The Last Virus

by Caleb Adams

She was right. Since I had started bringing them the lion’s share of my rations, my weight had dropped noticeably.

  “How are they doing?” I said, glancing over to the girl and infant, who were both in their dreams.

  “They sleep better than us. That I am certain.”

  “Is there anything else that you need? Candles, perhaps?” I said as I looked at the candles situated about the room. All of which seemed to be at a quarter mast.

  “No, they now burn as if no need for wax.”

  “You don’t find that odd?”

  “I find it more odd I am soon to die in freight tunnel directly below city I once live in for only seven days.”

  “And how do you know your death is imminent?”

  “Soldier you just see tell me he love me like one tell wife. It always sign end of something nearing beginning.”

  “Has she said anything to you about the infant?” I asked with a momentary glance at the girl.

  “She say many things about infant.”

  “Do you believe her?”

  “I believe in nothing, so I am not one to ask.”

  “I will back tomorrow,” I said and then made a start to leave.

  “Wait.”

  “Yes?” I asked.

  “I tell you one more thing. I tell you sometimes there more voices here than people.”

  I left. I did not inquire any further as to the nature of those voices. She wouldn’t have told me anyway. But I believed her. I suppose I needed to believe her. Needed to believe that there indeed was some divine providence looking over at least two of us down here in hell’s waiting room. Perhaps it was an agreement reached between the god of Islam and the god of Christianity. A holy concord whereby the god of Islam allowed free passage to the Christian girl and her half-Muslim infant in exchange for a warrant to invade the freight tunnels.

  Entry #16

  Without warning, the hand of the general shot out like the tongue strike of a cobra and took hold of the sergeant’s neck. For a good five feet or so he carried him off with that chokehold until he had the sergeant pinned against the wall. In all of my time here, I had never seen him so inflamed with any of his men.

  “Escaped! How the fuck could he have escaped? We had him under twenty-four-hour surveillance. To me, that means we got eyes on him every goddam second. To you and those clowns underneath you though, it means a little fucking catnap here and there is all right,” the general continued screaming, all the while spitting his words onto the face of the sergeant. “Jesus Christ, Sergeant Raymonds, you just signed our fucking death warrant.”

  My best estimate was probably sixty seconds now that the sergeant hadn’t been able to take in a breath. Like all of us in the command center, I feared the general wasn’t going to let go until the sergeant expired right there. I looked at the other soldiers. No one seemed as if they were going to intervene. I therefore found myself with no other choice but to hurry over and lay a hand of reason on the shoulder of the general. As I did so, I tensed my body, readying it for a blow from the general. However, he pulled his hand away and the sergeant collapsed to his knees, gasping for the breaths he had missed.

  “Get him the fuck out of here,” the general said before turning around and heading toward the cabinet where his bottles of whiskey were stored. He momentarily veered off course to swing his arm like a machete at the drum kit. The hi-hat and snare he leveled to the ground. The sergeant took to his feet and left. I stayed where I was, afraid to leave but certainly not wanting to remain. The bottle uncapped, the general put his back to the cabinet and titled that square chin of his up. He had a long drink in him before looking my way.

  “After I finish this, you’re taking a walk with me, Translator. First Sergeant Jensen.”

  “Yes, sir,” Jensen answered.

  “Get a message off to Major Adams in Sector 3. Tell him we’ve gone code red over here and need to dock.”

  The priest had escaped. The Assassin was dead. I imagined us now a sub finally detected by the enemy. Our time left on earth had now been pronounced in heaven. All of us in the command center knew it. The escape of the priest meant that the Caliphate now knew we were operating out of a level below the sewers. They would soon be arriving in Sector 4. But as with all things in heaven, that time was unknown. It could be hours, or it could be days. Since I had been with the general, not executing the spy was the first mistake I had seen him make. Unfortunately, it happened to be a mortal mistake. And he, more than anyone, knew he should have killed the priest immediately after discovering he was one of the Caliphate. Perhaps, that is why he spared the life of the sergeant. We arrived two miles to the south from where we began our walk from the command center. It reminded me of a construction site. The whole crew stopped their work and stood at attention to salute the general.

