Once the room filled, the colonel stepped to the podium, the lights dimmed, and the 32nd Medical Brigade emblem projected onto a screen. There was a faint whisper of, “death by PowerPoint” that appeared to come from the middle of the room—Lieutenant Country, most likely. The senior noncoms shared glances, and a few rolled their eyes—someone would catch hell from command by the end of the day.
“No, this will not be a typical boring PowerPoint, Lieutenant!” Wilkinson fixed a glare on a young officer in the fourth row. “There has been an incident. It has not hit the news yet because officially, no one has come out of the affected area.” He clicked the control, and the slide changed to the now famous Object that had appeared in the space above Earth several days prior. Successive images showed a shape detaching from the apparent interstellar craft. “We assume that this was a landing craft or shuttle of some sort. It landed in Western Virginia, near Roanoke, yesterday afternoon. Satellites picked up evidence of explosions, and high altitude surveillance shows some sort of machines moving around. However, we have had absolutely no contact with the area. Most of the communication circuits are operable, but no one is answering.
“An infantry company from a National Guard battalion—Stonewall Brigade, actually, doing Annual Training on Fort Pickett—was dispatched; they arrived in the area two hours ago. They reported encountering a large number of vehicular accidents and dead civilians—some of the accidents appear to have been caused by the rapid onset of whatever killed the people there. The company pushed into the city, and reported seeing small, floating machines that emitted a white beam that killed whomever it touched. They took over 90% casualties, with only one squad’s worth of survivors. They were able to E-and-E back to the NG Armory in Lexington. One of the senior Guard medics from Pickett has family in the area; we called him in to check the survivors. He also had a chance to examine a couple of the dead as well—drivers and a truck captain that had been killed while still in the transport vehicles.
“We don’t know how, yet, but we know that the machines killed those men with a white beam that took their life without doing any external damage. The victims bled out for no apparent reason. The one thing the survivors had in common was that they had sustained serious combat-related injuries in the past two years. Those injuries required surgery and hospitalization, right here in the hospital over at San Antonio Military Medical Center (SAMMC). However, while they were seen here at SAMMC, they were also first treated in the field by combat medics, which is why I asked for the senior Sixty-Eight Whiskies to be here. Gentlemen and Ladies, we are here to brainstorm what it is that may have allowed those troops to survive this encounter. National Command Authority has authorized a recall of all units on leave and the mobilization of the Guard.” Wilkinson stopped as an aide entered the room and handed him a note. He read it briefly and continued, “And it is confirmed. The President has declared a State of War. We don’t even know who the enemy is...yet; however, we do know at least one of his weapons, and that some combat vets can survive. We need to get a handle on this, and we need to do it now. You were each given a briefing packet with an assignment to a working group. Get started.”
Wilkinson looked up, and it seemed as if he was looking directly at Martin. “Dismissed.”
As the room emptied, Martin noted that the colonel spoke briefly to his aide, who then made his way toward him. “First Sergeant Martin?” the aide asked. “Follow me; the colonel wishes to speak with you.” The aide took Martin directly to the brigade commander’s office.
Once again Martin came to attention in front of the colonel’s desk.
“Sit, Martin.” Wilkinson indicated a chair in front of the desk. “I just wanted to ask you a few questions. The squad has been evac’ed here to San Antonio and admitted to Brooke Army Medical Center, so BAMC cross-referenced any data relevant to the survivors. They found an interesting connection: all six had previously been treated for combat-related injuries, including surgical procedures by Dr. Tobias Greene. Two were treated at the 41st Combat Support Hospital, twenty-one months ago.” He looked up at Martin and pushed two pieces of paper across the desk. “Here are their files. I believe you were attached to the CASH at the time.”
“Sir?” Martin wasn’t certain how to respond. It was always best in that situation to just follow the officer’s lead, so he looked at the files. “Yes, sir. I was attached to the Forty-First up until 18 months ago, but I do not remember these soldiers. It was an Active Zone, sir.”
“Relax, son.” Wilkinson told him curtly. “You aren’t being grilled; I’m trying to check out a hunch. I believe you assisted Toby Greene, is that correct?”
Martin relaxed, but only slightly. “Yes sir. I had just been re-classed Sixty-Eight Charlie and was a surgical nurse for the CASH. We had four trauma surgeons. Dr. Greene got the hardest cases. I only worked with him for about four months, though; I rotated home soon after he rotated in.”
“I see.” Wilkinson went back to looking at the tablet. “And did you work with his surgical nanobots?”
“Not directly, sir; he did the actual programming for surgical procedures.”
“But did he ever mention the Phase Two ‘bots?”
“Yes, sir. He made it a point to talk with all of the line medics and nurses. He said he was working on a tool to put in the hands of the First Responders.” Martin looked at the officer. “Sir, my understanding was that it was still in development.”
“According to information here, they were developed, but not widespread.” Wilkinson, put the tablet back on the desk. “Last question. Were you ever exposed to the nanobots yourself?”
* * *
“Martin! Marty!” The beeping sounds sped up. He was in a bed, and something was blocking his throat.
There was a figure bending over him, dressed in green scrubs, mask, and cap. “Relax a minute. Let me get this tube out.” There was a gagging sensation, and the tube was removed from his throat. A squeeze bottle delivered a small amount of water to his mouth. The doctor flashed a light in his eyes, then pinched the skin between his thumb and forefinger. “Good. Sensory responses are normal. Marty, do you know where you are?”
Martin tried to respond, but could only get out a croak. A nurse came in with water and ice chips. While he rehydrated, the doctor explained recent events.
“You’re telling me I died?”
