“I am the superior officer,” Pete admitted. “Not by choice, mind you. What’s up?”
“I need to bring someone by if that works with you.”
“Works,” Pete agreed. They drew up to a portable office, the identical twin to the hundreds of such temporary structures Pete had seen in the sandbox. He wondered where they’d dug them all up, but discarded it as moot. A Marine master sergeant stood waiting outside, and he offered a crisp salute as Pete approached. He returned it and assessed the NCO. He was black, well over six feet, and what Pete’s granny would have called “painin’ thin.”
“Major Matthews,” the master sergeant said. He had the slightest hint of a Jamaican accent. “Ainsley McFarlane.”
“I’ve heard good things, Master Sergeant. You and your men ready for a crucial mission?”
“Is there any other kind, sir?”
“I’ve got a more in-depth briefing prepared, but I need to fill in the locals a bit first. Join us?”
“Yes, sir.”
He pulled the door open and stepped inside. A rectangular folding table filled much of the interior space. A heavyset black man around Pete’s age and a young white kid with facial features more than a little similar to his own occupied two of the seats facing the door. Most would call them ‘Mayor’ and ‘Town Marshal.’ Pete’s relationship was a bit more personal.
It was probably bad form to hug people on the other side of the table during a meeting, but hell. Larry Vance—the settlement’s new mayor—had been his best friend since before he’d first retired from the Corps, and Pete had raised his nephew pretty much from birth after his sister died. In this case, Pete didn’t give a damn about propriety.
Foraker had a slight smirk on his face as Pete came back around the table to his seat. Master Sergeant McFarlane kept his face blank. If he hadn’t done the math yet, Pete guessed that the chat would fill in the blanks for him.
“In case you haven’t been able to tell from the reduced level of air activity, we’ve got some supply and maintenance issues with the choppers.” He glanced over and saw a grimace flash across McFarlane’s face. “Obviously, this throws a wrench into our proposed timetable. Given the infected numbers that we’re seeing to the west from drone recon, it would be suicide to send in ground troops without top cover.”
“Any chance of that horde heading this way?” Miles’ voice was wary. The engineers had repaired and upgraded the wall, but Pete supposed that the story had gotten around about the numbers on the ground during the rescue mission. Even with the new arrivals, it was still a small community.
“The geography between Bloomington and Nashville tends to keep them bottled up in the hills. Even the advanced ones won’t climb a slope without something to bait them into it. Which is great for our flank security but not so good in terms of possibilities of advance. We could divert around but we don’t have the hardware or the personnel to punch through metro areas like Louisville or Indianapolis.” He shrugged. There were plenty of north-south routes across the state, but east-west roads capable of handling heavy military traffic were few and far between.
“Any problems with helicopters, I’m guessing it’s even worse with fixed-wing.” Larry gave Pete a knowing look. So far, none of the revelations he’d made had any direct impact on the community. They’d been friends and colleagues long enough for him to know that the other shoe was about to drop.
“Exactly. The Navy shoved the fighters overboard for lack of fuel and parts years back. But—” Pete glanced at Foraker, who gave him a neutral stare in reply. Well, fair enough. The nice thing about the infected was that they didn’t have to worry about keeping plans and operations under wraps. General Vincent hadn’t cleared him to share the details of Icarus, but then again, he hadn’t forbidden it, either. “On the other hand, we’ve got all this nice ordnance lying around waiting for us to use it. Which brings us to our current mission.”
Miles grinned. “After Tish got the Cincinnati story out of me, I’m grounded for a few years.”
Pete winked. “Too bad. You might like this one. Before the outbreak, Special Operations had a project in development for supply delivery in high-altitude environments. One of the big issues we had in Afghanistan was the fact that the muj operated so high in the mountains that our choppers struggled to operate. The vast majority of the combat losses there were due to crashes not caused by enemy fire. Hot, thin air at high altitude is bad news for a helicopter.
“So, in a warehouse in Palmdale, California, there are a couple of high-altitude heavy-lift dirigibles waiting for some enterprising chaps to come fetch them. They aren’t as fast as a helicopter but they can carry a heck of a lot more than a Black Hawk.”
