ELE Series | Book 5 | Escape

by Jones, K. J.

  Mazy and Ben hardly listened to him.

  Cameras watched everywhere. Stuck in globes on ceilings. Ever-present electronic eyes in corners. Every step and every person constantly monitored.

  “The site was originally acquired by the National Weather Bureau to launch weather balloons and kites.”

  Ben gave Mazy a look as if he wanted to end this civvie.

  The guy went on about something regarding the Army Corps of Engineers and the code name Operation High Point.

  “MWEAC,” which the civilian pronounced ma-wee-ack, “has transitioned from a single mission to one that supports the all-hazards mission of FEMA and, simultaneously, it became a self-supporting cost center that derives its income from the Working Capital Fund authorized by Congress.”

  What the hell was the Working Capital Fund? Mazy and Ben glanced at each other, the question psychically transferred through their eyes. They shrugged to each other: Nope never heard of that one. It went on a long list of things never before heard of which the government did.

  “Mount Weather traditionally housed six major disaster operations facilities including the National Processing Service Center Virginia, Satellite Teleregistration Center, Disaster Finance Office Disaster Information Systems Clearinghouse, Disaster Personnel Operations Division, and the Agency Logistics Center. Not surprisingly, that last one is the most important currently, and coordinates with mirror military personnel at Raven Rock. Shall we move on?”

  Ben’s eye and face responded, “Please do and get us there. And shut the hell up.”

  Every level required automated security passes. No riding up and down on elevators without detection. Couldn’t even get the doors to close without passing security measures. Since the complex contained the highest level of government – the acting POTUS, the Cabinet, and so forth – the place had to have the absolute top security.

  * * *

  They had to wear face masks and disinfect their hands while standing in the line for the seminar.

  “Hate these things,” Mazy muttered to Ben if he heard her through the mask. “Feel like I can’t breathe.”

  Ben’s face was impossible to read. His gaze merely met hers for a second before resuming to watch everyone around them.

  First came the identification check and confirmation they were on a list. Their brand new ID cards presented, followed by hand scans. A digital thermal distance fever check, which seemed to happen everywhere they went since arriving in civilization. They walked through an x-ray machine similar to the airport, then a frisk.

  “No recording devices or materials for writing allowed,” they were repeatedly told.

  They had none of these things and nodded their compliance.

  To get in, Mazy and Ben had to sign a nondisclosure agreement an inch thick. They were lectured verbally, “Nothing you hear or see in this room can leave,” to which they solemnly agreed to obey. The seminar was classified.

  Once done, they entered what looked like a conference room. Dozens of identical chairs set up in tidy rows, all facing front where whiteboards and a large flatscreen TV hung on the wall. A podium and a table beside it set up with a water bottle and a laptop, the wires of which ran off to the side, connecting at some point to the flatscreen screen. Mazy and Ben took seats beside each other in the third row.

  Mazy wondered what constituted attendance to this seminar. No need to keep things a secret for her and Ben since they already knew too much. What about the rest?

  A scan of uniforms told her a lack of low ranks. No PFCs and lance corporals. Nothing below a sergeant or E-5. She looked at the eyes of the E-5s and above. Hard eyes. Zoner eyes. Whereas the civilians, wearing their office suits and ladies' pantsuits, had soft eyes.

  She looked at the unit patches of the E-5s and above. A lot of snipers and spec-ops.

  “They’re Zoners, the NCOs here,” she whispered to Ben.

  He nodded, probably already having checked it all out in his nonchalant way. He may have even known some of the scout snipers. She hadn’t watched him to see if he had done a head nod to anyone as a greeting.

  Ben leaned towards her and whispered, “There’s SEALs at our five o’clock.”

  Casually, as if just gazing around for no purpose, Mazy looked.

  Hard eyes on both men. Were SEAL sailors abandoned in the Zone as well? She reckoned so. Why not? Everyone else sent-in seemed to be. What a mess military operations in the Zone must have been.

