Plagued: The Rock Island Zombie Counteractant Experiment (Plagued States of America)

by Better Hero Army

  “What about it?”

  “Were you one of the survivors?”

  “What’s it to you?”

  “The dead biter from this morning’s incident. Was it one of yours?”

  “You’re goddamned right he was,” Hank snapped. His eyes narrowed and he thrust a finger toward Mason, poking the air between them as he hissed the words, “And he wasn’t just some biter, kid.” His sneer lingered even as he turned around and started walking away again.

  Mason kept up with the bigger man’s pace, walking two strides to his side just in case Hank got angry. “Sir, there was nothing we could do for it.”

  Hank stopped and turned, his face red with rage. “He had a goddamned name! The one that’s dead—Mike—he was with us in Midamerica. He got bit saving us.” Hank sucked in a deep breath. Mason saw a twitch under the big man’s eye. “They said they would try to cure him, but it didn’t work,” Hank went on, throwing his hands in the air with the same contempt carried in his tone. “First it was something about the inhibitors he received being different, then they said it was because he was too fresh, that the antidote didn’t work on him because he was so new!”

  “I’m sorry,” Mason said.

  “Yeah, like hell you are.”

  “Hey, I lost a man trying to save your friend,” Mason replied hotly.

  Hank’s features softened, but he still appeared irritated.

  “Did the warden tell you what happened?” Mason went on.

  “Not much. He said three of my stock were involved in an accident and had to be disposed of.”

  “Disposed of?”

  “Put down. Their injuries were bad enough to affect their resale value, so they’re compensating me at the going market rate.”

  Mason stared through Hank as the words settled in. He had been lied to before. There was nothing unusual about that in the Army or in politics or the world as a whole. For God and country. That was the biggest lie of them all. Standing on a wall facing a horde of the living in Egypt or the dead here didn’t make a difference when it came to that. Both were about appearances. The appearance of stability and control in an environment far from it. The only difference between Egypt and Biter’s Island was that they could control what people saw here. In Egypt, it had been a free-for-all.

  “I’d like to tell you what happened last night, but I can’t without running the risk of you going off to the warden or the reporters or others who might open their mouths to the wrong person. It would all get back to me, I can assure you.”

  “Why’s that?” Hank asked, squinting with one eye suspiciously.

  “Because I’m the only one alive who was there when it happened.”

  “Well, I can keep secrets pretty well. Mike’s been in quarantine for four weeks and up until five minutes ago, only the warden and that bitch chief scientist Kennedy knew who he was.”

  “Kennedy?” Mason asked with interest.

  Twelve

  “Is this him?” the Senator asked as he took a seat behind the desk. The encounter was weeks old, but Mason remembered it clearly. The location of the meeting was a back room at Blanc, one of a dozen restaurants in Larimer Square. Mason had been driven in from the airport in a black SUV with tinted windows. His driver may as well have been a mute for as much as he talked during the forty-minute drive. Mason looked out the window and kept track of the markers, wondering where everything was and where he was going. After what seemed an endless barrage of traffic signals, the driver pulled into an alley and parked the vehicle. They went in through the back door, past the cooks and kitchen staff, who acted as though they hadn’t noticed either of them arrive, then straight into an office with no windows. When they arrived, the office was occupied by a man in an expensive white suit.

  “You’re here,” the man had said, putting down his pen and stuffing his notepad into a drawer before getting up and walking past Mason, smiling at him but saying nothing else.

  Mason had thought to follow the white-suited man, but the silent driver put a hand on Mason’s shoulder and pointed at the visitor’s chair. When the Senator arrived, Mason stood, his mind racing, wondering why a Senator wanted to see him, and why here, in secret?

  The driver nodded to the Senator.

  “Jones?” the Senator asked.

  “Yes, sir?” Mason replied.

  “Go get me a Bourbon, would you?” the Senator asked Mason’s silent driver. They were alone then. The Senator walked past Mason, grinning ear to ear. He sat down and waved for Mason to do the same. “Do you know why you’re here, Lieutenant?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Do you know where you are?”

