Turning Point (Book 3): A Time To Live

by Wandrey, Mark

  “How so?”

  “It’s all energy.” Lisha shook her head; she didn’t understand. “You figured out high temps kill it. But it can’t be killed if it’s a machine. Heating is just a higher energy state which deactivates the virus or machines. Radar imparts energy. Microwave ovens heat denser matter more effectively. It’s why water boils quickly, meat cooks well, but light stuff doesn’t.

  “My machine uses a specific frequency based on a harmonic of the 2.46 Hz you told me about. It’s directly affecting the machines.”

  Oz snapped his fingers. “A reset code?”

  “Yeah,” Weasel said, “maybe. Or the little machines are very vulnerable to that frequency of radar.” He rubbed his chin and looked at the machine. “We’ll have to mess around with it.”

  “Once we get some field versions going, sure. Using it as a food and water treatment machine is a priority. You invented it; what are you calling it?”

  Weasel looked at his machine for a second, frowning. Then the frown became a grin. “Call it a Februus.”

  “Sounds Latin,” Oz said.

  “It is. Februus was the Roman god of purification. February was his holy month, and it was named for the Februla which was a spring purification festival that occurred during that month. There’s a lot more mixed up in there.”

  “Sounds good to me,” Lisha said.

  A banging sound somewhere on deck made them turn in that direction. There’d been plenty of maintenance and construction on the Helix, but Lisha thought the sound was…strange. Oz cocked his head and moved toward the door leading out of the old storage room that was now Weasel’s Workshop.

  “What is it?” Lisha asked.

  “I’m not sure,” he said. Then a long rattle of gunfire sounded. Oz instantly drew the gun he always wore.

  “Doctor, get down over there.”

  “That’s the soldiers shooting at seals again,” Lisha said, though Oz’s nervousness made her less certain.

  “That sounded like an MP5,” Weasel said and produced his own pistol.

  Where did he have that hidden? Lisha wondered. Am I the only one on my crew not armed?

  “A small caliber machine pistol of some kind,” Oz agreed, then turned his head toward Lisha. “None of the Zombie Squad or the army soldiers General Rose sent carry a weapon like that. We’ve been boarded.”

  “Boarded?” she asked. “What, like pirates?”

  “I have no idea—” Oz didn’t finish the sentence. An explosion blew the door off its hinges, sending him flying backward. The door rebounded off the floor, expending most of its energy. However, it was still a big steel sheet, and it landed on Weasel, pinning him to the floor.

  Lisha cringed behind the workbench, holding her microscope and many of Weasel’s tools. She peeked around the corner. Oz was up on one knee. In the flickering fluorescent light, she could see him run a forearm across his forehead, wiping away bright red blood. He grasped his pistol in both hands just as a trio of figures rushed through the door.

  They crouched down as they moved, squat, short-barreled guns tucked against their shoulders. They were dressed entirely in black. Armor covered their bodies, blending in with their black uniforms. Helmets covered their heads and ears, and slightly reflective face shields obscured their features. They moved as one, spreading out and sweeping the entire room.

  Oz fired three quick shots at the one closest to him. Two shots hit the black clad figure’s chest, and the last ricocheted off his helmet with a bright spark. The shots to the chest staggered the man who unleashed a burst from his gun. Bullets ricocheted off the walls, and one narrowly missed Lisha’s head. She heard the bullet pass by her ear. It was a sound she’d never forget.

  She pulled back with a little yelp. There was another burst of machinegun fire. Oz responded. Bang, bang, bang. Another burst, and the shooting stopped. Lisha crawled around the table to the other side, toward Oz. When she looked, he was lying on his face, blood pooling around him. She thought he was breathing, but she wasn’t sure. She heard a click and looked up; one of the black-clad men was pointing his deadly gun at her head.

  She closed her eyes and waited for death. Nothing happened. She felt a pair of hands drag her roughly to her feet. The man raised her chin. She opened her eyes and saw that he had a miniature screen built into the armor on his forearm. On it was a picture of her. She instantly recognized the less-than-flattering picture from her Wikipedia page.

