by Rounds, Mark
“But what do you owe these white folks?” asked Little Bear perplexedly. “They and their kind have been kicking us around since they got here. Don’t you remember?”
“I do,” said Sayla wearily. “But can you remember back when you had a tribe to belong to? I could relax then; and I was trusted. Since I took up with Nergüi rather than facing death like a warrior, I’ve had none of that. The Stricklands are my tribe now. I would go get this Robert, even though I have only met him once, because he is of my tribe. I can’t, so I am calling in the only debt I have. Go get him.”
“Where is he?” asked Little Bear.
“Macklin took him,” said Sayla. “He is going to ground. You know better than any of us where that is. Go find him and bring Strickland back. Do this and we are square.”
“He’s hurt and his warriors are few,” said Little Bear nodding. “He will be in Spokane. I have allies there.”
Little Bear nodded and left the room without another word.
Sayla sighed and smiled for the first time in a long time.
July 12th, Saturday, 02:55 pm PDT
Madigan Army Medical Center, Joint Base Lewis–McChord, Tacoma WA.
Amber had just caught a cat nap. She, Chris and a dedicated team of medical specialists and interrogation experts had been working most of the night. Chris was in an office chair doing an imitation of a chainsaw. They were briefing their next idea to control Nergüi as he became conscious. Their last three attempts had not been too successful.
The standard pattern was as Nergüi became conscious, he also became violent and he struck out at those around him physically and mentally. Amber had been able to take the edge off so that the technicians with her remained functional, but it was a near thing.
“Amber,” said Captain Dawes, who was, before the Plague, an anesthesiologist, “we have physically restrained him this time with a complete straightjacket rather than just the wrist and ankle restraints he was brought in with, but is there any way we can help you with that mind trick he pulls?”
“I can’t think of anything unless you can come up with a cup of coffee,” said Amber with a smile.
“I’d kill for one myself,” said Dawes ruefully.
“We’ll just have to roll with it as best we can,” continued Amber. “I’ve never done this before you know.”
“Right, me either” said Dawes. “We will bring him around slowly, just like before. This time we have a premeasured dose of Slash ready. All we have to do is press a button on the control panel and it goes into his IV drip. It’s also wired to the panic button in your hand set. Just let it go and the drug will also be released. We have a pair of armed MP’s outside the door and your fiancée is with them toting a shotgun. I can’t think of anything else.”
“Me neither,” said Amber.
“OK,” said Dawes, “I’m using a pretty fast acting sedative, but even going straight into the blood stream, it is going to take several minutes to knock him completely out.”
“He went down pretty quick when we initially took him,” said Amber, “Why is this different?”
“He was just about out on his feet,” said Dawes. “All we did was give him a little push. As it was, we damned near killed him. If we weren’t so desperate for real time intel, I would keep him knocked out for a couple days. But, as they say, there’s a war on.”
Dawes trickled the stimulant into the IV very slowly, watching the monitors for life signs. On the other side of the glass, a physician monitored the same readouts.
“He’s awake,” said Amber with alarm. “He’s doing something!?”
Dawes suddenly collapsed and Amber grasped her head. She glanced up at the control room and saw with alarm that the doctor and the MP’s were not in sight.
“You naive child,” said Nergüi. “You thought your little technological tricks could keep me under control. I am currently bound, but I will soon find someone to get me out of this straight jacket and I will be gone and there is nothing you can do!”
July 12th, Sunday, 3:13 pm PDT
Base Ops, Fairchild Air Force Base, WA
Terry Grieb felt like a fraud wearing an Army uniform with the rank of major on the epaulets. Carrying the M-9 pistol was awkward as his only instruction in the weapon came from the platoon sergeant for the mortar section who was on his plane and took pity on him. But he couldn’t do what he felt he needed to do, see the Infected that were being held at Fairchild, without these accoutrements. Everything he knew about the Plague said that at a certain point, the Infected, if they lived long enough with the disease, became so brain damaged that they were merely shambling hulks. It was apparent that this theory was at least in part wrong, for there were reports of many of the captured Infected becoming lucid after massive doses of Slash.
