Stationed in Germany, Sgt. Mann and his family were moved to the United Kingdom when the United States committed some of its European-based soldiers to border and watering hole patrols.
Sgt. Mann worked both.
He was glad that power was restored to the western portion of the UK, but that brought in more refugees. The influx was under way, but where to send the people was the question.
Cruise ships were being used to house refugees, and Sgt. Mann couldn’t help but think those people had it best.
Water, cool air.
The heat wave was stifling, and sitting in idling cars didn’t help.
The refugees were all from France. Survivors of the Paris flare were traveling into Calais and taking the ferry through the Strait of Dover into the UK.
They were coming by the thousands. Extra ferries were added, but that still didn’t help the wait.
There was no power in France, and in the heat wave it proved to be too much.
Although the Paris flare destroyed Paris, France, it scorched much of the countryside in the process.
A surveillance plane flying over the outskirts of Paris could see bodies where they dropped from the oxygen being sucked out of the air.
But that wasn’t what was officially posted on the Apocalypse blog ring started by some fiction writer. People would post what they saw or experienced on the blog ring, and people like Sgt. Mann’s wife would read it faithfully.
There were things he believed to be true, and other things he didn’t think could hold water.
Water.
He hoped he was on the watering hole duty the next day.
The shortage of fresh water coupled with the heat wave caused the UK to establish watering holes where people went and got cooled off. It was recommended to visit them at sundown.
Being on watering hole duty meant being in the water.
It was better than standing in line, checking cars.
Where did they come from, where were they going, check their papers, etc . . . .
Sgt. Mann was just about ready to return from his ten-minute break. He called his wife whom had hadn’t seen since they arrived.
“Paris had rain today,” she told him. “It rained hard.”
“All that smoke, bound to cause something.”
“Yeah, now it’s steam. It put out a lot of fires, they say. And they think they’ll be able to get in and rescue. God, it feels good to have internet and television back.’
He said ‘I bet’, spoke a bit more about their daughter, informed her he’d be seeing her soon, and returned to his break.
He held new orders in his hand, orders that came via a note.
He was to report any incident out of the norm, no matter how small it seemed, if it was not of the norm, he was to email the incident details to General Myers at Project GEP.
Sgt. Mann wasn’t sure of what the GEP stood for, nor did he really care. He just wanted to do his job.
What constituted out of the ordinary was a wide open field. After all, the thought of refugees pouring into London wasn’t ordinary.
The United Kingdom freely opened its borders to refugees. This not only put the citizens on high alert for terror, it made the citizens angry.
How many protestors had they arrested for throwing things at the refugees?
Walking back to his post, Mann watched two more cars being moved from the line. The smart people shut off their ignitions and stood outside.
“Thanks,” the young British soldier said to Mann, when he was relieved. “Just in time, too.”
“What do you mean?” Mann asked.
“See that long line?” He motioned his head upward.
“Jesus,” Mann commented, the line of congested traffic had no ending.
“Ten-ten ferries. Three of them. Those folks are not gonna be happy or smell very good.”
Mann gave a curious look.
“Poor povvies been waiting for three days to get the ferry.”
“Great.”
“Good luck mate,” the soldier smiled and moved out.
Mann waved the next car through. He was one of fifteen soldiers working the lines. He asked his typical questions, checked the paper work and moved them through. He gave them the informational pamphlet provided by the government. Where they should go, what they could do to be more comfortable.
Five cars later, the line from the ten-ten ferry began to arrive.
The window wound down.
Mann caught with the air conditioned air a whiff of a putrid order, held back a cringe. “Where you coming from?” he asked the driver. An older man. The car held only his wife and children, no belongings.
“Paris.” He answered, sounding nasal.
“Paperwork.” Mann requested.
The wife handed the paper as she coughed.
“Thank you.” Mann reviewed it. After asking a few more questions, he allowed the car to pass.
Next.
The car was packed, people sitting on people. The driver intermittently coughed and sniffled during the processing. Sgt. Mann stepped back. The last thing he needed was to catch a summer cold.
Mann wished him luck, told him to take care of himself, and waved the next car forward.
It wasn’t until the car after that arrived that it struck him. Five cars in a row. All the passengers were exhibiting cold symptoms. Maybe it was his imagination, he didn’t know. But no sooner did the sixth car pull forward, and the woman driver had dark circles around her eyes and coughed, than Mann stepped back. He told the car to hold on, and while pulling forward the barricade horse, called for a replacement.
“What’s going on?” asked the soldier.
“Hold this line while I find Major James,” Sgt. Mann said and sought out the commander of the border operation.
He was in his tent on the phone. When he saw Mann he waved him in. The call ended quickly, and he asked what was up. He saw the stoppage of the line.
“It might be me being paranoid, but I halted the sixth car. Five cars in a row had sick people in it. Colds, you know. When the fifth car went through it finally rang to me. But when the sixth arrived . . . .”
“Your point?” the Major asked.