  “We have her,” she heard one of them say, the voice muffled by the full-face shield. If there was a reply, she didn’t hear it. The man nodded. “Take her. Let’s evac.”

  “I’m not going with you,” she said and tried to pull away. Another one produced a little vial and squirted her in the face. She gasped and shook her head. She tasted something sweet, and her vision swam. “You son of…a…bi…” She fell down a long, dark tunnel into perpetual night.

  * * *

  “Osprey inbound!” Mays said.

  “They’re coming back out,” Rose said. The black clad soldiers were fast and well trained. Even from more than 200 meters, he could see the way they moved. “Goddamn it, they have a hostage.” Fuck, it’s Dr. Breda. It had to be. She was on the chunky side and black. How many overweight, black women were on the ship?

  “It won’t arrive in time,” he realized. Rose dropped to one knee and flipped open the cover on his rifle’s scope. Mays followed suit. It had been a lot of years since he’d been on the qualification range. Some skills you never forgot, but they did get rusty. He spun the wheel on the advanced sight, and the ship came into focus. A soldier, one of his, leaned over a railing and fired at close range. One of the attackers went down.

  “They got one,” Mays said. Instantly, three of the attackers fired short bursts, and the soldier fell.

  “Damn it,” Rose cursed. “Try to slow them down.” He spun the magnification on his weapon and settled the crosshairs on the chest of the man closest to the aft of the ship. He read the distance on the scope—220 meters—did the mental calculation and raised his point of aim five inches. He flipped off the safety with his thumb and squeezed the trigger. The rifle bucked, and he rode the natural recoil back to the target.

  His shot was high and struck the metal superstructure behind the target. The man spun and kneeled, searching for the shooter. “Perfect,” Rose growled. He settled again with less drop and squeezed off another round. The sea was almost dead calm, with very little roll. The bullet crossed the 220 yards and hit the man square in the chest.

  “Nice shot, sir,” Mays said and fired his own weapon.

  Rose grunted and evaluated the results. His target had been knocked back on his haunches. However, he was back up in a second with no apparent injury. “Fuck,” Rose snarled. As he looked, he noticed the attacker who’d been shot at almost point-blank range appeared to be up and moving, though less steadily. He’d been hit. “They’ve got some really good armor,” he said to Mays.

  “I noticed.” Mays and Rose both fired again, though neither hit. Unfortunately, the bad guys had figured out where the attack was coming from. “They can’t do much at this range with those poodle-shooters.”

  Heavy slugs tore into the superstructure over their heads. Paint and metal shrapnel spalled in every direction. Rose yelled a curse and rolled sideways into his ship’s bridge. A heavy machinegun on the enemy’s submarine had opened fire.

  “Mays, can you get a sight on that gun? Mays?” Rose looked back and saw Mays lying on his back, eyes staring blankly up at the sky. Half his chest was a bloody mass of shredded meat. “Fuck!”

  Machinegun fire raked the Pacific Adventurer around the area he and Mays had been shooting from for several seconds, then it stopped. Guessing they were reloading, Rose propped his rifle back on the railing and looked for targets. There were none. The sub and the mysterious enemy combatants were gone.

  * * *

  Classified Task Force

  Gulf of Farallones, California

  “You again?
” Grange asked as the old woman entered the room. “I’ve told you everything I know.”

  Jophiel stopped and looked at the patient. Was something different about the young Coast Guard officer?

  “I just have a couple more questions.”

  Grange reclined and put her hands behind her head. “Ask.”

  “Do you remember seeing anything strange at the Flotilla?”

  “You mean, besides a zombie apocalypse?”

  “Of course. Maybe flying boats or things like that?”

  Grange laughed and shook her head. “No, nothing.”

  Jophiel questioned her just long enough to be sure she wasn’t hiding anything, then left without another word. There was no need for any more pleasantries. She’d finally completed the task Michael had put before her, which meant the annoying Coast Guard officer was of no more use.