Terry was pulled out his reverie by a petite young woman in ABUs wearing the insignia of a Captain that had snapped to attention in front of him and cranked him a very military salute.
“Major Grieb I presume,” said Jen Stutesman.
“Major only by courtesy,” said Terry reaching out his hand, then retracting it and returning a salute. “Call me Terry.”
“Yes, Major,” said Jen. “How long will you be staying, sir?”
“Long enough to find out how the Infected are reacting to massive doses of Slash,” said Terry.
“They are all over in Hangar Three, sir,” said Jen as she gestured toward the door. “It’s close enough to walk.”
The pair walked out on the parking ramp in front of Base Ops and noted that an Airman was respectfully holding a large German Shepard. The young man popped them both a professional salute. Terry responded after a noticeable delay and the Airman handed the leash to Captain Stutesman.
“Nice dog,” said Terry trying to fill the empty space.
“Her name is Candy and she is a military working dog,” said Jen. “Please don’t try to pet her.”
They again started toward a large hanger that Terry could see was guarded and had a significant amount of traffic entering and leaving.
“Is that Hangar Three?” asked Terry trying another conversational gambit.
“Yes sir,” said Stutesman.
“Look,” said Terry in exasperation, “I’m not a real major. I’m a researcher in disease control. I have spent most of my life in a lab or a university. I have to wear this uniform as I am technically part of the Army, but, have I done something wrong?”
“Not you sir,” said Jen biting her lip. “The current head of medical services here at Fairchild is … difficult. We are a little gun shy I suppose.”
“So, you work for him?” asked Terry.
“God no,” said Jen fervently, “But I had a run in with him. I am normally the vet on base and part of my duties included being the Public Health Officer, but we are short of animals and some folks thought I would better serve the Air Force by taking over a Security Police flight. He didn’t like it, even though the Wing Commander initiated it, and we got sideways. He doesn’t like to see me around.”
“Then why …” started Terry but Jen cut him off.
“Because the Wing Commander said so, that’s why,” said Jen angrily. The after a pause she spoke more kindly. “Officially, you need a security detail when on base. Since you didn’t bring one, Airman Lufkin and I are detailed to that duty. I suspect that the Wing Commander is making sure that the Doctor in question is aware of how he should treat people. It just makes me uncomfortable to be the object lesson.”
Terry was spared more awkward conversation as they entered the door. Lufkin took Stutesman’s dog and a harried looking man in a stained white coat came up and shook Terry’s hand, awkwardly ignoring Jen.
“Dr. Grieb, I see they have grabbed you too,” said Dr. Pearson a little too earnestly.
“What do you mean?” asked Terry.
“The military,” said Dr. Pearson indicating Terry’s uniform. “They seem to be press-ganging everyone with talent into their service.”
“I
have no idea what you mean,” said Terry recognizing the patronizing efforts of Dr. Pearson. “I volunteered. Now about those patients?”
“We can enter,” said Pearson looking over toward Lufkin and Candy, “but that animal may not enter a sterile area.”
“That hangar is about as sterile as a toilet seat,” said Jen with anger.
“These are your regulations, not mine,” said a gloating Pearson.
“The dog can remain here,” said Terry, trying to defuse the moment. “I will only be there for a few moments. I will come back after the staff meeting with more appropriate security. Since it’s my understanding that Dr. Pearson sometimes avoids these meetings, I will expect to see you there to provide your first-hand observations.”
“Well, whatever,” said Dr. Pearson trying and failing to appear nonchalant. “We have several over here.”
The three of them walked among rows of pallets on the floor. The patients were extremely involved and were secured by the simple field expedient of shooting bolts into the concrete floor and fastening the limbs of the patients to these bolts by whatever method they could manage, handcuffs, zip ties, or in several cases, leather straps. They all seemed drugged to oblivion.