  All of the United States military had been recalled stateside in the buttoning up of the nation. All other nations had done the same. Only protectorate nations received military protection now.

  Mazy spotted among the officers a couple of pilots whose patches told they were 160th SOAR, the Night Stalkers. Special ops Army aviation.

  A hypothesis on selection for the seminar popped into her head:

  While the civilians seem to be need-to-know for their jobs, a lot of the military seemed to be there to explain what had happened to them and what they had seen. No sense in trying to keep them in the dark, since everyone here below the rank of Lt. Colonel had hard Zoner eyes, from what she could ascertain from her seat.

  The seminar began. A fatigued woman took the front. Blond hair. Glasses. The din of conversation quieted. She held the rank of major.

  “Welcome. Let me remind everyone, this is classified information and nothing leaves this room. You will not talk to anyone about the information you will receive today unless it is your superior with appropriate clearances who orders you to do otherwise. You will not write this information down at any time in any medium unless otherwise instructed by a superior with appropriate clearances. You will not audio or visually record anything about this seminar at any time unless instructed by a superior with appropriate clearances. You have all agreed to this. The consequences will be harsh for disobedience on this matter.”

  Always a warm welcoming feeling when someone started that way, Mazy thought. Not exactly the same pitch line given when trying to sell a timeshare at the beach.

  “I’m Major Brenda Ravan, M-D, M-P-H, with USAMRIID, Special Pathogens Lab, or S-P-L, unit. You are here today to be briefed on R140.”

  Major Ravan wrote on the whiteboard in large block letters: R140 – lyssavirus.

  “R140 is a species of lyssavirus. Sixteen, now seventeen, recorded lyssavirus species exist. The most famous of which, of course, was classic rabies. Until recent. The seventeenth is R140. Traditionally, lyssaviruses lead to death by encephalitis, the swelling inflammation of the brain, disrupting signals sent out by neurotransmitters to vital organ systems operations.”

  The Major made the human body sound like a military mission.

  “Though this is exhibited with R140 to a degree, the area of the brain most infected is further forward on the brain than all other documented lyssaviruses.”

  The Major used the marker to illustrate on her own head. The flatscreen behind her showed the brain’s anatomy, highlighting the sections she mentioned.

  “This is how it affects hormones. It infiltrates the endocrine system by infecting the hypothalamus. It is also why the symptomatic are active and often live longer. They typically die of dehydration which causes catastrophic organ systems failure. Obviously, they acquire some form of liquid during their time in the wild, so to speak, or they would die after three days. Wild means not in a laboratory or hospital. If infected while healthy prior, they can live in wild for at max around ten days, when acquiring no additional injuries that would shorten their lifespan. The elderly, infants, and certain preexisting health conditions, such as heart conditions and epilepsy, do not survive long enough to enter the furious stage.

  Mazy discreetly scanned as the lecture went about things she already knew. The faces confirmed further there were Zoners, as they looked uninterested as well. Only one question Zoners had: Where’d it come from? That was pretty much it. They had seen all the rest of it.

  The civilians looked positively enraptured and absorbing every
word. Mazy looked at a woman wearing a boring, Washington DC pantsuit. Blond. Thirtyish. Mazy checked out the woman’s shoes, as had been a habit of hers in the Before, as a lover of shoes. Boring sensible shoes with non-slip soles.

  Indeed, Mazy realized, all the civilian women wore sensible, rubber-soled shoes. How boring. Probably their catastrophe footwear. Maybe someone told them to wear those at Mount Weather.

  She wondered what Ben was thinking about since he undoubtedly wasn’t interested in footwear. He probably thought about being on a vision quest in the wilds of South Dakota, since he hated being inside, especially under a mountain.

  Mazy’s attention returned to the Major upfront.

