by JE Gurley
“He was dead,” he said. “He was dead.”
“What do you mean?” she asked.
The guard pointed the gun at the fallen man as if he might get up again. “He was dead. He was on a table in the morgue, but he woke up and attacked two attendants. I heard the screams and went to investigate. He . . . he chased me.” He paused. “I shot him four times and he didn’t stop.”
“He’s stopped now,” Erin said, tired of the guard’s foolishness. “Obviously, he wasn’t dead before.” She turned to Susan, who continued to stare at the corpse, while Medford’s moans and groans filled the corridor. “Will you please see to Lyle before he bleeds to death?” Susan snapped out of her trance and went to Medford.
The guard shook his head. “He was dead,” he insisted. “I heard other stories like this; people rising from the dead like some kind of zombie . . .”
Erin cut him off sharply. “Don’t be ridiculous. The dead stay dead.”
“He was dead,” the guard repeated, ignoring her as he stared at the corpse.
Susan had managed to silence Medford, seated him in a chair and was pressing a bandage to his bleeding jaw. No one approached the corpse to see if he was dead. There was no need. Most of the back of his skull was missing and a slowly spreading pool of thick blood surrounded his head. For a moment, Erin studied the corpse, thinking it odd that blood would move so sluggishly. She glanced back at the guard, who still shaking.
“He’s just overworked,” she whispered to herself, “Imagining things.”
“He’s right.”
Erin turned to see Elliot Samuels, the southeastern area FEMA director standing behind her. She blushed slightly under his intense gaze, ashamed of his effect on her. His 6’2” frame highlighted his GQ good looks, flat abdomen, and in most cases, a meltdown smile. However, this time he did not smile.
“What do you mean?” she asked.
“People have died and then revived a short while later, attacking others in a violent rage.”
“That’s . . .” she started to say ridiculous, but something in Samuel’s dark eyes stopped her. He did not seem the type either to be a compulsive joker or to make inaccurate statements. In her dealings with him, he had always been professional, deliberate and self-assured; qualities she admired as closely mirroring her own. “What’s going on?”
“The Avian flu has progressed from a widespread, deadly epidemic to an unknown entity. People are dying in increasingly alarming numbers and coming back to some sort of pseudo-life as zombies, in Europe and Asia at first, but now here. The first cases began a few days ago in New Jersey.”
“Zombies,” she repeated in disbelief. “Zombies are a myth.”
He shrugged and brushed a finger across his thick, black mustache. “That’s the only word I can think of, and they are not the slow lumbering creatures from old horror films. They come back to life as animals, hungry for live flesh, and only major brain trauma can incapacitate them. Like him,” he pointed to the corpse on the floor.
“It’s unbelievable,” she gasped. “Why haven’t we been informed?”
“The Pentagon clamped down on the information to avoid a panic. There have been a few unconfirmed reports making their way onto the internet, but even the World Wide Web is failing.”
He nodded toward Medford. “They also transmit the mutated virus through saliva, which means he’s infected. Only a few hours remain before he dies and becomes one of them.”
Medford rose from his chair and looked at Samuels horror-struck. “Don’t be stupid. It’s just a bite.” He rubbed the bandage covering his cheek. “It hurts like hell, but I’ll live.” The numbness of his cheek made his speech slurred and he winced as he spoke.
Samuels shook his head. “I’m afraid not.” He motioned with his hand, and two soldiers in fatigues and wielding automatic weapons, came around the corner. “Take Dr. Medford and the guard to the infirmary downstairs with the others.”
The security guard made a motion with his pistol. Both soldiers jerked their weapons up and aimed at him. As they disengaged the safeties on their rifles, the loud clicks reverberated down the corridor.
“Drop the gun or they’ll blow your head off.” Samuels did not raise his voice, but there was no mistaking the seriousness of his command. The frightened guard complied, dropping his pistol on the floor, while looking to Erin for help. She was appalled, but could do nothing except protest.
“I’ll speak with Dr. Isakson about this,” she assured the guard, glaring at Samuels.
