by Cliff Deane
“Yes, sir,” said Colonel Merritt, “the air is carrying the sickly-sweet smell of rotting human flesh. Everyone is constantly near to, and often are, vomiting. I have sent two of my new force to find painter’s masks. Perhaps that will help.”
“Good thinking, Tom, now, comes the worst part; you must, at once, begin arming all survivors, because the worst is yet to come. In four days, roughly half of the survivors worldwide will go into hiding. Four days after that you will be at war with Cavemen. I know, I know, it sounds crazy, but this has already happened on board the three mining ships which altered the orbit of Holly Thorne. Don’t worry about the Mags being armed. They will not have a clue what firearms are, or how to use any weapon other than clubs.”
“Roger, sir,” said Tom, who was almost in a state of shock.”
General Howard continued, “Those who go into hiding will morph, devolve, whatever the hell you want to call it, into Cro-Magnon men. They are our closest cousins along the evolutionary line. If you come across any of these hiders, we call them Mags, you must kill them at once. Tom, there can be no exceptions. Kill ‘em! Every single one you find. Who they were no longer matters. They were once human but will have devolved into the Cro-Magnon Man. They seem to instinctively have the need to wipe out all who they think may be competition. That is something we cannot allow.
“One thing is for certain; the civilian population is going to take an early beating. When they come out of hiding, they will attack anyone who is not a Mag. Am I absolutely clear on this, Colonel?”
“Yes, sir, of course, but that is a lot to process. I’ll begin arming our people this morning, but to be completely honest, you have just scared the living crap out of me. I mean, sir, I could become one of these Mags.”
“I’m sorry, Tom, but you are right, we all might. Data from the Mining Ships indicates that survivors have a 50% chance of turning. I pray you are not one of them.”
The Colonel managed an ironic smile and said, “Well, General, that makes two prayers for me; yours and mine.”
Tom added, “Sir, how about we schedule update contacts at 0800 and 1700 daily?”
“Good plan, Tom. I have one more item to discuss with you. My friend, if our facility is destroyed, you must contact the Cheyenne Mountain Facility. It has not been compromised, and so it is still functioning. The VPOTUS is there. I will pass info about our discussion to General Hank Morse. I’m sure he will be my replacement, should the worst happen. Tom, I have a meeting with the President, so I’ve got to run. I’ll fill her in on your humble beginnings. Out, here.”
And with that, Colonel Tom Merritt had his marching orders; arm the troops and draft everyone who makes it back to Benning into some modicum of a functioning military force.
25 March 2118
Mount Palomar Observatory
California
Trent Allison awoke and felt better, much better. For the first time in days, he was able to shower, brush his teeth, and not experience jet-propelled diarrhea. In fact, he realized that he was literally feeling stronger by the moment. He had kept an audio journal beginning with the onset of the Super-flu.
Journal entry for 25 March 2118, I have survived and am not only over the flu, but I can’t remember when I have felt better, although a meal wouldn’t hurt my feelings any.
As an afterthought, Trent added another note: I shouldn’t have named that damned Comet, Holly Thorne. That stupid ex of mine even ruined the greatest light show in history.
28 March 2118, 0800
175th Ranger Regimental HQ
Fort Benning, GA
By 28 March, Colonel Merritt’s force stood at well over ten thousand men and women. While this seemed a large number, Tom’s force amounted to less than 5% of the pre-flu active military personnel stationed at Fort Benning. To make matters even worse, the Officer Corps stood at only 10% of assigned strength. The highest ranking surviving officers reporting to Colonel Merritt were twenty-five Lt Colonels.
The NCO Corps was also hard hit, as the most senior NCOs were E-7 Platoon Sergeants. Officers and NCOs were, therefore, placed in positions well above their pay-grade. Merritt had decided to wait on promotions until he was sure the last of the stragglers reported for duty.
