He only took a moment to gather a few things on his desk before heading to the conference call. There had been a package on his desk, he hadn’t recognized the name on it, and therefore put it off until later. Mr. Foley ran out of his office and jogged across the building.
On the other side he walked up a short flight of steps up into the conference room. There were only three technicians designated for a level 5 contagion spread, all of them were waiting for him. The second he saw their faces his heart leapt into his throat. He scanned his security badge at the door and waited for the light to turn green. As soon as he stepped into the room one of them spoke up.
“He’s here General.” The bald man in the white lab coat said.
“Good, let’s begin.” The General’s voice came from over the phone. “Mr. Foley?”
“Yes. Yes sir?” He said fumbling his papers and pulling out a desk chair.
“Did you receive a package on your desk this morning?” The General asked.
“Yes. I didn’t have time to open it. Do I need it?” Mr. Foley asked stopping halfway to sitting down.
“No. I have already uploaded my copy. Mr. Nelson if you would?” One of the other men with a lab coat stood up and leaned over pressing a button on the projector. A white box appears on the wall at the end of the room, and the lights are dimmed.
A video camera turns on, shuffling can be heard off camera. The room looks to be a normal living room with a grey stone fireplace in the background. Above the mantle is a landscape picture of deer grazing in a meadow. In the forefront is a grey recliner with a small brown table next to it. A man in a blue pinstripe suit walks into view from the right side of the screen, disturbing the camera as he passes by. He is a middle-aged man of a thin build and greying hair. His frame is small and meek, though his eyes have an intensity that most find unsettling.
He sets some papers down on the side table, takes a moment to adjust his tie, and sits down in the grey recliner. His face is thin, almost emaciated, and his nose slightly pointy. His thinning brown hair is falling into his face on one side. He pushes the hair out of his face and leans over and retrieving the papers from the side table. He takes a moment, pushing the hair out of his face, and looks down at the notes for a moment. Taking a deep breath, the looks up into the camera appearing slightly nervous as he clears his throat.
“My name is Doctor Robert Palmieri, formerly of the MIT department of Biological Engineering, and this is my . . . manifesto.” He clears his throat again and shuffles the papers in front of him.
“Some will call me evil for what I have created, some may call me mad, but there will be some, who will call me a hero, a visionary, a patriot.” He leans forward in his chair, his gaze intensifying on the camera.
“It took nearly seven years of research, and the expenditure of the fortunes of several very wealthy men to bring my dream to fruition. The brain is a very complex and mysterious thing, but when you break it down into what each little portion of the brain does, it all became very clear. With a properly engineered virus, you can shutdown logic sensors, emotion, even pain, or rational thought. You can essentially rewire the brain section by section, with the right virus infecting the right nerve centers.”
“My gift to you, to this planet is a slow moving, multifaceted pathogen that would begin blood borne, then will mutate to all human fluids. The brilliance of it is that in its original state the symptoms should present similar your average flu prior to the second stage mutation. With an incubation period up to a week before it begins effecting the brain.” Dr. Palmieri sets down the papers on the side table and stares at the camera lens for a moment before continuing.
“So, to all that are listening, I have created the zombie virus, I released that virus four days ago at Chicago O’Hare International airport. The rejuvenation of humanity has begun.”
The screen went black, the three men in the white lab coats looked to Kirk Foley. He sat with his mouth agape. No one spoke for several moments.
“Foley?” The General came over the intercom. “What do you have to say?”
“What do I say? What do you want me to say? If this is true, then there is no containment. If this man has truly released this virus at O’Hare four days ago, there is no quarantine. You’re talking about millions of infected spread out all over the world.”
“That is not an acceptable answer Mr. Foley.” The General said.
“What would you have me do? Send a garrison to every report of infection?” He said sarcastically.
“Yes!” General Grover yells and hangs up the phone. The three men have not stopped looking at their boss, and it’s beginning to make Kirk Foley’s blood boil.
“You heard him!” He yelled jumping out of his chair. The three men responded in kind exiting the room quickly. “Go! Do it! Every report of infection!” He yelled after them as they walked briskly down the stairs. Kirk Foley walked around the corner of the table and pressed the button on the projector to play the message again.
Boulder Colorado
Friday, August 15th 12:02 PM
About halfway through her cigarette Dr. Meadows comes out the front door looking a little frazzled.
“Time to come inside Gwen, you too young, man, you should come with us as well.”
“Me?” The young man asked puzzled.
“You have news Doctor?” Gwen asked. Her heart was pounding in her chest.
“Um, yes, I just got a very troublesome phone call . . . from the CDC.”
“The CDC? Why? About me?”
“Yes, about you, about all of us.”
“What do you?” Doctor Meadows put his hand up to stop her.
“Gwen, you have some kind of infection. One I’ve never seen before, but it is . . . Well, they said that all of us should remain inside to prevent any spread.”
“Spread, you mean we’ve been quarantined?”
