Phil had brought food and drinks from the cafeteria, and the children were already asleep. All those present had a hard time keeping up a light-hearted conversation after all the traumatic events of the last twenty-four hours. Everyone pensively chewed their sandwiches and occasionally took a sip from a soda can. Finally, Ray spoke up. When he started, Watson–who was lying next to him–raised his head, as if he understood an important discussion was about to begin.
“I asked you all to join me tonight because I learned some important information during my visit to the USS George Washington which will require decisions that I don’t want to make alone.” The group’s lethargy instantly perked up to active interest. All of them glanced expectantly at Ray.
Then he told them the whole story, starting with being given the quick test on the aircraft carrier, the information about the presumed spread of the infection as related by Admiral Jackson and General Dixon and leading up to Abbadon and his former employer, Vita Invicta. He ended his summary with his conjecture that the Vice President of the United States might be involved in all of this. When Ray was finished, he looked at incredulous faces. He could see Scott desperately trying to process all he had just heard, but still could not quite believe it. In different circumstances this combination of doubt and intense concentration expressed on his face might have seemed funny, but in this situation nobody felt like laughing.
“What does this mean for us?” Chris asked.
“It means we don’t know what it means,” Gregory answered.
“Well, thank you for that witty remark,” Chris said and rolled his eyes.
“I think what your brother is trying to say is that it is pure speculation as far as the connection with the Vice President is concerned,” Phil remarked. “No offense, Ray.”
Ray nodded. “I’m not saying my theory is necessarily true. But I think many factors support it.”
“Let’s assume you’re right,” Scott said. “What would that mean for the journey to Sanctuary?”
“I for one am not ready to rescue Abbadon’s family, if my theory turns out to be true.”
“What would be the alternative, then?” Phil asked. “Assuming you find Melissa–and probably even both of your kids–would you really flee with them and give up the chance of ending this apocalypse?”
“If Abbadon doesn’t want to divulge what he knows, he’s to blame for this whole mess–not me,” Ray answered.
“And then? What’s supposed to happen next? You move with your family from town to town? You certainly wouldn’t be welcomed with open arms here at Fort Weeks,” Phil said.
“That’s nothing you have to worry about,” Ray growled.
“No, but I worry about my children–and, whether you believe it or not, about billions of other people on this planet. If you can sleep well knowing you have God-knows-how-many human lives on your conscience, then go ahead.”
“Calm down, Phil,” Chris interjected. “Ray has nobody’s death on his conscience–and accusations don’t help us. Let’s all try to find a solution that helps everyone.”
“I think I have an idea,” Gregory suddenly said. All of them looked at him.
The grueling efforts of the past few days had taken their toll on Ray, and the next morning he slept-in for a long time. When he could not lie on his cot any longer, he slowly dressed and forced himself to get out of his tent. Outside, the fresh morning air greeted him. The weather was still rather mild for early December in Maine, but in this part of the U.S. winter usually did not hit with full force until January. Ray sauntered through the tent city toward the cafeteria and not for the first time, wondered how all these people were supposed to survive the eventual extreme cold.
A glance at his watch displayed that it was already a quarter to nine. The signs of destruction on the base were very conspicuous–a sure indicator that yesterday’s desperate battle had taken place here. It was not just a few grenade craters and a hole in the perimeter wall that had been refortified by a steel fence and now secured by additional guards that served as solemn reminders of the attack. Despite all of this, Ray was impressed by the resilience of the base residents going about their everyday tasks with a remarkable sense of normalcy. What else were they supposed to do? One thing became profoundly clear, though, when looking at their faces: The horror was unmistakable and the sense of uncertainty was almost palpable. They were terrified.
Instead of going directly to the cafeteria, Ray took a detour by the main gate. The left wing was closed, and the right one was temporarily shuttered with a metal element fashioned from the steel fence. Ray climbed one of the watchtowers to get a better look at the area outside the base and once he reached the top, he was completely awestruck by what he saw: It was the ultimate battlefield of large, charred areas filled with hundreds of undead bodies scattered in all directions. Between these bodies, human corpses clad in military uniforms lay intermittently like spots of color in a black and white painting. Since early morning two large trucks had been busy hauling corpses away to another part of the forest where, in the distance, a thick, black column of smoke rising in the morning sky was a clear indication of their final fate. Ray descended the watchtower and went to the cafeteria, even though by now, he had lost his appetite. When he got there, he only took a cup of coffee and continued his walk, with cup in hand, until he reached the officers’ mess. The two soldiers on guard nodded to him when he entered.
Master Sergeant Pelletier was alone in the communications center. His left arm was in a sling, so the battle had left its traces on him, too. It looked very painful, but Ray thought he deserved it. The master sergeant was studying a large map of a section of the Eastern Seaboard on his monitor and when Ray entered the room, Pelletier continued to look at the screen.
“Good morning, Captain.”
Ray stood next to Pelletier and also gazed at the digital map.
“Master Sergeant.”
“Communication has been mostly reestablished and our allies know about our situation. I have talked to General Dixon. As I heard there were some disagreements during your stay on the USS George Washington.”
