Turning Point (Book 3): A Time To Live

by Wandrey, Mark

  “I was duty-bound to assume command. When you are a soldier, you do what the job requires, not what you want to do.” He looked to both sides and saw dozens of soldiers, his soldiers, nodding in agreement. “I found out what had been happening here as events unfolded.”

  He took a minute to lay it all out, knowing many of those listening were hearing it for the first time. He told how Clark, Bisdorf, and others had figured out the alien drive and used it to get Shangri-La off the ground, only to have Shangri-La coopted by Governor Taylor with the help of Groves. He told how Taylor saw Cobb’s arrival as a threat to her power, and through Groves, tried to kill him. He told how she was going to have her state troopers outright assassinate him when the subtle attempt didn’t work. He heard audible gasps and cursing from the crowd.

  “We turned the tables on her after Paul admitted what was going on.” He explained that Taylor was holding many hostages to ensure their loyalty. “I tried to get her to surrender and see the reality of the situation. She decided to fight, and she paid with her life and her men’s lives.”

  Cobb paused and let that sink in before continuing. “More than a few helped former governor Taylor. Among them was Hans Daimler.” He glanced back at the German who looked indifferent. “He is the man who figured out the very technology that made this place possible. There was also Amelia, who used her so-called Angels to help Taylor perpetrate her hostage scheme, all in the name of helping ensure no infected came aboard.

  “We tried to catch her, however she must have been tipped off, because she and a dozen of her helpers managed to escape in one of the sky-barges.” Cobb had been disappointed to hear about her escape. At the same time, he thought it was okay. More than enough had already died for Taylor’s ambitions. “This means there are still people here who are against me. That’s fine. I’m not in charge of Shangri-La.”

  “Who is?” someone yelled.

  “I’m turning it back over to those who started it.” Cobb turned. “At least to some of them.” He glanced at Daimler and shook his head. “Clark and Bisdorf will be in charge, until there is an election. We’re the military. We follow the orders of a civilian leader. For now, it’ll be whoever you choose. At least until someone in the order of succession or in the general chain of command is found.

  “So, for now, we move onward. We’ll continue to find people, rescue those we can, salvage where we must. Mr. Daimler has agreed to continue working in exchange for some limited freedom. Haven’t you, Mr. Daimler?”

  “Ya, I see little choice,” the man said.

  “He’ll be closely supervised, of course.”

  “Bet your ass, he will,” Clark growled, though the megaphone didn’t pick it up.

  “We have a second chance. I find it ironic that the name, Shangri-La, was picked by Paul and the others. Shangri-La was a mythical town, hidden in the clouds. A safe place of wonder. Well, that’s what we have here. I hope we can put this behind us. I’ll do what I can, and I will lead our small band of soldiers to keep us safe. That’s our job. It’s what we do.”

  He put the megaphone down and sighed. A second later, someone started clapping. Then someone else. In seconds, thousands were applauding. The ovation went on for almost a minute before tapering off. Now what? he wondered. Behind him, the pure and beautiful voice of Paul Bisdorf’s daughter rang out.

  “O beautiful for spacious skies, for amber waves of grain,”

  “For purple mountain majesties,” the crowd quickly picked up. “Above the fruited plain!

  “America! America!” It became a roar. “God shed His grace on thee.

  “And crown thy good with brotherhood from sea to shining sea!”

  A pair of navy sailors leaped onto the back of the boat and produced an American flag. It wasn’t big, and it looked a little tattered. They spread it wide between them and held it high. Cobb turned and came to attention, saluting the flag. All his men did likewise. He didn’t know when he’d begun to cry, but tears rolled down his face. Where there was Old Glory, there was still hope.

  * * *

  USS Pacific Adventurer

  150 Nautical Miles West of San Diego, CA

  General Rose covered his eyes with a hand as another navy helo screamed overhead. Like the last two, this one wasn’t ferrying people between ships. The torpedoes slung under the stubby winglets left little doubt what it was doing.

  “They haven’t found the sub yet,” Captain Mays said. It wasn’t a question.