  “At ease, men. You can get back to work. I’m here for First Sergeant Crowe,” the general said.

  They dropped their salutes and continued about their digging. We waited a moment before a soldier came up to us, wiped the sweat off of his brow, and then shook the hand of the general. He was a few inches taller than the general and could have passed for a college lineman, except that at the moment he looked more like a coal miner with the smudges of dirt on his hands, uniform, and face.

  “General,” he said while saluting.

  “I put you in charge and yet you still dig with them.”

  “I lend them a hand now and then, sir.”

  “How much longer you got here, First Sergeant?”

  “Two weeks, sir. Worst case. Two and a half. And that’s assuming Sector 3 is still digging at the same rate we are.”

  “What if I tripled the men you have down here?”

  “Maybe buy us a few days. That’s it. There’s only one tunnel to dig. Can only fit so many men in that space at one time. Did you contact Sector 3?”

  “I will as soon as I get back to the command center. I’ll tell them they need to pick it up on their end also.”

  “So now we’re down to about 10 days,” the first sergeant said.

  “Still a long fucking time before we link up.”

  “They know where we’re at, sir, don’t they?”

  “Yeah, they know, First Sergeant. All right, I’ll send those men down here. They should arrive in about thirty minutes. In the meantime, you should probably set up a defensive position. If you need them, I can send down another 240 and some M32s.”

  “I’ll take what you can spare, sir.”

  Entry #17

  I picked up my first guitar at fifteen. A Glarry ST3 Fender Strat rip-off that I bought online for about sixty dollars. Played it through high school a bit and then through my four years at Northwestern to give me a break from studying. I was never a great player. But I could play by ear if given enough time to listen to the music. I had even joined in with a few friends at a few open mics around the city.

  The first song took me about three and a half weeks to learn. The next three, maybe two weeks apiece. I practiced on an acoustic guitar I had picked up at the commissary. It was an old Washburn that had a nice full-bodied sound. The action was pretty high, so it helped to form some pretty good callouses on my fingertips. It took a while that day to get my courage up. But somewhere toward the end of the night, I walked over to the general and handed him a sheet of paper.

  “What the fuck’s this?” the general said after he took a glance at my setlist of four Metallica songs.

  “I can play Hetfield’s parts on these, sir?” I said.

  “Play it on fucking what, Translator?”

  “Guitar, sir. I’ve been learning them.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “No, sir. I can.”

  The general put his eyes back on the setlist I had given him, and then called over to the first sergeant.

  “First Sergeant Jensen, plug in one of those guitars over there and bring it to me.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The general fit the guitar over my head as if he wa
s awarding me a medal, helped me to adjust the strap, and then took a step back.

  “It’s umm . . . It’s going to be ‘Fade to Black,’ ” I said as I took a coin out of my pocket.

  “You just play, Translator. I’ll tell you what the fuck it is.”

  I put two fingers on the fretboard and could feel the general staring at the formation. After my first run-through of the intro, I saw him give First Sergeant Jensen a thumbs up to raise the volume. I was now into the first verse strumming an Am, C, G, Em chord progression when the general grabbed the neck of my guitar and muted the strings.

  “Well, fuck. That’s good enough for me. First Sergeant Jensen, grab your bass. PFC Thomas, get your ass behind that kit. We’ve got some playing to do.”

  I didn’t think my audition would be followed by an immediate performance. Mentally I wasn’t prepared. And neither was I physically. As I stood off to the left of the general, my left hand was shaking and my legs were beginning to notice the heavy burden of my body. They were waiting for me though and so I began the intro again. The general started in on the solo not long after and his notes seemed to float off the strings like they were balloons being set free. PFC Thomas and First Sergeant Jensen followed right behind and now, for the first time, I felt as if I was truly part of the United States Marine Corps of Sector 4.