“Yes, I do believe so, I think they should be arriving any moment.” Dr. Meadows proceeded to usher them through the glass door and up the stairs peering over his shoulder the whole time.
Gwen flopped down into a chair in the waiting room, her face ashen her mind spinning, her heart racing. The young man was pacing across the floor like a caged animal. He stopped abruptly and stared out the window, his mouth agape. Gwen followed his gaze rising up to look out the window to the parking lot. She watched as soldiers poured out of several personnel carriers. She watched as they began setting up blockades, as they ran a length of razor wire across the parking lot. Watched soldiers scurry around the sides of the building out of sight.
Other patents had joined them staring out the window. A woman in her fifties with bright red hair and a button up flower shirt was the first to break the silence.
“Jesus would you look at that, looks like a whole army battalion out there.” She turns away from the window and takes a seat, rummaging through her purse “I need to call my husband. He needs to know that, there. . .” She stops mid-sentence seeing the doctor standing the doorway. “Dr. Meadows, do you know what all this is about?” She motions to the window behind her. The rest of the patents turn to face the doctor.
“If you would all take a seat for a moment. I’m afraid I have some news.” Most of them comply taking seats facing the doctor. There are fifteen patients, not counting the three small children playing in the corner. “I’ve received a call from the CDC about thirty minutes ago.” There was an immediate flurry of questions from the other side of the room. Dr. Meadows raises his hand and waits patiently for the commotion to calm. A few moments later the chaos subsides and the doctor resumes speaking. “For those of you that may not know, the CDC is the center for disease control, and the only thing I know right now is that we may potentially be infected with some sort of virus.” Another ripple of commotion from the patients. The doctor waits patiently for them to calm down again. “We must remain in the building until further notice to avoid any spread.” A man in a flannel shirt steps in front of the doctor.
�
�How long is this supposed to take, I have other things I need to do today? They can’t do this to us.”
“David, listen, we just have to sit tight, I’m sure there is nothing to worry about, we just have to stay here until they can get some other doctors here to run some tests. I’ve never personally been involved in a situation like this, but I wouldn’t count on going home any time soon.”
“My cell phone just stopped working.” The woman with the red hair said with some panic in her voice. “I was just talking to my husband, and the call dropped, and look, see, now I have no service bars.” Several others took out their respective cell phones to find that none of them had a signal either.
“Jesus doc” David said looking very concerned “Thought you said there was nothing to worry about. They don’t block cell reception unless they want to make sure you’re cut off from the world, so you don’t start a panic or something” As if on cue, the television switched to static.
“They can’t do this, isn’t this illegal, to keep someone imprisoned like this?” The redheaded woman yelled.
“I’m afraid it’s not dear.” Dr. Meadows interjected. “When it comes to stemming the tide of a virus, I’m afraid that human rights take a back seat for the safety of the masses.” He took a tissue from his front pocket and wiped his brow. They could all see that he was terrified. As much as he tried to hide it, it oozed out of him.
Jennifer the nurse called out from behind the counter. “The regular phones don’t work either doctor.”
As the hours passed the sun faded into the distance over the Rocky Mountains. There was some idle nervous chit chat in the waiting room, but no one really said what they were all thinking. None of them were ever going to make it out of here. They talked about their lives, their families, sports, anything to attempt to distract them from their current situation. No one slept, except Gwen, who was snoring loudly sleeping in what looked to be a very uncomfortable position.
Friday
August 16th, 0200 hours
42nd United States Army Reserve - Garrison duty
Private Bret Marsden stands behind a green personnel carrier smoking a cigarette. He had just turned nineteen but had the face of a sixteen-year-old. The night was thick with humidity, not very common for Colorado. Standing on a quiet street in what could only be described as a commercial area of the city, the only sound in the air is that of the bugs and what appeared to be one lone frog somewhere in the distance. The temperature had peaked in the mid-nineties today, and the soldiers had received orders to keep their respirators on at all times. It had been a miserable evening by all accounts. Almost twelve hours on scene, and there were no new orders as to how long they were supposed to hold this line. The only orders received came in a little after 1:00 PM. The orders gave this address and very simple yet explicit instructions. No one in, no one out, lethal force authorized. Private Marsden knew he was supposed to be wearing his M25A1 protective mask along with his battle dress over garment, as there may be a biological contaminant involved. He had decided to sneak away and had removed his mask for a much-needed smoke.
Captain Earnest E. Horn, who was completely covered by his protective gear, rounded the corner to see his Private without his protective gear on and made straight for him.
“Private Marsden, what the hell do you think you’re doing without your mask on?” His voice muffled though authoritative through his mask.
“Sir, I’m sorry sir, I needed a cigarette sir.”
“You will put your mask back on and you will keep it there until the time you are ordered to remove it, am I clear Private?”
“Chrystal Sir!” The private stomped out his cigarette and put his mask back on. “Sir, any word on what we are supposed to be doing here?”
“Were doing it private. Garrison duty, no one in no one out.”
“I know that sir, but why?” Private Marsden asked as he pulled his mask back onto his face.