Colonel Merritt directed the Chain of Command to get the names and rank, along with any noteworthy after effects of the Super-flu. This survey provided both a complete roster of available personnel and how they had felt since their recovery.
The report that arrived on Tom’s desk showed that roughly 50% of the survivors felt great, while the other half were somewhat tired and not quite up to par. He forwarded this info up the chain to the CDC.
Four days later, on 29 March 2118, nearly one-billion survivors, around the world, went into hiding. Roughly five-thousand in Colonel Tom Merritt’s command disappeared.
25 March 2118
Trent Allison’s Home
Temecula, California
Trent spent the first morning of his recovery in an orgy of feasting. He ate until his stomach screamed for him to give it a break. In retaliation, his gut decided to make him pay for the overindulgent feeding frenzy. The first pains of bloating and abdominal pressure began about twenty minutes following his meal. The toilet beckoned and would not be put off.
When Trent decided to get dressed to make his way into the world to discover the results of the Super-Flu, he discovered that all of his clothes were way too large. In wonderment, he stood straight and looked down. “Holy crap,” shouted Trent, “I can see my feet, and, oh my God, I can even see my belt buckle.” This revelation made him realize that he would have to go and buy some new duds.
Trent suddenly realized that he had not put his glasses on, but he could see fine. He picked up the glasses from his bedside and placed them on his face. He simply could not believe that with his glasses on the world was a blur; without them, he could see perfectly. Trent couldn’t stop grinning.
The day was spectacular with only a light breeze, bright sunshine, and temperatures in the low to mid-seventies. “Damn, what a gorgeous day,” shouted Trent Allison to the skies above.
Taking a deep breath, Trent nearly fell to the ground from a sickly-sweet smell. It was somewhat like the odor he would expect from rotting pork. The breeze from the Pacific Ocean had somewhat filtered the smell, but what there was sent him reeling from nausea.
He made his way to his one extravagance, a fusion-powered Musk pickup and quickly turned up the air-conditioning, which helped diminish the rotten pork smell. He began driving to the nearest Walmart Supercenter at 32225 Temecula Pkwy. As he drove along, he was surprised to see that very few people were out and about. Trent considered the possibility that most were still ill, or the Super-flu had proved to be much deadlier than he had believed possible. He turned on the truck radio and heard only static until he came upon a Conelrad station, which was playing a continuous loop. The loop was the same one that had been playing the day before the flu struck. Oh, crap, thought Trent, that cannot be good.
The parking lot at the Supercenter held only five other cars, all parked near the entrance.
As Trent was about to get out of his short bed pickup, he tied a handkerchief over his nose. It was then he had a nagging thought that rapidly made its way to the surface of his conscious mind. End of the world, good guys, bad guys. He was happy for the national right to carry law, passed some eighty years earlier. He reached under his seat and removed a small 9mm pistol in a waistband holster.
Before Trent had become ill, he was a pudgy, early middle-aged man of forty. He stood 5' 7" tall, with male pattern baldness. His profession as an astronomer caused his skin to have a pale sheen that bordered on porcelain. He wore glasses, had a small chin, large nose, and was known to be a sloppy dresser.
As Trent began to make his way to the entrance, he ran his hand over his head and stopped dead in his tracks. He again slowly ran his hand over the top of his head; fuzz, a fine fuzz was growing on his previously bald pate. Again, he rubbed
and rubbed to prove to himself that he truly had hair growing where he had been bald since his early twenties. This discovery added a bit of pep to his step and placed a big smile on his face.
Trent approached the door and saw that it had been forced open. The inside was not quite dark, but more like the final fading light of dusk. Initially, he thought that perhaps he should leave and try to do his shopping somewhere more inviting. He began to turn around when a voice said, “Don’t worry, it’s okay, come on in.”
Trent turned to run back to his car when a man in a Policeman’s uniform stepped from the shadows. Seeing that the voice had been that of a Cop caused Trent to become a little more relaxed.