Larry sounded incredulous. Pete didn’t know what shoe his friend had been expecting, but this wasn’t it. “Hot air balloons?”
“Well, helium. But they have more than enough lift capacity to haul and deliver a MOAB.” Pete balled his hands together and pulled them apart. “Whoosh. We can fry those undead suckers in job lots.”
The Hope contingent shared glances and looked impressed. Foraker was grinning. Pete didn’t know McFarlane well enough to read his expression, but he gnawed on his lip in what seemed a thoughtful manner.
Miles broke the silence. “So what do you need from us?”
Pete shrugged. “Nothing. I came here to fetch McFarlane and his troops and advise y’all of the situation. The only real effect you’ll notice is that we’re going to build up a lot more gear here in preparation for the eventual push west. Command wants a secure operating port on the Mississippi.”
Larry scratched his chin and observed, “Seems to me Madison might work, then cut over on the Ohio to the Mississippi. We’ve done some scouting runs down that way, and it’s clearish. Nothing impossible.”
Pete nodded. “Yeah, it would be perfect, but there’s a big trash cluster down Evansville way. When the Air Force dropped the US41 bridge, the spans didn’t come apart. A couple of coal barges came along, got hooked on the mess, and it’s been building up ever since. It’s going to be a major engineering effort to clear that out.”
“All hail the USAF,” Miles said with a sigh. If the virus had spread like a normal outbreak, isolating areas of infection might have made sense. Instead, all the bombing had accomplished was to isolate pockets of survivors and destroy a whole lot of irreplaceable infrastructure. The fact that it had made survival even more of a challenge was still a bone of contention for many of the survivors.
Pete noted McFarlane’s frown and opened his mouth to explain how, in their misguided zeal for quarantine, the Air Force had bombed bridges occupied by moving vehicles. The community had lost a trio of survivors and a load of scavenged supplies to an A-10’s smart bomb. Before he could go into the story, the door to the trailer came open and Hanratty glanced inside.
He assessed the collection of faces inside of the trailer and nodded to himself in satisfaction. “Sirs, I have an issue that requires some handling. If you’ll pardon the interruption?”
Pete looked across the table and nodded his assent. “I’ve said my piece.”
Hanratty led a shorter, balding man into the trailer. After a bit of maneuvering, everyone was in a seat. Hanratty made the introductions.
“This is Doctor Michael Eberman. Before the outbreak, he was with the Centers for Disease Control in Washington. He’s been on the forefront of research into the plague since the beginning. Our intelligence division is still in the process of extracting and cracking the data retrieved from GenPharm.” Here, Hanratty gave Miles a respectful nod. He’d accompanied Foraker and other Navy SEALs on a mission to recover said data, and had made it out only by the barest of margins. “Until that’s done, he’s been here, in Hope, doing some testing on your immune citizen.”
Pete resisted the urge to close his eyes. A sense of dread welled up in his stomach. He had a sense where this was going, knowing Charlie, but he made himself ask. “Fair enough. What’s the issue?”
; “Well, as of yesterday Charlie refused any further testing. Dr. Eberman had hoped that this was a temporary setback, but Charlie did not show up for a scheduled visit this morning.”
There was an awkward moment of silence. Pete cleared his throat and said, “Doctor? What’s your take?” He kept his face blank and tried not to let his inner annoyance show. Damn it, Charlie.
“This man is a resource of incalculable value. The unique chemistry of his blood could be the key that unlocks a vaccine that will stop this plague in its tracks. I urge you in the strongest possible terms to encourage him to comply with further testing.”
“Encourage?” Pete winced at the undercurrent of anger in Miles’ rising tone. “And if he declines, Doctor?”
“He already has, sir,” Eberman snapped. “Else I wouldn’t be here.”
Miles’ lips compressed into a thin line. Pete implored his nephew to stay cool with a pleading look.