  She removed the CVR helmet and put it on the holder. The techs looked anxiously at her. “Whatever you did fixed it.” They seemed to sag in relief. “You can begin shutting down the system for transport to San Nicolas.”

  “Thank you, Jophiel,” the team leader said. She left without further comment. She needed to get back to her office. The translation matrix was nearly complete. It would have been finished if Michael hadn’t wasted her valuable time making her act as an interrogator instead of a linguist.

  After the door closed, the techs waited until they were sure she was gone, then cheered and high fived each other. None of them noticed that one of the many computers running the Cognitive VR system had changed screens for a moment, then returned to the original. The team leader addressed his staff.

  “Well done. Let’s go down to stores and get the crates. The Heptagon will want us to unload quickly. Rumor has it someone else is being brought in, some doctor who might have a cure, and Michael wants her questioned using CVR.”

  None of them looked forward to more interactions with the Heptagon, however they’d at least be on a base where extensive facilities existed. The ships were nothing more than improvised environments. Many of their families and friends had been evacuated to San Nicolas shortly after the plague went global. It was an extra insurance policy to keep them loyal and hardworking.

  Less than a minute after they were gone, the door opened, and a pair of women came in. “Hello?” one called.

  “Where the hell is everyone?” the other one wondered.

  “No clue.” The leader was a specially trained physician, and she carried a small, steel case. “This is that Coast Guard officer, right?”

  “Yeah,” the assistant said. She held up a tablet and read the instructions again. “I don’t understand why we’re doing this. Didn’t someone say she was going to be disposed of?”

  “Maybe the scuttlebutt was wrong,” the leader said. “God, look at her. It’s a waste of time, really.”

  “The orders are signed by Michael,” the assistant said. They opened the adjoining room and went inside. The smells of burned flesh, anesthetic, and bleach were almost overpowering. Both women quickly put on sterile masks. They didn’t completely block the stench, though they did help. “Goddamn. Hard to believe she’s still alive.”

  “Just open the kit, so we can get out of here.”

  The assistant administered the first drug, while the team leader prepared the special hypodermic. “Ready?” she asked. Her assistant tapped her watch.

  “One minute.”

  “Oh, right.” They waited, trying to ignore the smell. The watch beeped. “Here we go,” she said and stuck the needle into Grange’s thigh, then depressed the plunger. She immediately moved back as Grange screamed through the breather and arched her back up off the stained sheets.

  “Gah, I never get used to that,” the assistant said.

  A second later, Grange fell back on the bed and lay still.

  “Okay, we’re done,” the supervisor said. They packed up their gear and left without a backward glance.

  A minute passed, then two. Suddenly, Grange’s chest began to rise and fall quickly, as if she had just run a marathon. Her eyes snapped open, and she looked around wildly, gasping. “What? What?” It took long minutes for her breathing to slow and her mind to clear.

  “It worked,” she croaked once she could speak. “Okay. Next.”

  She heard a click as her restraints released. She sat up, her putrid bandages fell away, and blood dripped onto the bed. She showed no indications of pain, and she didn’t acknowledge the horrible burns. Instead, she spun sideways and put her feet on the cold, metal floor. She grabbed the monitor leads and pulled them from her chest, and she roughly yanked the IVs out of her arms, paying no heed to the sprays of blood which stopped in an instant.

  Grange had great difficulty walking. She staggered toward her destination, the medical room’s door. It beeped and slid open as she approached. With each step, she left a bloody smear behind. Her balance became increasingly better. There were three lockers in the attendants’ area. She pulled one open and took out the contents. With each passing moment, she moved with less difficulty.

  Ten minutes after the injection, she opened the outside door and walked into the hallway. A passing technician glanced at her curiously, wondering why she was wearing a tinted face shield. However, it wasn’t the strangest thing he’d seen since joining Project Genesis, so he just shook his head and continued on.