  “Downtown Denver, Colorado.”

  “Specifically? I’m told you have an eye.”

  “Your driver took the 70 after Peña from the airport, to the 36 to the 70 again, where we passed through two checkpoints, then to the 25 south, exiting Fox Street and travelling past the ballpark, taking Blake Street to 14th Street before coming up a back alley to this restaurant.”

  “Shit, you are good. It’s a damned shame. I could use someone like you in my office. Do you know who I am?”

  Mason didn’t answer right away. He still didn’t know what all this was about.

  “William Jefferson,” the Senator told him.

  Mason remained still.

  “You don’t follow politics much, do you, son?”

  Again Mason said nothing. Senator Jefferson wasn’t someone he would vote for.

  “All right, I get it,” the Senator said. “If I was in your seat I probably wouldn’t want a bunch of idle chit-chat, either. I have a proposition for you. How would you like to do something great for your country?”

  Mason didn’t get a chance to answer. A knock came at the door followed by the silent driver carrying a tall glass with ice and Bourbon in it.

  “Do you have the file?” Senator Jefferson asked the driver as he accepted the glass. The driver nodded. The Senator waved a finger toward Mason as he sipped at his drink. The driver removed an envelope from the inside pocket of his jacket, revealing the butt of a 9mm pistol Mason already knew was strapped to his belt. The driver tossed the envelope past the Senator onto the top of the desk in front of Mason. Mason eyed the driver as he stepped behind the Senator with his hands crossed in front of his belly, ready to draw down if there was trouble.

  Mason looked at the envelope but didn’t touch it.

  “Go on, soldier. Take a look.”

  “I don’t understand,” Mason replied.

  “Look, son, the zombie plague has had its way with us long enough. I’m a patriot, just like you. I want to put a stop to it. Really, I do,” the Senator said with what sounded like sincere concern even as he took another sip of Bourbon. Mason wasn’t sure if he should buy it, though. Just because the Senator said it well didn’t mean he meant anything. “I want to make America great again. I want to put a stop to all the animosity toward us around the world. I want to clean up America and tear down the walls that divide this great nation. District Rules, Rural Rules, and then there’s the Plagued States where there are no rules, and yet it’s all America. We’re supposed to be one nation under God. I haven’t seen our union for over ten years. The America I grew up in is the America I want your children growing up in, but we’ve got to start by fixing it today.”

  “I don’t have any children,” Mason replied flatly.

  “It’s a figure of speech, son,” the Senator said with a disarming smile.

  “It was a good speech, sir.”

  The Senator took a drink and set down the glass, turning to look over his shoulder at his man. “I thought you said he would be on board.”

  “He passed all the psych profiles,” the driver said calmly.

  “He did?” the Senator asked skeptically. He turned and looked at Mason. “Do you understand what kind of honor this is to be chosen for a mission like this?”

  “I don’t understand, sir. What mission?”

  “Hasn’t he
been briefed?” the Senator snapped at the driver, turning to glare at him.

  “No, sir,” the driver said. “We did show you his file. He’s the one we took from the psych ward.”

  “Oh, yeah,” the Senator said, snapping a finger, then spun in his chair to look at Mason again, measuring him, gauging him as he took another sip of Bourbon. “Does his file say anything about his attitude?”

  “A few reports of insubordination since the incident, but otherwise a match.”

  “A few huh?” the Senator said. “Let me ask you one question, Jones. When you used to stand the wall in Egypt and you could see those screaming protestors marching up the street with their picket signs and their sacks full of rocks, how did it feel knowing you weren’t allowed to shoot them unless they breached the wall? Even when they hurled stones and Molotov cocktails at you? Even when their snipers fired at you from nearby buildings every other day? Or their bombs exploded from cars charging the check points? How did it feel to be holding in your hand the weapon that could put a stop to it—your M-14—but guys like me sitting here at home told you to stand down instead of engage? Did that piss you off?”