“My point is these are all refugees who were on a ferry together and waited together for two days. Maybe it’s my imagination, or maybe they have something, I don’t know. We weren’t told to look for illness but . . .”
The Major held up his hand and walked from the tent. Mann watched him. He pleasantly approached the stopped car at Mann’s line, then walked to the next line. He asked that soldier some questions and moved to the next.
The Major then made his way to his commanding officer, and whistles blew shortly after that.
Barricades were immediately set up. People honked, got out of their cars, screamed and yelled. Major James, uninhibited, walked back to the tank.
“I’m not a doctor,’ he said. “But you brought up a valid point. Thank you, Sergeant.” And he picked up the phone.
It wasn’t long after that orders were given to seal off the border. No one was allowed to pass. Gasmasks were mandatory, and until the health ministry arrived, the soldiers were to walk the line of cars and check each and every passenger for signs of illness. If they contained the ill, they were to yellow flag the car.
Mann ran out of flags. Of all the cars he checked, not one contained a well environment.
***
Darius wanted to kill his mother. Not that sleeping in the same bed with Bret didn’t have its perks, but if he had to listen to her throw up one more time he was going to scream.
And she didn’t do it quietly. She was loud, as if every ounce of her insides were painfully searing upward.
He dreaded the thought of being in the birthing room.
From the desk in the bedroom Darius looked up to a sound of up-chucking.
He was working on mathematical equations. He thought if he got up early, Bret would sleep.
Another upheaval, this one
not productive.
There she goes, he thought. Nothing in her stomach. He looked at his watch. She had four more minute of the dry heaves.
Math problem. Work . . . .
Up heave.
He dropped his pencil. “Bret, can you do that more quietly?”
Silence.
Darius smiled.
The door to the bathroom flew open. “Fuck you, Darius.”
“What?” he said shocked.
Bret shoved a cracker in her mouth. “I got sick before, but never like this.”
“You were never this old before when you got pregnant.”
She gasped and choked, needing a drink of water.
“Your body . . .”
“Are you saying I’m old?”
“Older. Older. I’m saying you’re older than you were when you gave birth before. Thirteen years make a difference.”
“So does bad sperm.”
He turned in his chair, laughing. “Did you just say bad sperm?’
“Yes.” Bret plopped on the bed, shoving another cracker in her mouth.
“So this is my fault.”
“Yes.”
“Well, tell me how it’s my fault, so I can fix it and make you either stop throwing up or put a mute button on you.”
“Like you vomit quietly?” she asked.
“Yes.” He nodded.
“Prove it.”
“What?”
“Prove it.”
“How am I gonna prove I vomit quietly.”
“Take a dose of ipecac.”
“Huh!” Darius laughed. “You’re out of your mind.”
“So now I’m loud, old and crazy.”
“I give up,” Darius said.
“So you’re not gonna argue. You’re gonna agree that you think I’m loud, old, and crazy.”
“Yes.”
Another gasp, Bret grabbed her crackers and stormed from the room.
When the door slammed, Darius smiled. “Ah, silence.” And went back to work.
***
Seventeen thousand bunk mattresses arrived at the GEP complex about the same time as the email from a Stephanie Mann. Stephanie, the wife of a soldier working the borders in London, emailed Martin at her husband’s request because he couldn’t leave the lines.
‘Some sort of illness has broken out amongst the ferry refuges from France. Thousands ill. Suspected diphtheria or typhoid,’ the email said. She went on to explain who she was and where her husband was posted guard.
Down the chain of command, they were determining what to do with the mattresses that arrived four days earlier than they should have, while Martin was tracing the email, trying to determine if indeed Ms. Mann was correct in her information.
First he called her. She told him that her husband placed a call to her. Then Martin got hold of the post and spoke directly to Sgt. Mann. Sgt. Mann confirmed he had seen the illnesses, he was currently required to wear a respirator, and the health ministry was there.
Outbreaks were to be expected, especially with refugees and dealing with large-scale major catastrophes.
Martin was surprised he hadn’t heard of illness sooner. Into the new computer program, he logged the location and marked it as a biologic occurrence.
He needed a cigarette, and while he could go to his office and smoke in the compound, he opted for fresh air, even though it took time to walk outside. Keeping his cellular phone with him, Martin made his way from the mountainside compound.
Lighting his smoke, he stepped out into the bright sun. He probably wouldn’t have thought twice about it had he not received the email from Stephanie Mann.
“No, you go on,” the construction supervisor said to one of his crew. “Get some rest. Get well.”
After a long hit, Martin exhaled and walked over to the supervisor. “Everything okay with your man?”
“Yeah. Yeah, just a bit of a cold that got him down.”
Martin nodded. “Anyone else sick on the crew.”
“No, not at all, General.”
Paranoia, Martin thought. He guessed he was just paranoid after hearing about the thousands ill in London. Walking back over to his smoking spot, Martin brought his hand to his mouth. It was as he was about to take a hit of his cigarette that he saw it perched on his index finger.
Usually a bug on him would cause him to shuck his hand or smash the insect, but not this one. Not yet.
