by JE Gurley
She shrugged. “I don’t know. It certainly prevents spores from entering the lungs, but we just don’t know enough about the mechanism of infection to determine exactly how effective it is. A biohazard suit is best, but …”
“But we can’t suit up everyone,” the general finished for her. He nodded. “I see. Thank you for your input.”
“General, if you insist on using the airport as your HQ, you should at least filter all sources of air; make the building as airtight as possible. Thoroughly wash any fresh fruit or vegetables. Canned food is best.”
“Cooking the food doesn’t render the fungus inactive?”
“Some spores can survive intense heat and radiation. It would be best to take no chances.”
“Doctor Henry, if you would please get with your colleagues and let me know what equipment you need, I would like you to set up a lab here to investigate this disease and find some way to stop it.”
“I can’t seem to reach the CDC by phone. If you could fly me to Atlanta, the CDC has…”
“The CDC is gone, doctor.”
Marli’s faced paled at the general’s news. She slumped in her seat. Her lips trembled as she asked, “Gone? How?”
“Some fool made a mistake and allowed the fungus samples he was studying to escape. Another fool decided that simple quarantine was not effective enough. Bottom line – two 500-pound bombs were dropped on the CDC headquarters late this afternoon. The building and two square blocks surrounding it were obliterated.”
“You … you bombed the CDC?”
“Not me, Doctor Henry. The colonel involved has been, er, replaced. It was a futile effort of course. The disease had already reached Atlanta by then. The southern suburbs near the Hartsfield-Jackson Airport is in chaos.”
Kyle feared that the shock might prove too much for Marli to endure, but once again, she proved more capable than he had expected. If she continued surpassing his expectations in this manner, he would have to change his opinion of her.
“If it survived, most of the equipment we need is already here in the mobile lab we set up, but I want complete assurance from you that we will be protected.”
“We’ll move your equipment inside the building.”
“No, General, we’ll need someplace apart from the terminal. The risks of exposure are too great.”
“Will a hangar or a nearby building do?”
She nodded.
“Excellent. I’ll see to the arrangements.” He turned to Kyle. “Do you wish to return to your unit, the Special Investigation Squad? I can have transportation for you within the hour.”
It was a temptation to return to the job he knew, but he had made a promise to Marli. In reality, he could do very little as a cop in circumstances such as this. The situation had passed beyond the scope of local authority. The military now had control.
“No, I’ll stay with Doctor Henry and help out any way I can.”
She favored him with a smile. “Thank you.”
“Doctor, if you need anything, contact Captain Lowery, my aide. He will be your liaison. If you have nothing else, I have a lot to get done and a short time in which to do it.”
They both rose. The general’s aide quickly ushered them out of the office. The enticing aroma of cooking food drifted down the corridor. A rumbling in his stomach reminded Kyle that he hadn’t eaten in hours.
“I’m starving. Let’s eat.”
Marli looked at him as if he were joking. Her mind was already working on solutions to the problem. She was eager to get started. “Now?”
“Starving isn’t going to help. Besides, I’ve been eating that swill you call food for the past four days. I could do with a cup of coffee and something with some flavor.”
“All right.”
Few people sat at the white-linen decorated tables. There was no wait staff. A burly private in camouflage fatigues greeted them as they entered. He spoke with a Brooklyn accent.
“Sit anywhere you like. The menu’s limited. We’ve got vegetable soup, roasted chicken with basil mashed potatoes and steamed vegetables, baked pompano with rice pilaf, or a T-bone steak with mashed or baked potato. If I were you, I’d go for the T-bone. The cook treats chicken like it was his mother-in-law, and the fish don’t look too healthy.”
Kyle glanced at Marli. She nodded.
“A steak then, medium rare, and a baked potato with sour cream.”
“I’ll just have some soup, please.”
“Lots of coffee,” Kyle added. “Is the bar open?”
“You kiddin’? The first thing the general did was lock up the booze.” He leaned closer, glanced around the room, and whispered in a conspiratorial tone, “There might be a bottle or two of cooking wine in the kitchen. I’ll check.”