Ray took a sip from his cup. “If you want to call it that.”
“I can understand your resentment, but I think the general has given enough of an explanation. What do you want to do now?”
“I think I’ve already made that clear.”
“Come on, Mr. Thompson. No offense, but even in the normal world it would not be easy to arrange for a conversation with the Vice President–let alone in times like these.”
“That also applies to conducting passenger flights along the Eastern Seaboard,” Ray replied and pointed to the map. He knew Sanctuary was supposed to be in the depicted area. “Your last two attempts certainly proved that.”
Pelletier ignored this remark. “Have you already been outside today?”
“I get the idea–quite a bit of chaos.”
“Chaos hardly begins to even describe it. It was a massacre yesterday, and without you and your helicopter the number of casualties might have been much higher, Captain Thompson. But now there is a general sense of uncertainty, and the people here are afraid.”
“I certainly cannot blame them for that. After all, they came here because they needed protection.”
“And they found that!” Pelletier snapped back. “Nobody could have expected yesterday’s events. We lost many good comrades.”
“Do you have exact numbers?” Ray asked.
“According to our estimates, about 130 people died yesterday, and 50 were injured. However without our base, the people here would have been in much greater danger. Even the civilians proved yesterday that they can help defend these walls if necessary. They may not have battled nearly as many zombies at those soldiers at the main gate, but they fought heroically, nevertheless.”
“I agree with you, Master Sergeant. Yet I wonder what the people here would say if they knew the true story behind the outbreak of the plague.”
“
Is this supposed to be a threat?” Pelletier gave Ray a sideways look.
“Call it what you want. This army base only functions in its current form because almost all the people here work and do their duty, without question. I’m curious if this would still be the case if it became known that you’re shielding one of the persons responsible for the plague.”
There was a noticeable gap in their conversation, during which both men evaluated the significance of what had been said. It had been Gregory’s suggestion to make the truth public, or at least threaten to do so. Phil and Chris had been against it, for they saw the potential risk of being kicked out of Fort Weeks if they put pressure on the base commander. Scott, on the other hand, was all for it and had even offered to announce the good news to Pelletier. Ray was torn and finally said he would see how the conversation went, before he made a final decision–and he had just done this. There was certainly some risk, but he could not imagine that Pelletier would actually kick people out after what happened yesterday.
“We are not shielding anyone. We are simply obeying orders,” Pelletier growled after what seemed like infinity.
Okay, a justification rather than a rebuke. Time to open fire, Ray thought. “Now, stop with this ‘obeying orders’ bullshit!” He stared straight into the eyes of the master sergeant. “What the hell has to happen to make human lives and justice a priority over chains of command and military ranks?”
“Tell the people what you want, Thompson. Nobody will believe you anyways.”
“Maybe, maybe not. We’re going to find out, one way or another. People are desperate to get an explanation for all that shit that happened yesterday. You can choose: Either we play by my rules and give them an explanation together, or I go out there and tell them the truth.”
“You can’t be that stupid. We have a secure base here–an intact microcosm which will continue functioning–even after yesterday’s attack. If you risk upsetting this, you will hurt people rather than helping them.”
“Kiss my ass.”
During the following minutes, both men looked in stony silence at the map. Ray could only guess what was going on in William Pelletier’s mind and which scenarios he was playing through. When Ray wanted to turn around and leave, he could almost hear the master sergeant thoughts. He was about to make his move toward the doorway, when Pelletier cautiously said: “Wait, Captain.”
“What do you have to say, Master Sergeant? It better be something that makes me stay.”
Pelletier loudly cleared his throat. “The whole thing wasn’t my idea,” he began.
During the ensuing conversation, William Pelletier explained the details of his situation. The plague hit him just as unprepared as everyone else, and he had not chosen to command this base. He had more or less ended up in this position by a twist of fate, as the senior officers were either dead or had disappeared. He mentioned the order to cut all but one of the access roads to Fort Weeks and to secure the base had come early–and directly from the Vice President himself. The exact reasons were never revealed, but in the military one rarely questions things, particularly concerning orders coming from such a high authority. When the scope of the catastrophe became clearer, they started developing plans to make Fort Weeks totally self-sufficient. The stream of refugees that had arrived in the first few weeks soon decreased, which probably was due to the fact there were not that many people alive to seek refuge.
“Regarding the contact with Dixon and the USS George Washington, I told you the truth,” Pelletier said. “I don’t know whether he or the Vice President are mixed up in all of this. We did not mention the two failed rescue missions to Sanctuary because we did not want to alarm you any further. We knew that you would fly anyways.”
“Who is this Abbadon?” Ray asked.
“I probably know less about him than you do.”
Ray didn’t know what to fully make about this conversation with Pelletier. Did the master sergeant really want to wipe the slate clean? Or, was he just trying to save his own ass and string Ray along?
“If you’re already on the path to truth: How do you explain the attack on Fort Weeks?” Ray asked.