  The Major wrote MOKV on the whiteboard. “Mokola lyssavirus.” And pointed to the acronym. “Initially, it was believed R140 evolved from the Mokola virus which has been documented in sub-Sahara Africa starting from nineteen sixty-eight. The vaccine for classic rabies has never worked on Mokola. And Mokola transmits in ways not understood. It is the only lyssavirus that seems to utilize small non-bat mammals, such as mice, as reservoir species. Contrary to some believers, classic rabies does not infect small mammals. But Mokola seemed to. A mouse gets infected. A house cat hunts the mouse and gets bit. The cat then undergoes the furious or madness stage and bites a human. However, this is where it stops. Humans have been a dead-end species for not only Mokola but all lyssaviruses. Until R140.”

  The Major sipped water.

  “Mokola virus appears to have evolved between 279 and 2,034 years before the present, at best guess. So what came before it? We now know R140 did not evolve from Mokola. Mokola evolved from R140.”

  Gasps and alarmed muttered among the civilian crowd. Military stayed quiet and stared at her with stern faces as if she had disrespected their branches.

  Ben glanced at Mazy, she saw in her peripheral vision. She wanted to look back at him.

  “R140 is in the neighborhood of twenty thousand years old,” the Major said.

  Mazy bit her lip so she wouldn’t say an exasperated, “Aw, c’mon!”

  More gasps and muttering. Somebody did say it, probably a civilian.

  “It was discovered in ice core samples from the North Pole. Some of these samples were stolen from an arctic lab, and there is our source. No questions on who stole it, please. This is considered international bioterrorism and it is an ongoing, classified investigation. We believe that R140 did not originally utilize Homo sapiens – that would be us, folks – as a reservoir species. This evidence comes in the form of the first release of the virus into the population, which took place in 2012, released both in the United States and China. The symptomatic cases exhibited violent, some even cannibalistic behaviors, all of which pursued biting others, sometimes even their dogs, but resulted in a dead end.”

  The memory of the cannibal Mazy shot in Wilmington during the start of the outbreak flashed through her mind.

  “Dead end refers to they could not transmit the virus to other human beings. This has changed in the years since. Whether it did so in wild or in lab is still unknown or classified not released. Under the current circumstances, as you can imagine, research progress has been slow, and the primary focus has been on a vaccine. Questions on how it was released, yes, it was purposely released by multiple people in concert with each other as part of some kind of plan, and in various locations, seeming to hope it would spread between people, which, again, it did not.”

  Mazy remembered the betting pool of the group on whether R140 was natural or lab-made. This would probably cause a no-winner situation, as it was natural and intentionally spread.

  “Aw, crap,” Ben whispered. He shook his head, jaw muscles tight under the skin of his cheeks.

  5.

  Mackey enjoyed having people he knew in the stockade. Phebe and Emily were on the other side of the wall from his cell. They went to the bars closest to each other and talked. The MP guard only glanced at them. Their chats occurred during the women’s waking moments. He had done nothing but sleep since the arrest. A lot of boredom. The stockade had other people, some civilians, some military, but he wasn’t feeling like making new friends right now. They did acquaintance chatting to kill time. Talked music mostly, since no one knew of any sports or news events for months, and no one wanted any two-party political conversations. They were all Zoners. There were some non-Zoner soldiers at the end of the cell row, but the MPs didn’t like anyone chatting with them. Mackey figured there was a reason since nobody did nothing without a reason for doing what they did.

  Talking around the wall hadn’t been easy. But then a new inmate entered who he knew as well. Brandon Pell.

  “Why is he there?” Emily yelled around the wall. “Brandon, can you hear me?”

  “You been a bad boy, Marine.” Mackey smirked at his new cellmate.

  “Is that her?” Brandon ran to the bars at the wall. “Emily? Emily?” He reached his hand out.

  The guard bellowed, “No touching! Keep your hands inside at all times.”

  Brandon retracted his arm.

  “I’m here,” Emily answered.

  “Are you pregnant?” Brandon asked.

  “Um … yeah. Kinda.”