They chose a table by the widow, looking out onto the runways with it silent rows of ghostly jets outlined by the moonlight. The horizon glowed from fires in the city, painting the underbelly of clouds with an orange tint. If not for the loss of life, it would have been a surreal, almost beautiful sight.
“I can’t believe the CDC is gone,” Marli said. “All my friends ….” She stared out the window, but Kyle believed she saw something different from what he observed. She was reading the future, as one might divine omens from wisps of smoke or the entrails of a sacrifice. He wondered what future she saw. The one he imagined was bleak and filled with death.
“It won’t be the first stupid blunder the military makes. Can you set up a lab capable of creating a vaccine or a cure?”
She nodded. “Maybe, if we have the right equipment. It depends on who survived. I should be there now with my team.”
The corporal interrupted their conversation as he brought a plate draped with a large, thick-cut steak, a baked potato, and green beans, and set it in front of Kyle. The enticing aroma made Kyle’s mouth water. He placed a large bowl of soup before Marli. The corporal then produced a bottle of Gnarly Head pinot noir from beneath a napkin.
“This red is mild with a hint of cherry and vanilla, but it can stand up to the robust flavor of the steak.”
He poured a splash into Kyle’s glass and stood back. Kyle, while no connoisseur, had observed others sample wines. He swirled the glass, sniffed the bouquet, and took a sip. The flavor was lighter than he had expected. He smiled and nodded his approval. The corporal filled their glasses.
“You seem to know a lot about wines,” he said to the corporal.
“Nah, the cook told me what to say. I’m a beer man.” He spun on his heels and left them to their meal.
“He has no clue about what’s happening,” Kyle said of the retreating corporal.
“I wish I didn’t,” Marli replied.
Kyle attacked his steak with gusto, his first real meal in days. After the tasteless food served in quarantine, it was a veritable feast. Marli didn’t share his appetite. She toyed with her soup, plying her spoon around the bowl as if rowing. She performed an intricate dance but brought very few spoonfuls of soup to her mouth. He refrained from admonishing her. Her thoughts lay elsewhere. In the distance, an explosion briefly illuminated the city’s skyline. The fires were growing larger. He watched her shudder and turn away from the window.
“Can you find a vaccine or a cure for this …” He waved his fork in the air as he struggled to find the proper word. “… this thing?”
“I don’t know. Without the CDC …” She sighed. “We can try.” She reached down and touched the mask dangling around her neck. “The simple act of removing these in order to eat might infect us. There aren’t enough full bio suits for everyone, and people can’t wear masks all the time. The spores can be anywhere – in the food, in the water, or simply on something we touch. Except in completely sealed environments, no one will be safe.”
“We’ll adjust.”
She pushed her plate farther away from her. Some of the untouched soup sloshed from the bowl into the plate. “I can’t eat.” She rose from her seat. “I need to check on my colleagues.”
&
nbsp; Kyle pushed his chair back. “I’ll come with you.”
“No. You finish your meal. After I see who’s still alive, I think I’ll get some sleep. I’m very tired.”
Her brush off stung, but he shrugged it off. It wasn’t the first time he had been shut down. “Uh, yeah, whatever you say. I’ll see you in the morning.”
“Yes, all right, in the morning.”
He watched her walk across the room, noticing the slight slump of her shoulders, her bowed head, and her plodding gait, as if the weight of the world were on her delicate shoulders, and then whispered to himself, “It just might be.”
He finished his meal and drank another glass of wine. As the corporal had promised, the wine was tasty. He was a little uncertain about protocol, about whether he was expected to pay since the restaurant was now operated by the military. He decided that he wasn’t. Satiated but not tired, he strolled around the concourse.
The moving sidewalks weren’t operating; nor were the escalators. Whether this was a move by the military to save energy, or just an effort to avoid laziness in the troops, the walk from the Central Terminal to the South Terminal was a long one. He encountered more activity in the South Terminal. Concourse H had been converted into a barracks area with rows of two-tiered cots replacing rows of passenger seats that had been uprooted and stacked against a wall. Most of the soldiers appeared too young to wear a uniform, looking more like a high school baseball team than ruthless killers should look. They sat in groups and talked, smoking cigarettes despite the No Smoking placards on the walls, looking at complete ease in their new environment. Only five or six wore masks over their face. Kyle shook his head sadly at their lack of discipline. Every breath they took could be killing them. A few glanced at him, but otherwise, ignored his presence.