  “Which of those questions did you want me to answer, sir?” Mason replied.

  “Fuck this,” Senator Jefferson said, throwing his hands up as he stood. “He’s not the one.”

  “Maybe,” the driver said with a shrug. “Maybe not.”

  “Why are we wasting our time with him? Find me someone else. Someone who gives a shit.”

  “Sir,” Mason tried to interrupt.

  “Shut up, son. You fucking blew it. It was nice knowing you, kid,” the Senator said while scooping up his glass. The Senator stopped at the doorway, his back to Mason and the driver. Mason didn’t stand. His driver didn’t budge. The envelope remained on the desk in front of him.

  “Sir?” the driver asked the Senator after a short silence.

  “Send him in anyway. Maybe she can change his mind.”

  “Yes, sir,” the driver said blandly. The Senator closed the door behind him as he left.

  “What was this all about?” Mason asked the driver.

  “You’re due at Fort Hood in the morning for in-processing and training. We have you on a red-eye. Take the envelope. It has some background about the facility and people assigned. Commit what you can to memory by the time we reach the airport. I’ve got your travel orders in the car. Your contact at final destination will be Danielle Kennedy. Can you remember that?”

  “What is it that you guys want me to do? Where am I going?”

  “Right now, you’re going to the airport. Kennedy will brief you on your assignment once you get to your final destination. It’s probably better for you to just go along for the ride. Get the lay of the land. Keep your eyes and ears open.”

  “I don’t understand,” Mason said, staring at the envelope. “You know why they took me off the wall in Egypt, don’t you? You know why I’m back home, right?”

  “Yeah, I do. That’s kind of the point.”

  Thirteen

  Mason had no intelligence information on Doctor Danielle Kennedy. Aside from seeing her briefly in the cell block the night before, he had no idea where he would even look for her. Hearing Hank say her name gave him hope that maybe he could find a way off this miserable island sooner than his tour would end. He suspected they would stop-loss him into another two years on the island if he didn’t at least make contact with her. That’s the kind of corner he was being backed into. They probably even tipped off the warden, if he wasn’t in on the whole thing. Why else would he ride his ass like he was? But that only raised a bigger question: what did the warden have to be afraid of?

  “You want another beer?” Hank asked as he stood up from the booth in the small tavern next to the Meat Market. “I’m gonna take a leak and get another round for myself.”

  “Sure,” Mason replied, brooding over the half-empty bottle he was milking. It was getting warm.

  “Let’s take ‘em with us,” Hank suggested. “I need to set up for the day.”

  Mason walked beside Hank as they wove through the lot full of vehicles the hunters used for collecting their merchandise. Every vehicle was raised higher than what seemed practical, mobile platforms with bars and rails that could be used to repel an assault from the ground. Chains and cables secured all manner of tool, weapon, and supply that wasn’t welded or bolted to the vehicle. Each truck was unique in some way, as though each had been built in a junkyard by lunatics who believed the world was coming to an end. The vehicle they stopped at made all the rest seem like cookie-cutter copies by comparison.

  “What the hell is this?” Mason asked Hank as the big man began climbing a metal ladder affixed to the back of the craft.

  “It’s a duck,” Hank replied, sounding offended by Mason’s tone. “An amphibious vehicle. I know it don’t look like much, but it saved our asses at the Hill.”

  “Are you telling me this thing floats?”

  “Mostly. It rides pretty low when the gas tanks are full, but otherwise she’ll power across the channel.”

  “And you hunt in this thing?” Mason asked, tugging at the ladder to make sure it was sturdy before climbing up after Hank.

  “Don’t be an idiot. Nobody hunts in their truck. You do it on foot.”

  Mason reached the top and stood on a flat deck ringed by waist-high railings. The center half of the vehicle was under a canopy supported by a row of cells made of sheet metal with only narrow slits that allowed air flow and some light in, but no more than a finger could get through otherwise. All the cells were the same except the last one closest to the cockpit. It was a larger open cage made of vertical bars on all four sides with a locking cage door and a bunk bed.