“These accommodations seem … barbaric!” said Terry quietly.
“Our resources are quite limited,” said Dr. Pearson haughtily. “Perhaps all you high and mighty paragons of virtue can get off your duffs and help us out here!”
Terry let it pass. The look on Capt. Stutesman’s face spoke volumes. They clearly did not agree. The silent and awkward parade made its way to the corner of the hangar. There was an area that was cordoned off with tarps and some miscellaneous furniture. Dr. Pearson held a tarp aside and indicated that Terry enter.
Inside was a scene reminiscent of Bedlam. The same restrains were in place but the patients tied to the floor were lucid and awake. Upon seeing Terry enter the room, some started shouting and others just wailing.
“I demand a lawyer!”
“Where am I? Nobody will tell me!”
‘What happened to my arm?”
“Is it always like this?” asked Terry, recoiling in a state of shock.
“Only when someone new shows up,” said Dr. Pearson wearily. “I guess they have decided my staff can’t get them out of their predicament. The Colonel doesn’t have enough guts to shoot them, and we sure don’t have enough Slash or food to keep them for long …”
“We brought 250 kilos of Slash,” said Terry who had by now had quite enough of Dr. Pearson. “And there is a plan to open a land route for regular supply. Something you would know if you went to staff meetings. Now I am here to examine these patients and see what can be done. I need real data and not your opinions. Kindly keep your remarks to appropriate discussion of the patients at hand, and I will forget, once, that you advocated shooting them. I seem to remember an oath at the end of med school that had something to say on the matter. Now, are these people lucid or just less involved?”
There was a long silence as even the patients in the room knew something different was happening.
“I know you,” gasped the ruins of a large man with a beard in the back of the room. “I saw you on the internet.”
“That’s right,” said Terry move toward the man. “I did some public information spots when we still had power. Who are you?”
“Brad Olin,” said the man quietly. Terry walked closer and he could see that while Olin was as emaciated as the rest of the patients, he had once been a large and powerful man. “I was a professional wrestler before …. well before. I was a Slash user for a couple of years, just occasionally, you know? It didn’t even show in the ring.
“Then the Plague came,” said Olin. The talking apparently tired him out as his voice got softer and softer. “Some of us forted up in my ski cabin. But somebody was infected, and it spread.”
“How did it spread?” asked Terry. He had initially recoiled from the gaunt and worn form on the pallet, but the scientist in his heart got the better of him and he began to get closer as he talked. “It was our understanding that the Plague was passed by bodily fluids?”
“Yeah,” said Olin who started to laugh, but morphed into a coughing fit. “We had some girls, wrestling groupies really. Some were addicts and one was a supplier and we played around a lot.
“When the Slash ran out, it got bad. The food we thought would last for months was shoveled down in a week. Then we … we started eating each other.”
“I really think you ought to stand back Dr. Grieb,” said Jen who put a restraining hand on his shoulder, but Terry shook it off and got closer to clearly hear the whispering man.
“So then what happened?” asked Terry as he knelt down next to the pallet.
“Things got … fuzzy,” said Olin as he searched for the right words. “I had to leave, I was … not really in charge you know? Some folks said it was ‘The Call’ like it was something you could answer or not.”
“What did it feel like?” asked Terry.
“Dr. Grieb,” said Dr. Pearson who, while he didn’t much care for Terry, was worried that if he became infected or was otherwise hurt in his care, his already low stock would plummet even further. “Dr. Grieb, we should go.”
“Just a minute,” said Terry irritatedly. “This is important.”
“What did it feel like?” asked Terry as he turned his attention back towards Olin.
“I wasn’t making my legs and arms move,” said Olin. “When the hunger or thirst got really bad, it was like they let me wander a bit, but as soon as I ate or whatever, my legs would start moving. I walked a long, long way.”
“Where was your ski house?” asked Terry.
