. He swallowed his pain even though he knew he was infected, and going to die. He is here because of me, Peterson knew, following my orders. He looked weak now, and his time was limited. In the saddest of ways, Tag’s selfless nature made Peterson proud of him.

  The bastard hates my guts, but he’s a damn true soldier.

  Looking upon the crowd, Peterson could better understand now how this virus moved so damn fast. He watched as a pretty woman in her late thirties cradled her ten year old son. The boy had deep scratches on his arm. If Peterson didn’t know better, the kid was probably also infected. He noticed, perhaps for the first time, that most of the survivors seemed to be with family members. An elderly couple held each other tightly, a younger couple and their two children huddled as one, and twin brothers lifted a bottle of water together, working as one to help some others.

  The infected all die. But when they rise back up, if it was your son, brother, or mother, would they really be dead, Peterson wondered? They would be the people you love dearly, standing before you, resembling the ways of life. And even if you could accept their death, could you actually bring yourself to smash in their skulls?

  His stomach hurt as he wondered how many people became infected as a result of being bitten by a family member, a loved one or a friend. Peterson looked carefully at that mother in her late 30s, holding her injured son, and he understood. This infection had them beat from day one.

  At that moment, more than ever, Peterson felt the aloneness of his own life. He turned, almost involuntarily, and looked at Sharon, the woman who, deep down, he still loved. She knelt down next to Tag, and placed her hand on his forehead. Peterson knew what she was doing. She was providing a dying man with what he wanted most…her.

  Peterson shook it off. Johnny-Boy was standing next to him.

  “See to it that the wounded are separated from the others,” he ordered. “And ask the nurse to perform triage. Then I want you to distribute some food and water. Also, give me a head count while you’re at it.”

  Johnny-Boy gave a nod. Somehow, his eagerness to please still hadn’t faded. With a sad, child like face, he was about to turn and carry out orders.

  “Johnny-Boy” Peterson said with a fatherly voice. “You’re doing a damn good job.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Johnny-Boy responded, his expression showing surprised and gratitude and still that star-struck loyalty he held for Peterson. “Thank you very much sir.”

  “Boss.” The Mayor’s voice was calmer now, even friendly. He arrived over Peterson’s shoulder. “You did the right thing,” the Mayor said with a twang of moral-righteousness. Now that they were safe, the Mayor was playing politician again.

  “I’m glad you approve,” Peterson drawled his words with a bite of sarcasm.

  “Look Commander, I have a wife, and I have a daughter down here,” the Mayor’s voice was shaking with emotions as he turned and looked at his family. “The police and the other townsfolk made their decisions. They chose to stay upstairs.”

  “What’s your point?” impatience strained Peterson’s voice.

  The Mayor leaned in close, as if sharing a secret. “You’re not thinking of helping them out, are you? Those people upstairs?”

  If he didn’t know better, Peterson would think that the Mayor was trying to manipulate him.

  This man was dangerous. People turned to him for leadership, but he was spineless and weak. Peterson wanted to reach out and smack him in the face.

  Peterson had, in fact, been thinking of that very thing. Ever since the sound of that iron door slamming shut, locking them in safe and sound, all he could think about was those unlucky bastards caught up there. The cops deserved it. But those people didn’t.

  Most of all, he hadn’t been able to stop thinking of Dough, the ten year old boy he had met in the parking lot. He had hoped that Doug had followed them down; but it seemed that her father had kept her up there. He didn’t deserve to pay for her father’s mistakes.

  “And what if I think about it, Mayor?” Peterson challenged.

  The Mayor straightened his back and did his best to seem strong, “I won’t let that happen, Commander. I will rally these people and we will cast a vote against it.”

  Peterson placed his hand on the Mayor’s shoulder, and squeezed tightly. “Democracy is dead.”

  *

  “This world has turned to fucking shit, and did a long time before this virus broke out,” Cash talked to himself. He was standing off to the side, almost hidden by the shadows. Lost in his own world, he pinched a wad of tobacco and put it between his lip and gum.

  Nearby, some civilians overheard him, and became visibly unnerved. Peterson turned on his heels and walked straightforward to Cash.

  “Keep that down soldier. The civilians are scared enough,” Peterson hushed.

  Cash looked at Peterson sideways, carrying a one thousand yard stare. Peterson recognized that look all too well: it was like someone was looking straight through you, not at you. In the glazed reflections of Cash’s eyes, Peterson again saw a man who was losing his mind. Peterson had to find a way to stop Cash from unwinding, from continuing to spiral down into the abyss.

  “What has got your goat, Cash?” Peterson took a deep breath, doing his best to sound collected and supportive.