Samuels shook his head. “He’s no longer in charge. The President declared Martial Law an hour ago. All medical facilities are now under the jurisdiction of FEMA and Homeland Security. For all we know, this mutated virus is a direct attack on the United States by a foreign power.”
Erin drew herself as straight as she could and faced him. Her head was spinning from a mixture of fatigue, anger and disbelief. The President’s actions stunned her. “That’s ridiculous. People are dying everywhere, not just the U.S.”
Samuels’ grim smile distressed her. “People make mistakes, Doctor Costner. Someone might have committed the biggest screw up in history this time. I’m sorry, but we really need your cooperation. You and your people are now a national asset, like gold bullion in Ft. Knox. My job is to keep you safe so you can find a cure for this damned disease.”
She sighed in irritation. “We’ve been working on it, but it seems we’ve been kept in the dark.”
Samuels looked chagrined. “Not my fault, Doctor Costner. I’ve been under orders. Now, my orders are to keep you fully informed to the best of my ability.”
“We’ll cooperate, but I need Lyle Medford.”
A fleeting look of sorrow swept across Samuels’ face, but it quickly faded and as it resumed its normal stolidity. “I’m sorry, but just as I said, Medford is a dead man. We will confine him in isolation until he dies. Then you can examine his body.”
“That’s . . .”
“That’s the way it is, Doctor,” he said, abruptly cutting off her protest. “On this, I will not relent. If this disease becomes airborne, like the H5N1 virus, we’re looking at a global apocalypse. Judgment Day,” he added in a whisper, shaking his head.
Something in Samuels’ tone cut short the angry retort she had been about to utter. “Do you believe in the Bible?” she asked.
He looked thoughtful for a moment before answering. “I didn’t. Now?” He shrugged his shoulders. “Does it matter?”
Two men appeared around the corner wearing sealed, white biohazard suits. They pushed a gurney before them bearing a black body bag. Erin wondered how Samuels had contacted them; then noticed the video camera in the ceiling as it slowly panned the room. Are we under constant scrutiny, too? She wanted to ask, but wasn’t sure she wanted to know the answer. At a motion from Samuels, the two men picked up the body, sealed it in the body bag and placed it on the gurney.
As he followed the four men herding a dumbstruck Medford, the dead man and the nervous guard down the hall, he turned to add, “We’ll get through this, Doctor Costner. I have faith in you and your team.”
Erin noticed blood seeping through a rip in the disconsolate guard’s shirt and shuddered. If Samuel’s was right, then he too was a walking dead man. She stared at the dark red bloodstain on the white tile floor and felt suddenly queasy and disoriented. She reached out a hand to touch the wall for reassurance as images of a filthy Rwandan refugee camp in Zaire flashed into her mind.
Four years earlier, she had traveled with a contingent of World Health Organization doctors to stem an outbreak of cholera sweeping through the camp, but shelling from Rwanda and bloody reprisals by rebels, living among the refugees had forced them to flee into neighboring Tanzania. Dead bodies marked the trail like grisly road markers – men, women and children murdered indiscriminately because of their tribal affiliations. The room spun for a moment until she wrenched her mind back to the equally un-real reality she now faced.
The others s
tared at her, waiting for words of encouragement and guidance, but she was lost. The world had turned on end and her fragile grip on events was slipping away. She glanced at Susan for support, saw the look of abject horror on her face and wondered if it was a mirror of her own face. She fought back the urge to break down in tears. That would do no one any good, most of all her. She took a deep breath to relax and stood straight.
“All right, you heard him. We’re facing a new challenge. I expect everyone to do his or her best. A lot of people are depending on us.”
Before they could reply, she turned her back on them and returned to her office, closing the door firmly behind her before giving into the rush of tears that burst from her eyes and ran warm and bitter down her cheeks like tiny drops of accusation. She wasn’t sure if she was weeping for Lyle Medford, for the country or for herself.