“Our job is to follow orders, not to ask why. That‘s for the brass to figure out. Move out, back to your post.”
Suddenly shuffling and yelling can be heard from the other side of the truck. Private Marsden slaps his mask onto his face and chases after Captain Horn who is already rounding the side of the truck.
“We’ve got inbound, multiple subjects!” one soldier yells
“Fire, fire, fire!” Another soldier yells. Private Marsden rounds the corner to see Captain Horn already in a crouched position in front of the truck. Across the parking lot there are dozens of people sprinting from the front of the building. Most of them look sick. Several are bleeding. Gunfire erupts all around them. Gwen Harris can be seen in the middle of the pack, her face drooping oddly, her face, and blouse are covered in blood. Her right arm is bent at an unnatural angle. A bullet passes through her chest causing her to turn and stumble, but she continues on. Moments later a bullet smashes into her left eye, and she falls dramatically to the ground. The woman in the flower shirt is at her left, there is a long gash along her cheek running down onto her neck. Her nose appears to be broken, it lies flat against her face and is dripping profusely with blood. Several bullets tear through her arms and chest, but she runs through them with little more than a twitch.
Private Marsden assumed his respective position next to Captain Horn behind the barricade. Captain Horn stops, confused, he looks down the line and the young men under his command, and sees several faces with the same confused look that he imagines himself wearing. These men and women are running across the parking lot towards soldiers armed with machine guns without fear. The bullets are tearing through their flesh, breaking bone, spilling their blood, but it wasn’t stopping them. Very few are falling, all the logical processes of his mind can’t find any rational to what his eyes are showing him. Then he sees the answer, like a light bulb bursting to life inside his mind, but it couldn’t be. His mind strains to reject this idea as fiction but looking at the mangled faces the bullets tearing through bodies. People that run through pain, fear, and self-preservation. All semblances of logic vanish.
“Shoot em in the head!” Captain Horn yells down the line. He turns and looks down the other side, “Aim for the head!” Recognition to follow this order takes too long. Some adjust their aims, and the flood of humanity begins to fall, faster and faster. The barricade breaks, a large man in a flannel shirt launches himself over the razor wire, his mouth agape. His face lands squarely on the neck of a young soldier, his eyes wide with terror and pain through his protective mask. The young men around him begin to shuffle and turn trying to scurry away. They try to fire, but they too are overwhelmed as the flood of humanity rushes headlong through the razor wire cutting large gashes in their own flesh. Unflinching, they slam headlong through the barricades overwhelming the young soldiers.
Captain Horn watches in horror and disbelief as he watches Private Lewis, an 18-year-old kid, get a chunk of flesh bitten off his face. He watches as another young man in a brown shirt with a gash in his chest so deep that bone can be seen, sunk his teeth into another soldier’s arm. He turned and fired taking down the man. But to his complete surprise, Private Lewis gets back to his feet, blood still streaming from his face and neck. He turns and begins aiding the attacking horde in killing his fellow servicemen. Captain Horn couldn’t believe what his eyes were seeing, he continued firing, one headshot after another, but there were just too many, a young boy who had been shot several times in the legs had drug itself through the base of the blockade and sunk his teeth into the right calf of Captain Horn tearing a chunk of flesh in his mouth. Captain Horn yelled out, looking down in shock, seeing a young child, his eyes blank and wild, a chunk of flesh, fabric, and skin hanging from his mouth and blood streaming down his chin. Captain Horn put a bullet through his head as he was hit from the other side and lost his footing. His brain was flooded with signals of searing pain from all over his body before the world went dark.
Boulder Colorado, Boulder Community Hospital
Friday, August 16th, 3:10 AM
MST
Dr. Andrea Martin sits back in her office chair letting loose and exhausted moan. It was her first time off her feet in hours and going on her 18th hour at the hospital. Her normally docile emergency room at Boulder Community Hospital, where she is a 3rd year resident, had been jammed to the brim with patients since early this afternoon. Most of which were all displaying similar fever like symptoms, her only reasonable suspicion at this point is a virus of unknown origins. Her brain was a frazzled mess, as was the rest of her. Her sandy blonde hair which was once in a neat pony tail has become a rat’s nest, she pulls her black rimmed glasses off her face and leans back in her chair rubbing her temples.
“Dr. Martin?” A tall thin black man with greying hair and powder blue scrubs sticks his head through the door. “We just got three more, where do you want me to put them.”
“Were out of beds Cliff, they’re going to have to stay in the waiting room for the time being.”
“Any word yet?”
“No, and I don’t think we’re going to get one tonight. I called Chief Brennan almost three hours ago, and I haven’t heard back yet. I put a call into the CDC as well, but there was just a recorded message telling me to leave a voicemail. And I’ll tell you Cliff that scares me more than anything.”
“What about Denver Metro?”
“Same shit there, it seems to be everywhere, I’ve never seen anything like this before.”
“None of us have ma’am. And I’ve been here almost twenty years.”
The Z Strain Page 2