Moving more into the sun, Martin brought his hand closer. Sure enough, it was the type of insect he suspected.
What baffled him was the fact, that this particular insect wasn’t usually prevalent after June. And that worried Martin. Most people wouldn’t think twice about the insect. Most people wouldn’t know. It wasn’t just the matter of it being the insect oddly prevalent, the insect made something else prevalent.
He stared at the insect, the flea, or rather, Siphonaptera which perched arrogantly upon his skin. Bold, ready to attack, bite, take in some blood. Martin wouldn’t allow that, especially knowing that the Siphonaptera was the number one carrier and cause of the bubonic plague.
***
He didn’t look like a scientist, and Darius figured he’d have to do something about that before they went to the conference; Darius needed Mark Pyle to be there. He had never met someone with so much knowledge of nuclear science.
But those at the conference would and could be somewhat ignorant of scientific knowledge, considering most were congressman.
Mark Pyle sounded as if he went to the Luke School of Linguistics, using words like, ‘dude’, ‘whoa’, ‘sweet’, and ‘snap’.
He wasn’t a young man, but he wasn’t old either; maybe thirty, a boy genius, accelerated through his schooling. His hair was rock star long. Not eighties rock star; it was shoulder length, dark. He was thin. Any more weight loss and he’d look like an addict.
Darius had a week to add weight to him.
And the tattoos. Of course he didn’t have normal tattoos. He had Einstein equations all over him.
“What about a PowerPoint demonstration?” Darius asked, overlooking Mark’s laptop.
“PowerPoint?”
“It’s a program that . . .”
“Dude, I know PowerPoint,” Mark said, “but why?”
“We need something effective.”
“I can make effective,” Mark stated. “Seriously. I can.”
“But the Army really likes its PowerPoint, so I would assume so would Congress.”
“If we do Flash or a mini-movie.” Mark nodded and winked. “It can hit home. Add a little background soundtrack.”
Darius smiled. “From Armageddon, maybe?”
“Yeah. We’ll take shots from my simulation.”
“You have a simulation program?”
“Sort of, it’s almost finished. Will be tomorrow.”
“Excellent.” Darius clenched his fist, excitedly.
“Dude, wait until you see the results. I’ll show the ice age, the blasts, the stopping, you name it.”
“Can you show what will happen if we let the magnetic reversals continue?”
Mark nodded. “Absolutely.”
“This is going to be so cool. Are you . . . are you sure we can’t be more effective using PowerPoint?”
“More effective than a movie with a soundtrack.” Mark fanned out his hand. “Imagine the faces when they see the facts, hear the strong background music, then see . . . the destruction. They may puke.”
Across the room, Bret’s voice entered the room. “Oh my God, are you talking about cholera?”
After shifting his eyes to Mark, Darius looked up. “What are you talking about?”
“Cholera,” Bret answered. “You’re talking about what’s sweeping Europe, right?”
Mark looked up inquisitively. “Cholera is sweeping Europe?”
Nonchalantly, Darius nodded. “Yeah, and typhoid, and . . . um . . . ." he snapped his fingers. “What the fuck did they just discover a couple hours ago?”
Aghast,
Bret answered, “Diphtheria.”
Another snap of his fingers and Darius nodded. “Yeah, diphtheria.”
“God, you’re so insensitive,” Bret said.
“How am I being insensitive?” Darius asked.
Smugly Bret imitated Darius, and snapped her fingers dramatically. “What’s that disease? Oh, yeah, diphtheria.”
“It doesn’t affect me,” Darius claimed.
“It might. What if . . .”
“Bret, sweetie, I’m busy,” Darius said.
Bret gasped. “Remind me not to come to you the next time I’m fearful that something is wrong with me.”
“What?” Darius asked. “Is something wrong?”
“I think I have cholera," Bret said.
Darius stared, nodded once, said, ‘Uh huh,’ exhaled and looked down to the computer.
“You dick.”
Mark laughed.
“Bret, you’re pregnant,” Darius said. “You don’t have cholera. If you’re fearful, call the doctor.”
“I will.”
“Let me know what he says.” Darius chuckled when she stormed out.
Mark snickered. “Congrats on the baby.”
“Thanks. I can’t wait.”
“Check this out,” Mark said. “I made a mini-presentation for the day of the ice age coming. See what you think.” He clicked the mouse and the movie window opened up.
The music began to play, softly. Then the words read. ‘Fifty thousand years ago, the earth went silent.’
The music stopped and a howling wind eerily echoed though the speakers.
Darius grinned. “Oh this is good. Really good.”
“Has impact, huh?” Mark asked.
“Fucking right. We’re gonna blow them away.”
Darius watched with excitement, snickering and grinning over the grizzly computerized image of the world freezing over.
The second the movie stopped, Colin announced his presence with a verbal, “Knock-knock.”
Darius rose from his leaning position. “Oh hey, Colin. How’s everything.”
“Good. Got a pizza. Want some?” Colin asked.
“Yeah, in a second,” Darius answered “Hey, you know Mark.”
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