  “The luxury suite?” Mason asked jokingly as he peered into the last cell.

  “Peske used to keep Kitty in there.”

  “Who kept what?”

  “This was Peske’s rig back on the Hill. When the shit hit the fan, he drove us all to safety. All the way to Midamerica. That’s where the rescue choppers came for us, so we left the duck there. After they let us out of quarantine, I hired on with another group of hunters, traded them my catch for a ride. I got the duck and I’m back in business.”

  “What about Peske?”

  “He’s dead. He had a heart attack just when we were getting saved.”

  “So was this cat of his some kind of lion?”

  “Kitty?” Hank guffawed. “She was his half-breed.”

  “Half-breed?”

  “Half woman, half zombie,” Hank said, and the thought of it struck Mason as hard as a bullet. “Partly cured. Non-infectious. Some kind of experiment they did on her early on when they were working on the cure. Like a feral cat, that girl, but she was Peske’s draw. She kept people coming to his pens first. He was the number one dealer on the Hill because of her.”

  Mason thought of the notes about the research facility here on the island, beneath the prison. He hadn’t been inside it yet, but he knew there were cells inside the lab. Cells meant to hold and control up to ten test subjects. Nothing in the notes said any test subjects had ever escaped, though. And he knew nothing about the events at Biter’s Hill except what was on television, which was very little.

  “So what happened to her?”

  “You know, you ask a lot of questions, kid. Why don’t you start answering some of mine, like what happened to Mike?”

  “I think they cured him, after all,” Mason replied, took a deep breath, and recounted everything that had happened the night before, omitting their encounter with Doctor Kennedy. He didn’t think that would help him at the moment, and it might have incited Hank more than anything.

  “Huh,” Hank said when Mason was finished. “Well, that settles it, then. Thanks for telling me.”

  “Settles what?”

  “I’m getting the fuck off the Island, that’s what. I’ve got one body left, thanks to you, so I’m going to go sell him to another trader and head f
or the Bend in the morning. I’ve got a bad feeling about this place.”

  “You and me both,” Mason said. “Can you do me a favor?”

  “Depends on the favor.”

  “Can you get me in contact with Doctor Kennedy?”

  “How about I give you her phone number and you call her yourself. I don’t trust that bitch, and the last thing I want is her knowing you and me talked. You got me, kid?”

  Fourteen

  Mason woke to his alarm clock buzzing, the red LED glow showing 6:00 PM. He put on his uniform and left for his meeting with Kennedy. As he walked toward the Meat Market, several flatbed trucks passed him going the opposite direction. They were hauling caged biters to the prison for the night. Civilians left the market going in one of three directions: the parking lot, the hotel casino, or the same tavern Mason had been in with Hank that very morning. Mason followed two hunters into the tavern and found an empty booth near the back next to the pool tables. A group of hunters were playing a game, glaring at him suspiciously, eyeing him with an almost malicious intent. Mason took off his uniform top so that only his tight brown t-shirt covered his upper body. He flexed his hard muscles and glared back at them. Mason may not have been as big as Matty, but his arms and chest had the solid look of a prize fighter. It was enough to get his point across. The hunters didn’t bother him as he sat waiting for Kennedy to arrive.

  When she showed, she strode in proudly on a pair of high heel shoes, with her lab coat over her shoulder. She sauntered toward the bar in a tight black skirt and even tighter red top. She turned heads looking like that.

  “Set me up the usual, Mac,” she announced. “What’s the special? I’m stuck working all night again.”

  An amber liquid spilled over cubes of ice in a short glass and was placed on the bar in front of her. She took it and turned around to face the room, planting her elbows behind her, her eyes scanning the room from one end to the other. The way she was standing, Mason saw the square outline of her smartphone zipped up in a pocket against her hip. The bartender was telling her what they had on special to eat. She took a slow sip from the glass as she listened. When her eyes reached Mason’s corner of the room, she smiled and turned to the bartender.