3
E-6 Technical Sergeant Vince Holcomb eyed his superior with disdain as he watched Major Evers dress down Airman Liz Mears. Mears stood at attention, nearly in tears, as Evers ranted. Evers towered over the petite airman by six inches and he used his height advantage to intimidate her unmercifully.
“This is a government facility, run by the U.S. Air Force, Airman, and I am your commanding officer. Unless and until we receive a direct order from the Pentagon, no one leaves this base under any circumstances. Is that clear?” he bellowed.
Mears’ lips moved but no words emerged.
“I said, is that clear, Airman Mears?”
“Y-yes, Sir,” Mears responded.
Vince felt sorry for Mears. She was from nearby Tucson and had a daughter staying with her grandmother. She was concerned about all the rumors flying around the base that Tucson and Phoenix would soon be placed under medical quarantine. She just wanted to see her daughter. Vince understood her concern. Evers, however, could care less. To him, any personal matter was trifling.
“Dismissed,” Evers barked, leaning down until his face was mere inches from Mears.
When Evers stalked off, returning to his sacrosanct office, Vince crossed the room to Mears.
“Don’t let the bastard get to you, Liz. He’s so military he shits camouflage.”
Mears sniffed and wiped away a tear that trailed down her olive-colored cheek. A smile played briefly on her lips. “Thanks, Vinny. He makes me so damn mad. I’m worried about Cassie. Mom’s nearly sixty and not in good health. I haven’t heard from them in days.”
“I wouldn’t worry too much. If anything happens, the authorities will notify you through the dummy switchboard at SAHP.”
Mears grabbed Vince’s shoulders just above his newly sewn on Technical Sergeant’s patch. His promotion from Staff Sergeant had taken only ten years rather than the normal twelve, though it had seemed like a lifetime. He still felt a little uncomfortable with his new rank.
“You don’t think anything’s wrong, do you?”
Vince mentally damned himself for worrying her more than she already was. “No, no, I just meant it’s good news that you haven’t heard anything.”
She nodded and brushed away a tear with her finger. “You’re right.”
He studied Mears’ face. Even in fatigues and wearing no makeup, she was a pretty woman. Her light brown skin tone was a result of her mixed African-American and Panamanian heritage. Elfishly slim with close-cropped black hair, emerald green eyes that reminded him of Caribbean tidal pools and a ready smile, she was popular with everyone except Evers, who liked no one below his rank and kissed the ass of every rank above him. Unlike several of the female airmen on the base, Mears didn’t fool around. More’s the pity, Vince thought. Being stuck in close proximity to such a desirable woman was difficult, especially since most of the others had already paired off – Doyles with Ivers, Lindsay with Wells, and Higgins with Conyers, though how a dog-faced putz like Higgins had snagged a dish like Conyers eluded him, unless Higgins had a schlong the size of a donkey’s. Even E-2s Anderson and Valarian had paired off to no one’s surprise, often returning to the closet after having recently come out of it for a little one-on-one close drill. Vince had nothing against homosexuals. To him, any sexual liaisons in a secret nuclear first strike facility during a security lockdown should be considered distracting.
Seeing that Mears was still distraught, he added, “Look, if things get too tense, I know of a way to get you off base for a few hours without checking out through security.”
She arched her eyebrows and asked, “How?”
Vince sucked in a deep breath and smiled. “Better I don’t tell you just yet.”
Her smile melted his reluctance. “Oh, thanks, Vinny.” When she kissed him on his cheek, Vince blushed. “I’ll see you later.”
As she walked away, Vince called out, “You’d better stay out of Evers’ way for a while.”
Vince considered his promise to Mears. While he had never used the tunnel between the base, and the nearby Saguaro Power Plant where the base drew its power, he had overseen a work crew repairing communication lines that ran through the tunnel. It would be possible to exit the base through the tunnel and thumb a ride into town on I-10, which ran past the Pinal Air Park and the power plant.