  Mackey snorted a laugh. “Kinda? You can’t be kinda pregnant, woman. You either is or you is not.”

  “We need to get married.”

  Mackey scowled at Brandon. “That is the first thing jumps in your head?” He laughed again. “I got me a genuine white boy. You’re USDA prime white boy.”

  Phebe’s voice, “Farm to table organic white boy is what Mazy and Angela called him.”

  “Ya know, I am seeing that in him.”

  “He’s from Montana.”

  “They grow corn there or something?”

  “I don’t think so. Not sure. It may be mountainous. Hilly.”

  “Oh. Betting it ain’t too popular with the brothers.”

  “Probably not.”

  Meanwhile, Brandon and Emily spoke lovey things to each other, asking questions and empathizing with each other, which Mackey and Phebe ignored, or they’d be sick. They heard enough to know Brandon had lost his temper and hit somebody he should not have hit. He wouldn’t elaborate, dismissing it as, “Nothing, just dumb shit.”

  This chatting went on for a while. Brandon must have slept well in the barracks since he didn’t fall asleep like the women. He utilized his time to pelt Mackey with questions Mackey did not want to answer. Things about what caused him to be here and not drafted and shipped off base. Mackey didn’t lie, per se, but omitted the enormity of the trouble he was overall in.

  He told Brandon it was a bench warrant having to do with stealing cars since he had let it be known prior, he was a car thief. This info seemed to satisfy the inquisitive young man.

  But was it accurate? Not so much. It depended on perspective. Yes, he was arrested for precisely what he said. Was it the extent of his trouble? There was the fuzzy area.

  Jerome the North Charleston cop had always been suspicious of him but never had more to go on. Everybody in the tribe knew Mackey hadn’t been from North Charleston, at least not their neighborhood. A lot of them grew up with each other. The first question they pushed onto Mackey had been, “How’d you survive alone?” They had all banded together once it became obvious no help would be coming. Jerome brought the rest of the cops. When random individuals appeared, the questions had stopped on Mackey.

  He could shoot, and he showed no qualms about killing. When he spoke, his accent was a little off. A simple lie he had come from Virginia covered for this, but not for the sarcastic quick wit since VA was not known for it. He had to be from the North or an area culturally derived from the North – and he had not been born in the South. Arguable if VA was still the South or not. Depended on the area.

  Or did he claim to be from the North? So hard to keep it all straight.

  The truth was, he was from Los Angeles. South Central, specifically. They didn’t need to know that. Jerome the Cop would have put
two and two together.

  The stockade was quiet except when an inmate had a nightmare. Three squares. Solid walls and bars, which gave a sense of security for a Zoner. He had the cell to himself until Brandon popped up, so no one could sneak up on him. Apart from some boredom between naps and reading novels, it was alright. Sounded better than anyone else was experiencing out there.

  Then it all came crashing down.

  “But what if I don’t want to join your Army?” Mackey asked an officer in the little interrogation room.

  “Then the charges hold, and you go to prison.”

  Mackey thought about who’d be there and what would happen to him in prison. It promised a short life span. His hands clutched together; wrists cuffed to the table. He’d have better chances in the Army.

  “No way to send me to your military Leavenworth?”

  “No.”

  “Damn.”

  No choice. Mackey picked up the pen and signed his name to the contract with the US Army.

  Chapter Four

  1.

  “Are you going to calm down and behave?” asked a major. He was the only USMC officer on the base and solely in charge of the in-coming Zoner Marines.

  Brandon looked through the bars of his cell. He stood at a stiff at-ease.

  “You’ve seen her. She’s on the other side of that wall. Is that enough for you to calm down?”

  Brandon stared straight ahead.

  “Your orders for re-assignment were canceled, due to your behavior today. If a Marine cannot control himself here, he certainly cannot be trusted matriculating in the Corps mainstream.”

  Brandon’s gaze snapped onto the Major’s. “Sir, does that imply we would tell what’s really going on, sir?”