  The next two songs were sonic attacks. And then, somewhere through the middle of the general’s ferocious solo on the fourth song, I noticed that the red bulb off to my immediate right was lit. I had to do a few double takes to make sure it wasn’t my imagination. I thought about pulling the plug out of my guitar to get everyone else’s attention. That thought I interrupted with one that said what in the hell does it matter now. Just enjoy this moment because it will be the last one you will ever have. You knew it was coming.

  The general held that last note until he got every last bit of sustain out of it and then walked over to the amp so that the feedback was like a screaming siren. After it was all over, he returned his guitar to its stand as if he was laying an infant back into its cradle. He then took a towel to his face and headed over to the security screens. His eyes were darting from image to image when finally he started heading for his desk. On his way, he gave a solid pat on the shoulder of Jensen, who was standing there like a mannequin.

  “First Sergeant Jensen. If I were you, I’d pawn that fucking bass you have in your hands for something that might just do a little more damage.”

  “Yes, sir,” the first sergeant said, finally coming out of his trance.

  The general picked up the phone. We were all silent. We were waiting on his words like Abraham at the rock.

  “Lance Corporal Wells, you ready to do some killin’ today? That’s good. Cause in about five fucking minutes you’re going to get your chance. They’ve broken through and are heading your way. Well, I’m glad you asked, but no, it’s not a goddamn drill. I’m looking at about thirty infantry that in about a few more minutes are going to be right up on your ass. Set up a position a block down and give ‘em everything you have. And, Wells, if that unit of yours falls, I don’t care if you’re missing your goddamn arms and legs, you better find a way to use your tongue to move a few coal cars into position to block their advance. We need to slow those motherfuckers down until I can get some more men your way.”

  “What do you want me to do, sir?” I asked after he set the phone back on its hook.

  “Get the ammo and all those weapons out of the crates. I want them all lined up when the men start arriving.”

  “Are you going to sound an alarm?”

  “What fucking alarm, Translator? There’s no goddamn alarm here. Alarms bring panic and panic brings confusion. We’d be running into ourselves.”

  “Shouldn’t they know?” I asked, referring to the people of Sector 4.

  “That’s a philosophical question, Translator. Is it better to have time to think about your death, or is it better to just be informed at that fucking instant?”

  “I’m not sure, sir.”

  “Neither was I, Translator. But the question had to be answered, and so I gave it one.”

  Entry #18

  Seventy hours since it started. We ran out of amphetamines a day back, and now we’re chewing qat leaves in order to keep our bodies in motion. The general ordered me back to my quarters to get a few hours of rest. I’m so wired though, and my head is pounding so hard that I can’t seem to get the sleep both my mind and body need. And since I can do neither, I have decided to make what I understand will probably be my last entry in this diary.

  What’s left of us, has pulled back to a perimeter that leaves only 1000 or so meters to the command center. They’re everywhere now. I was hoping for gas, but it’s become obvious that they want him alive. He understands that. And if it meant his surrendering would save a single one of our lives, I know he would have already walked himself out there wearing only his Metallica T-shirt and the words “Fuck the Caliphate” inscribed in black marker on his forehead. But he knows his surrender wouldn’t matter. He knows they would still torture every one of us before escorting him away.

  I’m terrified. God, I’m absolutely terrified. When death is inevitable, each sip of breath is a joy that you’re still alive, and each exhalation is a regret of what you could have done. I have a picture in my head and I have a sound in my ears. They are gathered outside the command center indenting the door with a battering ram. They are screaming “Allahu akbar,” and they are screaming “La ilaha illallah, Muhammadur Rasulullah.” The door falls forward. I empty my M4 into the first wave. I reload and empty it again. They do not care and I am out of ammunition. I have my Glock 19 out of its holster. I have the barrel indenting my temple. I have a finger tapping lightly on the trigger. They rush me. One forks my neck with his hand, and another relieves me of the gun I have at my head. I see myself being led away. I am thankful to my creator when my lungs expand. I am desperate for death when they deflate.