Halfway along the South terminal, a voice yelled at him from a stairwell. He turned to see Corporal Ginson and six men trotting up the stairs. They all wore full respirators.
“Settled in yet?” Ginson asked.
“Just looking for the emergency exits,” he said.
“Too damned many, if you ask me.” Ginson’s scowl conveyed his opinion of the security arrangements. “I don’t know how the TSA managed, but then they were just looking for terrorists, not fucking zombies.”
Kyle noted the heavy weaponry the soldiers were carrying. Ginson had traded his sidearm for an M-1014 shotgun. Kyle had used the same Italian-made Beneli before, during a drug raid. It was lightweight and effective. This model was an HK American-made weapon with an extendable stock. It fired six 12-gauge shells, an excellent choice for close in fighting. The tall, wiry soldier with the black mustache carried an M-249 SAW, or Squad Automatic Weapon, capable of firing fifty 5.56 mm rounds per minute. He wore crossed belts of ammunition slung over his chest. With the bandoliers and his thick black mustache, he resembled a Mexican revolutionary. The others carried M4 carbines or M16s. This time, they were taking no chances.
“Where are you headed?” Kyle asked.
“We’re clearing out a hangar for your girl friend.”
The general works fast, he thought. “She’s not my girlfriend.”
A low whistle escaped Ginson’s lips. “You need to make a move on that. She’s a doll.”
Though he agreed with Ginson’s assessment of Marli’s appearance, he redirected the conversation. “Where are you going?”
“A hangar north of Terminal D. It’s just the right size and has its own generator.”
“Can I tag along?”
“Sure, if you want.” He nodded toward the bulge of Kyle’s Glock beneath his left armpit. “You want something bigger than that?”
The Glock19 was an excellent weapon, but didn’t have the punch he might need in a firefight. “I’ll take one of those shotguns.”
Ginson smiled. “Nice choice.” He handed his weapon to Kyle and turned to one of his men. “Futterman, go fetch me another weapon. Meet us at the south parking garage.”
Futterman dutifully trotted back down the stairs. Ginson dug a box of ammo from a belt pouch and handed it to Kyle. “You might need these.”
They waited in the garage beside the Humvee until Futterman arrived with the extra weapon for Ginson, and then sped north across the runway toward the row of hangars. Kyle spotted the scars where the CDC tents had been, now piles of torn and burned fabric. He hoped some of the lab equipment Marli needed had survived intact. Nearby, a mound of bodies smoldered, small tongues of flames still licking the cremated corpses. The odor of burned flesh was strong, a cloying stench that permeated Kyle’s clothing and passed easily through the thin cloth of his mask. He envied Ginson and the others their breathers. He was glad he hadn’t had a view of the mound from the restaurant while he was eating. As it was, his stomach rebelled slightly at the gruesome site.
Two massive C-17 Globe Masters sat on the runway where they had been parked after delivering the troops. A row of Apache and Blackhawk helicopters sat beside them. As he watched, two Apaches took off and circled the field only a couple of hundred feet above the ground. Their backwash created swirls in smoke drifting over the field, remnants of the countless fires ravaging Miami. The air stank of burning oil and buildings. A few minutes later, a burst of gunfire erupted near the eastern edge of the field. Kyle hoped their target was fungus head zombies and not some poor schmuck trying to reach safety. From the air, all targets looked the same, and the military was taking no chances.
The Humvee pulled up in front of a 40,000-square foot metal building. The large sliding metal door was open and the cavernous interior was dark. The Humvee’s headlights illuminated nothing, quickly swallowed by the inky blackness within. In spite of the plethora of armed men surrounding him, the hangar’s interior spooked him. Entering a darkened building possibly full of hostiles was the most dangerous threat a cop faced.
Ginson, too, seemed perturbed by the lack of visibility. “Stay sharp, men,” he called out. “Walters, find the light switch.”