  Cash acted like he was speaking to himself. “Besides the fact that dead people are walking, that you have routed us from our mission, that we are with a bunch of wimpy civilians locked in the basement of a crumbling WWII shelter? Tag is dying, Armstrong can barely walk, and Jonny-Boy is injured. Spooky and Angelo are dead. Our chopper is gone. The only others who are in operating condition is that piece of crap scientist, and lovely Sharon and her firm breasts.” Cash rolled the wad of chewing tobacco in his mouth and spit a dark stream of saliva.

  A fake smile crawled across Peterson’s face. “Yes, besides those minor details?” He was trying to be amusing, hoping to bring out some twisted humor. He thought Cash
would appreciate such a thing, but he was wrong. Cash eyeballed Peterson, and looked like he was about to explode.

  Sharon appeared and said blankly. “Follow me. I have a present.” And then she looked at Cash, “And my firm tits are reserved for a man, not for a whining overgrown ape who should be wearing panties instead of me.”

  She arrived just in time, thought Peterson, he’s unpredictable, and a danger to us all.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  The old shelter was sprawling. Dim lights and cement beams casted shadows which fooled the eye. Sharon lead Peterson and Cash further away from the civilians and into the guts of the shelter. It grew darker. The place was much bigger than it first appeared, probably the size of two football fields.

  “Where are we going?” Peterson didn’t like the silence. Sharon didn’t usually withhold information. It was out of character for her.

  But Sharon didn’t need to answer. Nearby was the sound of a television set. She turned left, and walked directly to an open door.

  There was a hidden little alcove, easily missed in this massive shelter. The sound was coming from inside the room.

  An image from a small TV illuminated Peterson’s face. He was amazed and stepped closer.

  Text scrolled on the bottom third of the screen. It read “emergency broadcasting system.” A male voice, shaky and tired, was speaking: “Reports are coming in that the President and his entourage may have taken to a classified bunker. However, this information cannot be confirmed. There has been no word from the White House, or the President, senate or congress in over 36 hours. The silence has caused some to speculate that the President may in fact be dead. In addition, there has been no relay from the Department of Defense, the Joint Chiefs, or any other official body of the federal government since 10am yesterday.”

  Another broadcaster interrupted. His voice was too composed and collected, a logical sounding man, like a scientist—or an atheist. “This is not legitimate news that you are reporting. You are reporting rumors from extremely limited resources. There is a clear and logical reason for the lack of communication. I must state the obvious: all communications have been bottlenecked. We have only been on the air for two hours. We can predict that there has been a drastic decrease in the use of cell phones computers and other such devices which I believe taxed our systems—”

  The first voice interrupted, “If we can relay now, why can’t our government for God’s sake? It just doesn’t make any sense…”

  As the voices droned on, Sharon walked over to the TV cable box and took hold of the Ethernet wire attached to it. She grabbed the line which attached the wall, and followed it with their eyes. It snaked its way across the entire ceiling. “This is satellite TV. They must have a receiver on the roof.”

  Cash stated the painfully obvious, a bit of hope in his voice. “We’re getting a signal.”

  Peterson didn’t waste a second. He removed the cable form the television, which then went blank. He took his two way radio—sophisticated, with 256 channels, various scanning methods and phone system integration capability—and connected the cable into the side of his phone. Watching the LCD carefully, he saw connectivity bars appear.

  “We got a signal!” Peterson was half amazed. He punched a code on the keypad. Encryption numbers scrolled, and there was an unusual dial tone. The phone rang.

  There was a loud click on the other end of the line. Silence, then a beep, and another beep. The beeping was in an unusual pattern.

  “Morse code,” Sharon was urgent.

  The group crowded around the phone, listening.

  “What is it saying?” asked Cash.

  “Shut up,” Sharon growled.

  Peterson spoke slowly, along with the rhythm of the beeping code, “Base abandoned,” he looked up and caught Sharon’s eyes. They exchanged a glance.

  Base abandoned. Holy shit.

  There was silence as they continued to listen to the ominous beeps.

  “Incoming coordinates,” stated Peterson. Sharon needed no further instructions. She took a pen out of her pocket.

  “Coordinates… sixty nine latitude by thirty nine longitude.”

  Sharon wrote the numbers on the palm of her hand, “Got it.”

  The beeping stopped for a moment, and then began again.

  “It’s a loop. The code is repeating itself.” Peterson said, letting go of a deep breath. “That’s all there is.”

  “That’s fucking it?” Cash said. “What the hell does it mean?”

  There came a deep, baritone voice, “It means that home base has been overrun.” Armstrong had entered the room and had been standing there for some time. “It means that nobody is left.”

  “It means we have new drop-off coordinates.” Peterson corrected. “After we’re finished on Palm island, we move to these new coordinates.”