The Officer smiled at Trent and said, “It’s okay, there are a few people inside doing some shopping. At first, I thought I should run them off, then decided that in this emergency I’d just ask anyone coming in to leave their name and phone number by the registers. Hell, I doubt if anyone will ever call them, but it just seemed like the right thing to do.”
Trent looked at the man’s nametag which read, Jones. He said, “Officer Jones, do you have any idea of the magnitude of this pandemic?”
Jones looked sad as he said, “Not really, but my guess comes from the number of Officers reporting for duty. Out of one-hundred and twenty, twenty-eight have reported in. If that is an indicator, then the death toll here in Temecula will be near one-hundred thousand. Ten days ago, the population was near one-hundred and forty-thousand.”
“Oh, dear God,” said a shaken Trent Allison, “is that even possible?”
“Yeah, it is. I spent most of the morning entering the homes of our brother officers. I found no one alive, and the smell of death was overpowering.”
After a few seconds, Officer Jones regained his composure and said, “Let’s change the subject for a bit. I see that you’ve lost some weight and I’ll bet you could use some clothes that fit, so come on in and take what you need. With so many dead, those of us still around have got to help each other, you know?”
At just that moment a solemn young woman pushing a cart emerged from the store and after thanking the officer went to her car. This small thing made Trent feel much more at ease, and he decided to go ahead in to get some clothes that fit.
His eyes slowly adjusted to the low light and he saw a few others pushing carts around the store. Trent quickly found a couple of outfits that fit, then searched the home goods section and found the seal-a-meal machine. Almost as an afterthought, he decided to stock up on some canned goods before making his way back to the exit.
Trent intended to thank the Policeman, but when he arrived at the door, Officer Jones was no longer there; still, his presence had made an impression on Trent. The country may be trashed, but good people are still around.
Yes, good people were still around, but many, like Officer Jones, were in shock and just going through the motions…
CHAPTER THREE
THE TURNING
25 March 2118
Communications Room
Cheyenne Mountain
Admiral Huxley entered the Communications Room at the Cheyenne Mountain Facility. The senior Naval Officer on Duty shouted, “Admiral on deck!” which caused everyone to jump to attention.
“Carry on, as you were,” ordered Huxley, as an Air Force Captain approached and offered his hand to the Admiral.
“Good morning, Admiral, is there something you need?”
“Yes, please put me in contact with Admiral Perry aboard the Wake Island,” said Huxley.
“Yes, sir, of course. Sir,” said the Duty Officer, “would you like a cup of coffee while the satellite routes the call. It will take approximately five minutes for the signal to reach the Wake Island.”
“Thank you, Captain, that would be fine.”
Some five minutes later the Space Fleet, en route to the Red Sands Colony on Mars came on the line. The irrepressible Admiral Perry said, “Hux, how they hangin’ old son?”
Admiral Huxley, a more old school Naval Flag Officer, was a bit miffed when he replied, “Really, Admiral, show some decorum on an open line.”
“Sure, Hux, you old stuffed shirt, okay, okay, I apologize. Admiral Huxley, what traffic do you have for me?”
Huxley was a bit exasperated at his Academy Classmate, but he could not completely hide the trace of a smile. Everyone else in the Communications Center was trying to pretend not to have heard the exchange between the two Admirals. The ten-minute delay only made the entire scene appear more frustratingly comedic.
Abruptly, Huxley ordered the Duty Officer to inform Admiral Perry that he would send a sub-space communique outlining the events at Cheyenne Mountain.
25 March 2118
USSDF Wake Island
Convoy traveling to Mars Colony
Onboard the USSDF Cruiser, Wake Island, both Admiral Adolphus Perry and “Sky” King chuckled at Huxley’s apparent discomfort. “That old sod never could take a joke, but stuffed shirt or not, I like that old fart. Sky, you’d better put together a report on our progress to Red Sands.”
Still smiling, Admiral Sky King said, “Sure, Dolf, I’ll have it to you in a couple of hours.”