Walters disappeared into the building. A loud clang echoed from the opening, followed by, “Sorry, tripped over a stool.” Two minutes passed with Ginson pacing nervously. “I can’t find the damn thing.” Walters bellowed.
“Damn,” Ginson muttered. He motioned for the others to enter and fan out. Kyle stepped through the entrance and immediately hugged the wall just inside the door, listening for sounds. All he heard was the scuffle of booted feet on concrete and his own rapid heartbeat. The lights flashed on as Walters finally located the light switch. Kyle blinked until his pupils became accustomed to the sudden brightness. A white Gulfstream jet dominated the cavernous interior space. Kyle recognized it as a G-150 model, from a poster on the wall beside him depicting a series of Gulfstreams. The cowling was off the starboard engine and parts lay scattered around the floor. The same poster described the Honeywell TFE 731-40AR engine as one of the most reliable in the field. It didn’t look too reliable now in pieces with a puddle of oil on the floor beneath it. One of Ginson’s men climbed the retractable steps and entered the jet. He emerged a few minutes later and yelled, “Empty.” He stopped at the puddle that Kyle had assumed to be oil, knelt beside it, and exclaimed, “Blood.”
“Keep your eyes open,” Ginson warned.
Two corner areas partitioned by opaque plastic drapes provided potential hiding places. Kyle picked one to check out and Ginson the other. Kyle’s area was a small, but well-equipped machine shop with a heavy lathe, a milling machine, a drill press, and a long workbench. An overturned toolbox lying next to a pool of dried blood drew his attention. His nerves began to tingle as he scanned the spaces behind the machines. Drops of blood led away from the toolbox to an open rear door. A pool of light spilled from the door. Crates, dumpsters, and several vehicles offered several places for zombies to lurk. Moving carefully, wishing he had called for backup, he probed the area around the rear entrance. He found the body a dozen paces from the door beside one of the trucks. The man was obviously dead, his throat savaged and his green overalls
drenched in blood. Flies buzzed around the corpse. Kyle could do nothing for him. He retraced his steps, locking the door behind him.
“A storage area,” Ginson said, as he hitched his thumb at the area he had just investigated.
“I found a body outside,” Kyle reported. “He might be the source of the blood. I locked the door.” He nodded toward the one-story cinderblock building nestled inside the hangar against the front wall. “Shall we take a look?”
“Futterman, Riley!” Ginson called. “Guard the front entrance. The rest of you follow me.”
Walters once again took point and opened the door. The door scraped a fluorescent light dangling from the ceiling and sent it swinging. One bulb was missing and the other flickered like a strobe light, casting eerie reflections from glass-covered photographs of jets hanging on the wall. Walters’ boots crunched the shattered bulb into powder as he stepped on it. A bathroom with a shower just off the hallway was empty, as was a small break room. A pot of cold coffee rested on the counter beside a coffee maker, and a half-empty box of stale doughnuts sat on the table, along with three cups. These two rooms, plus two offices and a storage room took up most of the space of the building. So far, the building was clear. Double doors led to the front room.
Walters pushed through the doors into the darkened room and immediately stumbled backwards, as two crazed fungus heads fell upon him, pummeling him with their fists and snarling like wild animals. His first shots went wild, chipping concrete from the walls and punching holes through the acoustic-tiled drop ceiling. He fell with one of the creatures on top of him. His next burst caught the zombie in the side, but it ignored the savage wound, ripped off Walters’ mask, and attacked the downed man’s face and shoulder with its claws and teeth. Walters screamed in agony as the creature ripped a chunk of flesh from his shoulder.
Kyle fired his shotgun from the hip, cutting the remaining fungus head almost in half. It crashed backwards through the doorway and lay still. Ginson kicked the second zombie in the head, rolling it off Walters, who was bleeding profusely from cuts on his face and lip, and a bite to his shoulder. Walters and the creature were too entangled for Ginson to use his weapon. Instead, he took out his knife and stabbed the creature in the throat. It gurgled as blood spilled from its mouth, its arms spasmodically reaching toward Ginson until it bled to death and collapsed.