  “Not with this level of activity,” Rose agreed. Of course, he knew about the torpedoing. Everyone in the Flotilla knew by now. All the civilian ships would have lit out for parts unknown if they hadn’t been scared shitless. He had to admit, he was. An army general had no business being on a fucking cruise ship while torpedoes zipped around and blew shit up.

  He’d briefly considered calling Gilchrist on the Ford to find out what the fuck was going on. The Captain would have to take his call. After all, Rose was a damned O-9, and the captain was only an O-6. At least, Rose was pretty sure he had the navy rank correct.

  Mays listened to his radio for a moment then turned to Rose. “Sergeant Grady on the Looper reports they’ve contained the outbreak. He wants to know if he should hop a ride back.”

  “Tell him to detach a squad for security. Call WO3 Peppers and have him get over there to bring the rest of the platoon back.”

  “Right away, sir.”

  Rose nodded. Sergeant Grady was in temporary command of a platoon due to a distinct lack of officers under his command. He figured he should pin a bar on the man’s shoulder when there was time. Most of his men had been dispersed to help the surviving Marines deal with the crazy damned seals and shit, not to mention the weird virus outbreaks on ships where none had occurred for days. His platoon was the last to accomplish its mission, and according to Mays, they hadn’t lost a single man in the operation. In the distance, he saw one of his V-22 Ospreys banking toward the Looper, a huge tanker a half mile away and closer to the carrier than his Pacific Adventurer.

  The Ospreys had proved invaluable in the operation. He cursed the idiots in the Pentagon who’d kept the army from getting them, while simultaneously thanking the fates who had six of them sitting at Fort Hood when the plague hit. They’d been there for a Marine joint-forces operation which had never happened. When he’d arrived at the Flotilla, the onsite Marine commander had wanted them back. Rose had told the man to kiss his stars, so they had stayed.

  He wanted a cigarette and regretted smoking a couple during the evac from Hood. He sighed. There were a lot of regrets to go around. Rose turned and looked to the east. Just 150 miles over the horizon was California. Probably 349 million zombies too. At least the zombies didn’t have torpedoes. He wished Grange had checked in, and he knew he had to consider her lost. Maybe a strange virus outbreak on her ship had taken her out as well. Who knew?

  A shadow passed under the ship. Fucking whale again. He leaned out a little, gun at the ready. It was even bigger than the killer whale he’d seen an hour ago. Moving quicker too. “What other kinds of whales are around here?” he asked Mays.

  “I have no clue, sir. One of the navy kids running around the boat said killer whales shouldn’t be here, so it could be anything.”

  “Great,” Rose said and searched the dark blue waters. Nothing moved. The whale hadn’t looked quite right. At least, his mind couldn’t reconcile it with the way a whale should look. He recalled the dead dolphin’s changed teeth and shuddered. Mutant whales; that was all he needed. His mind conjured up an image of a whale big enough to chomp his former cruise ship. I gotta get some rack time, soon.

  He moved to the bridge wing and watched as a group of seals tried to get aboard a mega yacht a short distance away. Unlike a lot of the private ships, this one had little difficulty defending itself. A dozen men in store-bought camo lined the side of the ship, pumping shotgun and AR-15 rounds into the seals. Though muted by the echoing cracks of their weapons, Rose was pretty sure he could he
ar them whooping in excitement.

  “Ah, America.” He laughed and shook his head. They used to joke that the hardest part of a zombie apocalypse would be pretending you weren’t having fun. Well, at least a few people seemed to be having fun. He was just glad it was one boat he didn’t have to rescue. Marines had had to save an even bigger mega yacht earlier. It was full of some social media mogul’s executives, friends, and family. They’d had at least 20 men for security, all armed with tasers and batons. The mogul was solidly anti-gun. Funny, he didn’t seem overly disturbed when a squad of US Marines rappelled down from a Super Stallion.

  “Warrant Officer Peppers reports he has Sergeant Grady and 24 of his men aboard, and one squad staying behind.”