  The mysterious medical tech, wearing surgical gloves and a facemask, stopped at an access hatch. The door beeped and opened as she reached it. It swung open and she stepped through, closing it behind her just as the CVR crew came into view carrying big crates and drinking sodas.

  The team leader opened the medical bay’s door and put down his crate. He was reaching for a clipboard to begin inventory when he noticed the bloody footsteps. “What the fuck?” he asked. The steps were clearly leading out of the still open isolation room to the clothes locker. There were bloody smears on the locker’s handle, and a towel lay on the floor looking as though it had been used in surgery.

  “She’s gone!” a tech cried out.

  The supervisor ran over to the window and looked inside. There were more bloody footprints, and pieces of charred skin lay on the floor along the path. A tech ran out into the hallway and returned a second later.

  “Nothing!” he said. “No signs at all.”

  The supervisor’s eyes darted all over the room, searching for answers where there were none to be had. The intercom buzzed, and they all stared at it. The supervisor nodded toward it, and one of the assistants picked up the handset. “Just a second,” he said and held it out. “It’s Michael. He wants the patient terminated. What should I say?”

  “We’re dead meat,” another tech said. The supervisor could only nod.

  * * *

  HAARP Ship Helix

  The Flotilla

  150 Nautical Miles West of San Diego, CA

  The V-22 Osprey took up the entire helicopter landing pad and then some. Luckily, the Helix had a completely open aft deck, since the Osprey’s twin rotors cut a massive swath as it sat idling. General Rose and a squad of his best men came down the rear ramp and onto the ship. A group of navy corpsmen who had arrived earlier were busy tending to casualties.

  Rose already knew he’d lost five of the seven man squad assigned to protect the Helix. The ship had also had a small group of defenders, referred to as the Zombie Squad, of all things. Bunch of crazy rednecks with guns. Still, they’d gotten the only kill on the attackers, but it had cost them their lives. Five bodies lay under sheets. A man named Jon Osborne was being carried out on a stretcher by a pair of corpsmen. He was in a bad way, but he was alive.

  “You men know if he’s any relation to Jeremiah Osborne?” Rose asked.

  “No sir, sorry,” the first corpsman replied. “He’s unconscious.”

  “Understood. Take him to the carrier with the other wounded.”

  “Roger that, sir.”

  Sergeant Grady came out of the ship, carrying his M-4 in both arms. He ha
d a look of tired determination on his face. “Sorry we were late, General,” he said.

  “Not your fault, Sergeant. Any leakers left on the ship?”

  “Negative, it’s clear.”

  “Casualty count?”

  “Five of our men KIA, two injured. Five crew also KIA, including all their shooters. The attackers largely ignored anyone who didn’t resist. They were clearly after Dr. Breda.”

  “Any clue why?”

  “No, General, sorry. They took a case full of samples.”

  “And they left my Februus Device behind.”

  A somewhat overweight guy walked out of the main hatch. He held a bloody rag to his balding head and looked a little like a crazy, homeless man.

  “Who are you, and what’s a Femur Device?”

  “Paul McDaniels. They call me Weasel. Februus Device,” he said, carefully pronouncing the first word as if Rose were a child. The general’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “It’s a radar powered, sterilization machine.”

  “Weasel, I’m lost. What the fuck are you talking about?”

  “Can I get a Band-aid or something?” he asked. When he took the rag away from his head, blood flowed freely, and Rose was pretty sure he could see pale, white bone.

  “Jesus, man, you’ve got a good gouge on your head. Corpsman, get this man prepped for evac.”

  “No,” Weasel said. “I need to stay and work on the Februus.”

  “I need to know what this thing you’re talking about is. Corpsman, can you stop this guy from leaking all over the deck?”

  “Yes, General.” The medic examined Weasel’s injury, while he described the invention he’d created to the General.

  “Are you saying you invented a cure for Strain Delta?” Rose asked.

  “No, its just a way of deactivating the nano machines.”

  “The what?”

  “Strain Delta isn’t a virus, it’s a machine. The Februus Device deactivates it.”