“I have done nothing but ponder this question since yesterday. Let’s look at the facts: In the middle of the night a helicopter appears utilizing a huge sound system to drive an army of undead against the base. Almost simultaneously, a bomb explodes inside the base and tears a hole in the perimeter wall. Somebody obviously wanted to let in as many of these beasts as possible. The question is who would be interested in destroying a military base.”
Ray had discussed this very topic with the others last night until they were all exhausted. They had covered all kinds of outrageous theories, until Gregory suddenly said: “What if the hole in the wall was not created to let in as many zombies as possible? What if it served to let certain people get out unseen?”
Chris, who that evening seemed to dislike all of his brother’s ideas, posed the rather justified question as to who would want to leave and voluntarily give up the protection of these walls. Gregory had an explanation for that, too: Maybe there were persons on the base who were not her voluntarily.
“Are you keeping people here against their will, Master Sergeant?”
When Ray posed that question, William Pelletier’s expression suddenly changed. His eyes showed a mixture of insight and horror. He only uttered one word: “Schaefer.”
“Excuse me?” Ray asked.
“There... there was indeed someone who was allowed to move around inside the base but could not get out. He was brought here on the day of the outbreak. The officer who then commanded Fort Weeks was told that he must not be allowed to leave under any circumstances, though no explanation was ever given. He was one of hundreds who came here in the early days. Considering all the things that had to be decided and organized, I did not pay him any attention afterwards. His name was Schaefer–Dr. Schaefer.”
Ray had alarm bells going off when he heard “doctor.” “And what kind of doctor was he? I never saw a Dr. Schaefer at the hospital.”
“He is a scientist,” Pelletier whispered, struck by a sudden realization. He looked straight at Ray. “And I can imagine which company he worked for.”
Ray looked at his wristwatch. “The next communication window will open in seven hours. I want to speak with Abbadon. And with the Vice President—that is, if I am supposed to get anyone besides my family out of Sanctuary.”
18Old Acquaintances
The weather was nice. While it had been getting cooler during the past few days, the afternoon sun warmed the travelers’ faces. They were inside a dense pine forest, where they could hear hardly anything except for the idyllic twittering of birds. Meanwhile, the man wearing the baseball cap was not concerned that their two-way radios rarely picked up any signals anymore. Except for constant static and various incomprehensible snippets they couldn’t hear anything worthwhile anyways. Twice the group had tried to get batteries for their walkie-talkies, and twice they lost people in their unsuccessful attempts. In the beginning he was shocked to see how little effect these losses had on him, but these people did not mean anything to him. He led a group of survivors, but he led it reluctantly. They had simply joined him. To be exact, he only cared for Danny and Pam—and recently for that pretty woman who had just become part of the group. Her name was Jane, and even in these hard times, she often managed a smile. Her son, though–that snotty brat Sam–was someone he could do without and would like to be rid of as soon as possible. He hoped time would help him put an end to this pain in the ass. Every day there were unexpected events. Most of these surprises, though, cost human lives instead of leading to a kegger with pizza. Duke Powell looked over his shoulder to see whether the group was keeping up with him. Their goal was still several miles away, but it was understood by all of them it had to be this town. Sanctuary. Salvation–if you believed in that crap. Duke was known for his pragmatic attitude and did not care much for pie in the sky beliefs. Then he stepped
up the pace. He wanted to get there in a few hours.
“Danny,” he snapped, “get them to walk faster. I don’t like this forest at all. I don’t want any further casualties. We‘re running low on people to carry our supplies.”
The thin man wearing glasses came to his side. He was short and angular, and the grim existence of the past few weeks had made him even more wiry. Danny was carrying a kind of spear, a sturdy tool for picking up leaves, with a metal tip he had sharpened. By now he was amazingly good at aiming it at eye sockets. Danny cleared his throat.
“Let them have some rest, Duke. There are older people and kids. They‘ve reached their limits of endurance.”
Under normal circumstances, Duke would have been angry about this implied criticism, but Danny Black had earned his respect and had proven himself useful dozens of times. Scrawny Danny had turned out to be tough as leather. He knew a lot about electronics and could sometimes–given the right tools–repair broken weapons and machinery. Danny knew all of this stuff because he had been writing his thesis for an M.A. in Engineering when the plague broke out. Duke had found this out during one of the many conversations the two of them had during their time together. In spite of this, Danny was not the type to brag about his knowledge or his abilities. Duke liked his modest nature.
Behind them, Pam was coming up. The woman had gathered her long blonde hair in a bun, and Danny always seemed awkward around her. Duke slowed down to see how the rest of the group was doing. Pamela Wilson used to model for nationally-known fashion catalogs, and her body showed it. She wasn’t exactly Duke’s type, but he could understand why Danny acted like a complete drooling idiot whenever she was around. Pam carried an old Beretta with silencer in her belt. They had found it in a gun store whose safe Danny had cracked. Danny had also skillfully turned two simple pieces into another highly effective weapon: He had separated the blade of an axe from the wooden handle and had inserted a long railroad spike instead. This made the weapon easier to handle, and it was also perfect for piercing brains.
Evolution Z (Book 3): Stage Three Page 7