  “Understood. Things seem to be winding down. Vector them to the Vista to offload, rearm, and get some grub and a couple hours of sack time.”

  “Roger that, sir.”

  Rose knew that if he was tired, his men were probably on their last legs. They were all good men and women. You didn’t push good soldiers past their breaking points. Unless you had no choice.

  A distant gunshot made him turn his head. There were no distant ships in that direction, only the unusually shaped Helix which now belonged to Dr. Lisha Breda. Curious, he raised his borrowed pair of binoculars to his eyes. A dark shape rising a short distance out of the water was against the rear of the ship, and tiny black figures were swarming over the side. What the fuck?

  He spun the distance control on the binoculars and squinted. The tiny figures resolved into humans with compact machineguns moving in tight groups.

  “Mays!” Rose yelled. “Get Peppers to hightail it to the Helix.”

  “Right away. What’s going on?”

  “They’re under attack. Not by animals, by humans. Fuck, tell him to hurry!”

  * * *

  Dr. Lisha Breda yawned and watched as Weasel presented his latest results. The man was both crazy and unrelenting. As they’d transferred her belongings from her former home to the ship, he’d hardly stopped working. Even when most of the gear was crated and being moved, the man had spent time scribbling in a paper notebook and mumbling to himself.

  “Is that normal?” Lisha had asked Oz.

  “It is for Weasel,” Oz said, a twinkle in his eyes.

  How did so many crazy people end up working for me? As soon as the equipment was settled into a workshop on the former supply ship, Weasel went back to work. She guessed you’d call it rapid prototyping. He wasn’t satisfied with the equipment he’d brought with him, so he was stealing stuff from wherever he could find it. A couple of coffee machines, some high-voltage power supplies, and the only functioning microwave from the galley all fell victim to his single-minded determination.

  “How am I supposed to make lunch?” the cook demanded.

  “Hand out MREs,” she said. They’d found at least a thousand in the ship’s hold. There were also cases of potted meat, which she already knew were safe, regardless of their production date. Same as SPAM. It was likely because of the manufacturing process. She hated both but disliked the idea of joining Grant Porter in the Pacific Ocean even more.

  “Done,” Weasel announced.

  Lisha moved over to the workbench expecting…what? The machine they used to resurrect Frankenstein? She blinked in surprise. The device looked even more like an industrial microwave oven than the previous version, albeit with a main case and door that made it look like a Hollywood prop. It appeared more finished and less like something a kid would build. Though only slightly. “This works?”

  “It should,” Weasel said, moving around and checking the different electrical connections and electronics. Several of the controls were made from breadboards, a tool used by engineers to test electronic assemblies. “Yeah, we’re good.”

  “How do we test it?” Oz asked.

  Lisha went down to her new lab, under the substantial crew quarters, and returned with a large handled case. She found an empty spot on the floor and opened it to reveal an array of petri dishes and sample vials. She handed a trio of vials to Weasel. “Give these a shot.”

  He examined the vials. One was marked “Grant Porter—Cerebellum Sample” along with a date and sample code which was meaningless to him. The second was labeled with the name of a deceased lab tech who’d been infected in the initial wave and contained a sample from his femur. The third said “Commercial Beef, >INFECTED<” along with the date and another code.

  “I figured you’d want to clean a bunch of food or something,” Weasel said. He looked disappointed.

  “Are you going to eat it afterward?” she asked.

  “Uhm…” He looked quite uncomfortable.

  “Maybe we should take baby steps before we jump in with both feet?” she suggested.

  “Okay,” he said and turned to his machine.

  As he set about adjusting the controls, she removed her portable, high-power microscope and moved a few tools on a bench to make room. When she turned back, he was closing the door on the machine. “Ready?” she asked.

  “Yup,” he said. “Want to do the honors?”

  Lisha examined the power connections, the profusion of electrical tape, and the butt connectors. “You know what? It’s your invention. Have at it.”

  “Sure,” he said, earlier transgressions already forgotten.

  He’s more like a cat than a human.