To most casual observers, the Pinal Air Park north of Tucson was merely a ‘bone yard’ for decommissioned civilian aircraft and a flight school for the Army National Guard Aviation. Few suspected that just a few hundred yards east of the Silverbell Army Heliport (SAHP), disguised as a sand pit excavation, one of the nation’s frontline nuclear arsenals, code named Red Rock, stood ready to defend the country against hostile enemies.
Four salvaged F-22 Raptors, production discontinued for their hefty price tag of $150 million dollars each, lay hidden inside one of the airpark’s hangars, each Raptor capable of delivering two nuclear cruise missiles to targets 600 miles away. The Raptors and two mobile cruise missile launchers provided the base’s nuclear teeth. The four pilots assigned to the Raptors, rotated every two months, rarely mingled with the base personnel, whose duty shifts lasted six-months. The pilots even ate separately in their own dining room beneath the hangar. No one at Red Rock socialized with the Air Guard members at SAHP, most of whom knew nothing of the secret base beneath their feet.
As Vince walked past the communications desk on his way to the small barrack’s room he shared with Tell Anderson, he noticed Dave Lindsay scribbling furiously on a clipboard with one hand as the other twiddled knobs on the radio. Curious, he sauntered over, hands thrust deep in his pockets to avoid accidently touching one of the scores of knobs and switches adorning the panel. He knew he could operate the radio as well as Lindsay, but the touchy radioman was easily upset. Glancing down at the clipboard, none of the words made sense, but he knew they had to be decoded first.
“What’s up, Dave?” he asked.
Lindsay’s blanched face looked disturbing beneath his shock of red hair and freckles. “I don’t know, but the sender sounded scared. I could almost hear his teeth chattering.”
Vince frowned. “This flu epidemic must be getting worse.”
“I think it’s more than that, Vince.” He pointed to a series of words separated by dashes. “I think these last words are firing coordinates.”
“Coordinates? But that means . . .”
Lindsay nodded and gulped. His large Adam’s apple and long thin neck always reminded Vince of an ostrich swallowing an orange. “Yeah.”
“You’d better notify the major,” Vince urged.
Lindsay shook his head and mumbled, “Shit.”
Vince understood Lindsay’s reluctance. Evers hated any disturbance in his routine and reveled in damning the messenger. “Yeah, I know, but he’s in command.”
While Lindsay loped down the hallway, his long, gangly legs eating up concrete like a track runner, Vince took a minute to consider what might be happening. If Lindsay was right and they were going on alert, then the flu might not be a natural epidemic. If so, at whom were they going to be aiming their nukes? The cruise missiles had a limited range –
targets in Mexico, ships at sea, and God forbid, western U.S. cities. He took a deep breath and decided he was letting his mind run away with him. It was probably just a drill. They had gone through two that year alone. He looked up at the five-stage nuclear readiness board prominently displayed on the wall. It read DEFCON 4, nowhere near nuclear readiness status. At that moment, as if he had wished disaster down upon them, the display changed to DEFCON 2, followed by the shrill howl of the siren, freezing the blood in his veins.
“Shit,” he exclaimed through clenched teeth.
Startled heads began to poke from rooms and one naked body emerged from the shower, staring in his direction with puzzled expressions; then all hell broke loose. Men stumbled down the corridor trying to put on their fatigues while running. On the surface, it appeared to be a stampede, but their moves were more of a coordinated ballet than melee. Their fear vanished as their seemingly endless hours of training took over. Bodies began to fill chairs in front of consoles. Major Evers marched down the hall with Lindsay following close on his heels. Evers stopped and eyed the gathered group, hands clasped behind his back. All heads turned in his direction.
“Okay, people, this is why we’re here. Do your duty.”
Vince’s station, as a technical sergeant, was supervisor and ombudsman, ready to repair any malfunctioning equipment or serve as a replacement technician if needed. He resisted the urge to position himself beside Major Evers’ chair to see if he could learn what was happening. The Major was notoriously close-lipped and revealed nothing until he was ready. Still, the fine bead of perspiration dotting Evers’ forehead in the cool room revealed much. Even Evers was frightened. A hard knot began to form in Vince’s stomach.