Larry cleared his throat. “Speaking as head of the town council, it’s safe to say we're not interested in forcing Charlie to submit to further medical testing.” He met Pete’s eyes, then turned to Hanratty. “However, we understand that this is a special circumstance. Ideally, I’d like to engage Charlie, get his side of things, and see if we can come to a compromise. But if your side is leaning toward forcing the issue, that could be—problematic?—for our relationship going forward.”
“You can’t be serious,” Eberman blurted. “You’d threaten an alliance over a little blood?”
“That’s not what I said, Doctor,” Larry replied. “I was stating an obvious fact. If you’re going to motivate a member of our community by force, I can’t say how that’s going to play with the population at large.” He nodded to Hanratty. “Ask the captain, here. We’ve got more than a handful of independent-minded folk put-out, shall we say, by the years-long delay of military support. There’s been plenty of goodwill built since we reconnected, but I can’t guarantee that jackbooted tactics aren’t going to piss some folks off.”
“You wanted bone marrow, too,” Miles pointed out. “Next week it could be, hell, I don’t know, muscle tissue. What happens if you need pieces of his brain for your theoretical vaccine, Doctor?”
“Well, that’s ridiculous. You’re taking the argument to the extreme.” Eberman rolled his eyes. “I’m not sure what qualifications you have in vaccine research, but I’d guess that mine trump yours.”
“That depends,” Miles said. “From the sounds of it you’ve had as much success with your vaccine as everyone else in this room.”
“You self-righteous little shit—”
“That’ll be enough of that,” Pete interrupted, annoyed with the exchange. “I’m taking ownership of this issue. Doctor, do you have the equipment you need here to perform a bone marrow biopsy?”
“Well, no. I was going to requisition some. It should be available on one of the larger vessels.”
Pete grinned. “No need for that, Doctor. You’re coming back to Perry with us.” He raised a hand to forestall the response. “It’s safe to say you’ve burned your bridges here, Doctor, at least for the time being. I’m sure that Hope will be fine for now with the corpsmen and local medical personnel. Do you want the sample or not?”
Eberman seemed to sag into himself. “Yes.”
“What about Charlie?” Miles said. There was a dangerous undercurrent to his voice.
Pete sighed. Sometimes the kid was too much like him for his taste. “I was planning on asking him to tag along as it was, boy. I’ll talk to him, see if we can’t compromise on at least one biopsy. If that isn’t enough for you, Doctor, we’ll take that as it comes. But hear me, and hear me well—survivors aren’t your lab rats. Particularly civilian ones.”
He didn’t know where he’d heard it said, but the maxim ‘if an agreement annoys both parties, it’s a fair one’ seemed to apply here. He just hoped that Charlie would see his side of the argument.
Chapter 9
April 4, 2018
Southwestern Illinois
Z-Day + 168
“Three hundred ninety-four.”
The sun hung low and heavy in the western sky as Sandy trudged along the rough drive for the third time that day. This time, at least, he wasn’t concerned with pursuit, though the heavy load in the rolling suitcase he dragged along behind him gave him an excuse to pause every so often to wipe the sweat from his brow and adjust his grip.
The backs of his thighs ached, and the pressure of the anchor on his side had chafed him. He had no idea how long he’d hung from the bridge, helpless bait for the ravenous dead, but he’d kept what he thought was an accurate count.
Call it four hundred, assuming he’d missed a few. If possible, the reason behind the number was more troubling than the actual experience had been. Sandy had picked this route for a reason. It went nowhere near towns of any size and avoided major road routes such as interstates. There was no real reason for there to have been so many, but there they’d been.
He considered the convoy of locals in scavenged military vehicles. How often did they make their rounds around the area? How far did they roam? Neither question was a comforting one. They must have gathered this trailing horde—if they continued their circuits, they were liable to bring in more. If they moved fast enough, Sandy supposed that they’d leave any followers in the dust, but that was of little comfort to the people they passed by, like the survivors at the boat dealership.
He let the suitcase go vertical and stared at his reddening palm. Stay or go?
If he’d owed these people anything from his failure to save their friend, that debt had been repaid by his stunt on the bridge. The suitcase full of food from the RV was icing on the cake.
Beat feet, part of him urged. Stick with the plan.