  He touched a control. An LED bar lit up red, then the bar began to shrink. As it shrank it changed to yellow, and when it was almost to the end, it turned green. The machine beeped as though Weasel had been microwaving a Hot Pocket. “Done!”

  Lisha had been expecting to see the lights dim or to hear the snap and crackle of discharging high voltage. It hadn’t made any noise except the beep at the end. He opened it and took out the samples with his bare hands. She cringed and opened her mouth to yell. Weasel turned and held them out. They showed no signs of being hot. She flinched a little.

  “They’re fine,” he said. “Not hot at all.”

  Her eyes narrowed slightly. She knew the process he’d developed with radar frequencies was low power, yet radar could still produce heat. Plus, in order to make food safe they had to cook it to 400 degrees. This seemed contra-intuitive. She reached out and took the glass vials. As he’d said, they were cool—exactly the same temperature they’d been when she’d handed them to him.

  Lisha took them to her microscope where more samples waited. The waiting samples were animal brain matter kept in nutrient fluid. Part of the problem with Strain Delta was that it wasn’t an actual virus. She couldn’t make a reagent test, so she was forced to check via microscope. You couldn’t see detail on the thing, but you could see clumps of it move in brain matter. Mammal brain matter was the best. She had a few hundred samples from her meager supply of primates which had all been harvested to make test vials.

  Lisha took the meat sample first. It was from a batch of steaks that had once been in the base cooler. They’d been brought on board just before Strain Delta exploded, and they had tested positive. She carefully took the sample Weasel had treated, put it in the first primate brain test medium, and gave it a shake. She did the same with the other two samples, then put them in a rack.

  “I use five minutes,” she explained to them. “I tend to notice changes in only a minute, two at the most. So, I established five minutes as the baseline.”

  “Sensible,” Weasel said. Oz nodded.

  While she was waiting, Lisha got up and examined the machine Weasel had made. As she examined it, she realized the chamber that held the sample had no back. “Is this supposed to be open?” she asked incredulously.

  “Well, yeah,” Weasel said.

  “But…” she gestured at it. “What about radiation?”

  “There’s very little of it,” Weasel said.

  “Oh, I feel a lot better!”

  “It’s not energetic. The radar frequency I used doesn’t rebound well. The only time it was ever used was by the British in Worl
d War II.”

  “Okay. If this works, can you put a back on it anyway?”

  “Yeah, sure. No problem.”

  The timer chirped, and Lisha returned to the microscope. She slid the sample with the added meat under the lens. After several minutes of looking, she could find no signs of the telltale alien virus clumping and trying to rebuild the brain. She used a green sharpie to mark it good, then tested the bone sample. Same result, it was clear. She picked up the last vial, the one with the sample of Grant Porter’s brain.

  Lisha felt a sort of connection with this sample. Grant had been her researcher, her friend, and for quite some time her living Strain Delta test subject. She’d removed half his brain, only to have him get up and walk around, and eventually enable her to identify the alien bugs’ strange operating frequency of 2.46 Hz.

  “You okay, Doctor?” Oz asked.

  “Yeah,” she said and put the sample under the microscope. There were no signs of active Strain Delta. “Weasel?”

  “Yes?”

  “You are a genius.”

  The man beamed at Oz who clapped him on the shoulder. Lisha looked at the machine again, considering the mechanics involved in its function. “I want you to get with the mechanical engineers and see about making portable versions of this,” she said. “You know, you’ve probably saved the human race.”

  “Really?” Weasel asked.

  “Yeah. We can’t cure people; their brains have been reformed. I want to see how your treatment affects their behavior though.” She thought for a second, then remembered what she’d been about to say. “We can purify food and water and maybe scrub early forms from people.” She took a second to explain how the types combined to create the dangerous versions.

  After a minute, Lisha stopped, realizing she’d gone off on a tangent. “Sorry,” she said.

  “No, don’t be,” Weasel said. “Nobody ever explained to me how the virus works.” He gestured at the machine. “Since you say it’s mechanical, the treatment makes sense.”