  Entry #19

  It is 10:39 p.m. Directly above me is a manhole that I have read is about two miles from the entrance to Sector 5. Directly behind me is the passageway I have traveled. It was known to no one except for the general. Unfortunately, on my climb up to the manhole, my hands slipped off the ladder and I fell back down, breaking my leg.

  I have been here for almost five days. For my thirst, I lick the moisture that slides down now and then from the concrete. It is just enough to allow me the strength to move this pen across the page. For sustenance, I have nothing anymore. My last Kit Kat I consumed a day ago I believe. Sooner or later, they are going to find this passageway. Or, sooner or later, my body will give up its fight.

  In my lap, I have my Glock 19. I stare at it frequently. However, neither the hunger nor the pain in my leg has yet to persuade me to put it up to my head. And so, to keep my mind off my own death, I think about the crystal balls of Sector 4. I think about whether the girl was able to escape with her half-Muslim child. I think about the general inverted on a cross and burnt alive. And then, I think about my last moments in the command center.

  When I returned there, the door was wide open, and ammunition was being passed out to returning soldiers who needed to rearm. I took the place of someone whose commander had called him away, and as I stood there with four others, it reminded me of an old-time fire brigade passing out buckets of water down the line. Unfortunately, we were running out of “water” to kill the fire.

  During a break in which there were no soldiers waiting on us, the five of us would turn to the security screens. The images from the video feeds were absolutely terrifying, and in horror, we watched as they decimated our defenses. When they tired of firing their RPGs and automatic weapons into our lines, they sent in suicide bombers. I saw soldiers with only fractions of their limbs left continuing on with the fight. I saw women and young girls being punched in the face by the stocks of AK-47s and then being dragged off by their hair. The old they came upon were either having their throats quickly
slit or necks quickly snapped. Babies and children were being ripped from the holds of their mothers and stomped on underneath the boots of the invaders until the heads spilled open. Since our cameras gave only a visual display of the carnage, you had to put your own soundtrack to the screams and cries that were emanating from their wide-open mouths.

  The general calmly ordered retreats from area after area as if he was matter-of-factly switching off circuit breakers to a house in which he was trying to conserve energy. We were running out of areas, and although it didn’t show on his face, he was well aware that we didn’t have more than a quarter day left until they reached us.

  “It’s time for you to leave, Translator. I’m ordering the command center door closed in about five minutes,” the general said as he put an arm around my shoulder and ushered me over to a corner of the room.

  “To where, sir?” I said.

  “To exactly where this fucking piece of paper tells you,” he replied and then stuffed it into the front pocket of my uniform.

  “I’m staying here with you, sir.”

  “The hell you are.”

  “I’m not leaving, sir.”

  “I’m not asking you, Translator. It’s a goddam fucking order.”

  “No, sir.”

  He then stepped back, pulled out his forty-five, and pressed the barrel into my forehead so hard that I had no other choice but to lean into it in order to keep from toppling over.

  “We’re going to die here soon, Translator. And my order to all the soldiers in this room is going to be to fire every bullet they have except for one. And that one, I want them to empty into their own fucking skull. But with you, Translator, I don’t see that happening. I see you hesitating just long enough for one of those goat fuckers to grab you and rip the gun right out of your hand.”

  “I’ll do it, sir.”

  “No, you fucking won’t. So I’m giving you ten seconds to exit this position before I euthanize you.”

  He would have put that bullet into my head. Of that, I have no doubt. I could see it in his eyes. He was right, and he would have done what I couldn’t have done. When I exited the command center, I opened the folded sheet of paper. On it was a crude sketch of a map. It led me to an area unknown. It led me to here. God, just take him into heaven. I know he’s already dead by now and I know he’s standing there at your gates. He may not have been a warrior of your words, but he was a warrior for those you had born. He’ll fight for you there. And there is no better man than you would want by your side.