“And go where?” Sandy rubbed his temples with his fingers. The bridge was out, and the majority of the boats in the area seemed to be in use as barricades. The raiders had come from the north, and the St. Louis metro area lay to the south. The thought of retracing his steps was even less palatable.
With a growl, he grabbed the handle of the suitcase and started walking again. The urge to play the hero was stupid, it was illogical, and it was more likely to get him killed than anything else.
Unbidden, the face of the hollow-cheeked young girl appeared in his mind’s eye.
He sighed. He’d been alone for far too long and had become far too good at lying to himself. Heroics at the bridge notwithstanding, he did owe these people something. Maybe, just maybe, helping them would make it easier to live with himself.
As the white hulls of the boat-wall came into sight, Sandy raised his free arm over his head and waved it back and forth. As Jason’s head popped up in the bed of the truck, he winced, anticipating a shout. The younger man surprised him, though, by turning and waving his own arms to whoever was behind him in the interior of the secured area.
That task complete, Jason hopped the plow blade and jogged down the drive toward Sandy. “Man, you’ve got some big brass ones. You need a wheelbarrow to haul those things around.”
Sandy blinked in confusion at him for a moment, then shrugged it off. “If you say so.”
“Let me help you with that,” Jason offered. He grabbed the handle of the suitcase. “Damn, what’s in this thing, rocks?”
He winked and grinned. “Canned food. Bottled water. Few other odds and ends.”
The younger man’s jaw dropped, and he stopped in his tracks. Sandy didn’t realize it at first, and his feet carried him a few steps away before he turned to look back at Jason. “What?”
The younger man shared a grin of his own and shook his head. “I’d say you were sent from above, my friend. You arrived right in the nick of time.”
Sandy grimaced and nodded at the body crumpled on the drive. With fresh meat beckoning them forward, the infected had ignored Barry’s cooling corpse. “Not for your friend, though.”
Jason cringed. “Yeah, good point.” He let the suitcase sit, then
climbed over the snowplow blade. Together, he and Sandy were able to heave it up and inside of the perimeter. “The last few months have definitely screwed with my perspective.” He shrugged. “I’m sad Barry’s gone, sure. But I’d be lying if part of me wasn’t happy for him. He doesn’t have to worry about starving to death anymore, or zombies eating him.”
Sandy huffed a chuckle as they moved toward the showroom. “I prefer infected myself. More clinical, I suppose.”
Jason laughed. “Yeah, well, I was big into all that stuff, before. TV shows, movies, video games. It’s not as fun when you can’t save the game or start over.”
He didn’t know how to reply to that. Sandy’s preferred entertainment before the outbreak had been biking and reading—he hadn’t even owned a television or game console. He’d been peripherally aware of the pop culture aspects, and how the outbreak had tied into that zeitgeist, but he himself had thought the entire genre rather silly. Some of his internal debate must have shown on his face because Jason grimaced.
“Sorry. Nowadays I wish I’d kept my interests broader so I had other things to talk about.”
Sandy did have to laugh at that. “How about cards?” Jason pulled open the glass door to the showroom for him to roll the suitcase inside. “I played a lot of one-handed solitaire over the winter. Ever play euchre?”
“I haven’t, but I’m pretty sure Richard and Pat have.” He led Sandy inside.
The interior of the building was open concept, and the only boat in the showroom was a big pontoon boat with a collapsible awning. Drying laundry hung from the rails. With the rest of the boats outside, the remaining contents on the interior of the showroom gave it the air of a camping store. The small group of survivors had arranged a trio of pop-up tents around a low bottle-gas grill. Chairs that looked like they’d occupied the sales offices in the back of the building filled in the gaps in the circle.
The little girl sat on the floor with a boy a little older-looking than her. The two pushed some model cars around on the tile as though the very effort of play exhausted them. A pinch-faced blonde woman sat in one of the office chairs next to Pat, who stood and stared for a moment before speaking. “I’ve gotta be honest, Doctor, I never expected to see you again.”
A Place Called Hope (Z-Day Book 2) Page 8