“In the Sierras,” said Olin, “just north of Truckee”.
“That’s over seven hundred miles from here!” said Terry. “You walked all the way?”
“I must have,” said Olin with a coughing laugh. “The bus sure wasn’t running. But it also made me do things like attack a bunch of farmers who were holed up in Utah and then attack this base.”
“What does that feel like?” asked Terry.
“It’s like I don’t have control of my arms and legs,” said Olin. “I can see what’s happening … sort of … like in a movie or a dream.”
“What happens when it stops?” asked Terry.
“Then I’m just fighting the Plague,” said Olin softly coughing, “I’m always hungry. I have visions of crazy violent things. Sometimes I do them.”
“Do you feel it now?” asked Terry.
Olin mumbled something unintelligible and strained against his restraints. He collapsed back onto his pallet, still muttering.
“Major, we should go,” said Jen reaching for Terry. The rest of the Infected were becoming agitated and she was nervous. Terry leaned over to try and hear the words. Suddenly, Olin’s hand tore the restraint loose and grasped Terry’s neck with vise like strength. He was too stunned to move and the grip on his throat made speaking impossible.
“I am so sorry,” said Olin, now in a clear voice. “The Call, it wants you dead!”
Chapter 10
July 12th, Saturday, 2:55 pm PDT
Infected Containment Area, Joint Base Lewis–McChord, Tacoma WA
“Get the containment officer!” shouted Spec Four Murphy.
“Calm down, Murphy,” said Sergeant First Class Earl Whitaker into the intercom microphone. “What’s the problem?”
“It’s the Infected, Sarge,” said Murphy with alarm. “They’re rioting or something.”
“Did the Slash injections get held up?” asked Whitaker as he got out of his chair and started to reach for his riot gun.
“No way, Sarge,” was Murphy. “The teams were out there dosing them. Then they just went nucking futs. The quick reaction squad is in there trying to get them out. Sarge, there have been shots fired and I don’t know what’s going on.”
“Steady Murphy,” said Whitaker. “I am pressing the panic button. Keep control of the gateho
use and I’ll be there directly.”
The only answer was the sound of Murphy’s M-4 being fired over the open intercom. Whitaker hit the alarm and rushed into the hallway.
“There’s a riot in the Infected containment area!” shouted Whitaker as he reached the work area. “Where’s Captain Wilsaw?”
“Did you pull the alarm, Sergeant?” said a tall dark-haired man in a Captain’s uniform.
“Yes sir,” said Whitaker snapping to attention. “Spec Four Murphy was at the gate house and that last sound I heard over the intercom was rifle fire.”
“Shit,” said Wilsaw. “Get Madigan on the line and tell them we have an emergency. Roust out the quick reaction squad and …”
“Murphy says that the QRS is currently deployed in the containment area,” said Whitaker.
“Shit on a shingle!” shouted Wilsaw in frustration. “Get out there with whoever you can grab with a weapon and keep a lid on it.”
“Yes sir!” said Whittaker, who grabbed three privates who normally held office jobs and headed out the door. Then Wilsaw ran over to the first desk phone he saw and dialed the Command Post.
“Captain Wilsaw here,” he said when the Command Post controller answered. “The containment facility is in imminent danger of a breach. What have you got available to respond?”
“Wait one,” said the controller, “General Bossell is OD and should be calling the shots.”
“What do you have for me?” asked General Bossell after a momentary pause.
“Sir,” said Wilsaw doing his best to formulate a proper situation report. “We have a riot going on in the containment area. There have been shots fired from the gate house and the reaction squad has been deployed to try and extract the medical teams in the area. I have mobilized my HQ staff and will be going mobile shortly sir.”
“Keep the volume up on your radio Captain,” said Bossell, “you’ll have choppers shortly.”
“Thank you, sir!” said Wilsaw. “I’ll check in when I am on the radio outside the building.”
July 12th, Saturday, 3:23 pm PDT