  “You don’t know that, Commander. Those coordinates could mean anything,” Armstrong stepped toward Peterson.

  “They could mean a regrouping point,” Sharon abruptly stated. “They’re not necessarily new drop off points, Commander.”

  “No,” Peterson walked toward Armstrong, and stood face to face with him. “That was our designated channel. Nobody else has access to it. General Moore left us that message.”

  “You’re working on a hunch,” Armstrong spat his words, his tone surprisingly confrontational. “And you heard the TV. Even the President hasn’t been heard from. All departments of the federal government are down. Even if we do by some amazing feat get to Plum Island, then what? There’s nobody fucking left.”

  Johnny-Boy appeared from the shadows and without warning attacked Armstrong, grabbing his collar, flipping him around and slamming him on the table. Armstrong countered, and kicked Johnny-Boy in the chest which propelled his body away, smacking against the wall.

  Sharon raised her rifle and warned with a deadly serious tone, “STOP! Or so help me I will put your asses down.”

  Cash raised his rifle and pointed it at Sharon, “You won’t do no so such thing.”

  In return, Sharon points her gun at Cash. “Try me motherfucker.”

  Peterson moved quickly, and stood between them all. He was directly in the line of fire now. “The penalty for disobeying my command is death, and so help me god I will kill you all with my own hands. I order you to lower your weapons and CHILL THE FUCK OUT!”

  Johnny-Boy’s eyes were locked on Armstrong, who seemed damn surprised by the kid’s attack—as was everybody else is the room. But Armstrong made no further attempt to fight. Cash and Sharon looked at each other with murder in their eyes. Slowly, they lowered their weapons.

  Johnny-Boy took a ferocious, out-of-character stance. “Remember what you told me back at the base, Armstrong? Huh? You told me that the next time I hesitate in battle you were going to shoot me dead. Now look at who’s hesitating and disobeying command. I looked up to you once. I thought you were invincible. Now you’re just a weak-ass spineless bastard who doesn’t have the guts to carry out this mission.”

  Peterson was damn surprised by Johnny-Boy. In fact, he was impressed, especially by his loyalty.

  Armstrong took a deep, self-satisfying breath, “Congratulations, Johhny-Boy, you finally grew a set of balls.” Then, he turned to the group as a whole. “How many of us have to die for this Dr. Winthrop? We are puppets on a string, following orders blindly without even having asked the question: what is really going on in that lab? How can one man be so important? Our whole lives, we’ve been nothing but disposable assets. Our lives mean nothing to our leaders, and for all we have done for our country, our lives never have. You’ve always told me, Commander, that we either take orders, or we give them. Well, those days are through for me.”

  Peterson’s head was down as he sadly listened. His voice wasn’t angry anymore. He was just doing his best to hold on to his dear friend, “I don’t like leaving these people alone any more than you, but how about others just like these people? Still alive, hiding away, hoping for a miracl
e. Maybe what’s in that lab will make a difference, maybe it won’t, but I have to try. We all have to try.

  “And I need you all. I can’t do this alone. I need you to keep your emotions in check, to keep your heads together, and most of all I need you to have faith in me. It may be the last chance our nation, maybe even our world, has to win this war.”

  Sharon, for the first time, had a kinder, softer voice. “Then why did we stop to help these people?”

  “Because we had to. We’ve done our jobs here. Now let us take this lesson with us and move along.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  The television had been set up in front of the civilians, who were crowded around it.

  The anchorman continued, “At least a little good news to broadcast. It appears that some of our uplinks are returning to operational status. We can guess that if this is so with us, it will be with many others. We can only hope to hear from high command. In the meantime, we are about to try and broadcast video which was captured some time ago. Please stand by…” As if trying to come back to life, the TV screen flickered.

  And then video footage appeared. A shaky news camera captured the Manhattan Bridge in New York City. The image was shaky and grainy. It showed countless news vans and cameramen, capturing the scene from every angle. The bridge had been locked down by authorities. A formation of NYPD cops stood at the ready, riot shields and nightsticks in hand, and blocked the mouth of the bridge.

  A camera zoomed-in, showing a high wall of sandbags and a regiment of National Guard soldiers, wearing tear-gas masks and bearing assault rifles. The image cut to another camera, showing four tanks, placed to stop any vehicles which might attempt to break the line. And, as the last line of defense, perched on each tank was a soldier manning a 50 caliber machine gun.

  A frantic mob of civilians stood at the mouth of the bridge: husbands and wives holding their children, elderly folks, teenagers, and just everyday New Yorkers. They were jam-packed, shoulder to shoulder, with barely enough room to breathe. They clearly wanted out of York City—at any cost.