25 March 2118
South Coast Winery Resort
Temecula, California
As Trent left the Walmart parking lot, he aimed his car toward the Home Depot when he realized that there was really no real reason to return to his modest, one-bedroom cottage. He called it his hovel.
Trent decided to visit one of his favorite Sunday afternoon haunts, probably his one-real extravagance, the South Coast Winery Resort. There were many pleasant memories for a solitary figure like Trent. The winery grounds provided magnificent views of the vineyard and the surrounding vistas. He loved to sit with a bottle of wine and a wedge of cheese on the warm, shaded verandas while enjoying a book by Cliff Deane, as the gentle trade winds blew across his body from the Pacific Ocean.
Though Trent had been to the Winery many times, he didn’t feel he could afford to stay in one of the Resort rooms. As he drove along, he said, “What the hell, if the place is deserted, then I may as well have some wine and enjoy the best suite in the house for a couple of days, until I figure out what to do next. Yeah, why go home and live like a peasant, when I can go just about anywhere and live like a King, at least for a while.”
Being alone had never been a concern to Trent as he spent nearly all of his time at the Observatory in quiet solitude.
It took only a few minutes to arrive at the Home Depot. Again, the parking lot was empty, so he parked across the front entrance and kicked in the glass door. Once inside he went straight to the painting masks to use as replacements for his handkerchief before finding the generators. Trent managed to wrestle a 5.5 KwH Fusion Ryobi model into the back of his pickup. Returning to the store, he found a small propane grill and several small cans of propane. He felt stronger than he ever had, healthier, too and he liked it.
Almost as an afterthought, he grabbed a set of grilling tools. He now felt ready to enjoy a few days of pleasant tranquility, back at the Winery.
Trent thought, just one more stop, and I’ll be all set. He set a course for the Temecula Public Library. Once inside he began selecting a few books to read for pleasure on the Veranda, before beginning his primary task of selecting survival books. First on his list were the Foxfire books. After two hours of scouring the library he came to the last on his list; How Things Work. As he looked at the two large stacks of books, he realized that the finding was easier than the carrying would be.
25 April 2118
Hotel St. Michael
Gurley St,
Prescott, Arizona
Colonel Cindy Sharp retired from the Army in August of 2117. She had spent nearly all of her twenty-five years of service in foreign countries. Her military resume told the story of a Cobra Gunship Pilot that had served eight distinguished combat tours of duty; all of which she had volunteered. Her many awards centered around two Silver Stars for valor, an
d two Purple Hearts.
Cindy was twenty-two when she took the Soldiers Oath upon graduation from West Point, where she graduated at the top of the class of 2092. The next step in her journey took her to Flight School, where she so excelled in the operation of rotary winged aircraft that she graduated first in her class. She immediately submitted a request for combat air training.
As Sharp’s experience grew, she was rapidly promoted through, what the Army called “First Look.” This program allowed the top three percent of Officers to be considered for promotion one year ahead of their peers in the normal course of career progression.
Colonel Cindy Sharp was a handsome woman but was committed to her career and did not marry.
She was on the fast track to General’s Stars, but, unfortunately for the U.S. Army, Colonel Sharp had no desire to become a General. What she did desire was to spend the first year of her retirement traveling the forty-eight contiguous United States, in search of a home before she became too, in her mind, old. She planned to spend a minimum of a week in each, before settling into retirement.
Her arrival in Prescott came just a week before the Earth’s passage through the tail of the Holly Thorne Comet. The following four days were spent visiting the historical sites around Prescott, the original Territorial Capital of Arizona. The Grand Canyon evoked a deep yearning to learn more about this incredible feature. She also especially enjoyed the Phippen Museum, with its amazing Western Art collection.
Cindy’s evenings were spent around Whiskey Row’s historic saloons, and, of course, the regularly scheduled events just across the street on the lawn of the Courthouse.