“Technically? No, Sergeant, you were only ‘mostly dead’...” Dr. Greene’s face was almost unrecognizable behind the surgical cap and mask. His wireframe glasses with the attached surgical magnifiers were distinctive, though, even if Martin had not recognized the eyes. “…And as you know, ‘mostly dead, is still partly alive!’ Your heart stopped, not unusual with the electrical shock you sustained. Also, it’s pretty easy to restart. I gave you something to fight the burns and fluid retention. You should be back on your feet in a couple of days.”
“A Princess Bride reference, how thoughtful, Doc!” He remembered the vehicle bringing casualties into the CASH. The 41st Combat Support Hospital was a unit with a long and distinguished history. It had been deactivated for decades, and then reactivated when the smoldering war they were in heated back up to full-on combat. The troops had called it “Sand, gravel, and shit—just like a cat litter box.” The derogatory label: the Litterbox stuck. Unfortunately for those same troops, it was worse when it rained. The vehicle hit a rock, bounced, slid on a patch of mud, and hit one of the poles supporting the overhead power lines. Martin was a medic and nurse precisely because he was one of those people that ran toward danger—rather than away from it. He’d gotten the casualties out of the back, and then tried to extract the driver. He had seen the electrical arc, but he had a soldier to save. “…And the ‘something to fight the burns,’ would that be some of your little buggers?”
“Actually, I’m not sure ‘little buggers’ is a term you should be using in front of an officer, Marty, but just perhaps...yes, it’s possible that I injected some of my nanobots to scavenge the dead ti
ssue and repair the leaky blood vessels that occur after a shock.” Greene smiled; you could tell by the creases around his eyes. “There’s a project in the works to get them into the hands of the line medics, just that little bit would go a long way toward stabilizing casualties. I’m not sure you should tell anyone that, though; we don’t have approval for this, yet.” He patted the bed. “As I said...a couple of days as a slacker in bed, and you’ll be back to being annoyed at me in the OR.”
* * *
“You were saying, Sergeant?” Wilkinson’s forehead was furrowed, and he was looking at Martin strangely.
“Yes, sir. I believe I was exposed, sir.” Martin hesitated. “I believe that Dr. Greene may have used the nanobots on me.”
“As I suspected. You were put in for a Purple Heart, but the attending physician tasked with your evaluation could find no evidence of injury, and ruled it an accident. Witnesses said you had no pulse and a flat line on the defibrillator when they pulled you out, but no-one saw Dr. Greene inject you.”
“No, sir. He said not to mention it. I considered it an order from a superior officer.” Martin had not told anyone. The medal wasn’t important anyway; he was just doing his job. “Sir, may I ask a question?”
Wilkinson smiled. “Yes, Sergeant, you may. This is not a hearing, but the information has been valuable.”
“Sir, is this a problem? The nanobots?”
“No, but it may be a solution.” Wilkinson sighed and sat back in his chair. “First, I have a report that two soldiers survived something that killed over a hundred men. The only thing they have in common is having been treated by Greene. Then you show up—a medic who spent several months with Greene—having been in a wreck that a highway patrolman told your CO you should have been seriously injured in, but you walked away with only dry cuts and bruises that appeared to be days old.
“When I put all of this together with information one of my surgeons brought back from a recent conference, I started to see a pattern. You can relax, Sergeant, we just need to find Greene and get him to safety. His file says he lives somewhere up near Roanoke. On the other hand,” he fixed Martin with a forceful look. “You may be uniquely equipped if I need to send medics downrange. Meanwhile, I’m going to have you attached to SAMMC, but sending you back to Bullis. The good news is that it’s a promotion, so call your wife, tell her you’re okay, and give her the good news. Then get those Sixty-Eight Whiskey’s ready to deploy; we’re expecting orders at any time.”
* * *
“Dude! You were dead! “
“Shut up.”
“But, I mean, you’re just like Zombie Jesus or something!”
“Look Corporal, go run laps, or go get us some ‘Rip-Its’! Yeah. Get the Rip-Its. I’ve got to go back on at midnight.”
“Yes Docfather! Whatever you say Docfather! Er, I mean Sergeant!”
“And don’t forget your reflective belt!”
The CASH was mostly inflatable buildings, but a few bunkers had been dug in, and the low roofs had the advantage of being out of the mud the recent rains had made of the Litterbox. It was dark, and the off-duty medics were up on the roof smoking cigars and wishing for beer. The junior medic was still a bit green—a ‘baby’ on his first tour. The old-timers had all earned the label ‘Doc’ from rendering medical care while under fire. The senior medic was responsible for training the juniors, hence ‘father’ to all of the baby docs. Martin had the honor of being Docfather on this tour, and he was certainly not going to get down off of a dry roof as long as he had a baby doc to run through the mud and fetch energy drinks for the rest.
“He’s right, Marty. You shouldn’t even be in the Army anymore, you died! Instant ETS!” Sergeant Polo was just starting his second tour and would be taking over for Martin when he returned stateside in six weeks.
“Can it, Marco. You know they’d just cite ‘stop-loss’ at me anyway.” Martin knew he suffered from ‘short-timer syndrome’—the fear that the smallest incident would delay or hinder his plans to return home to wife, two-year old daughter, and plans for nursing school. “Don’t jinx it, man.”
“I know, but you realize that Captain Sanford tried to screw you over, right?”
“I don’t need any damned medals, Marco! I was just doing my job.”
Marco held up his hands. “Buddy, I’m just saying, Cap will screw you over. A couple of us talked to the SMAJ and you’re cool, but maybe you’d better stick close to Major Greene for a few weeks. I think Sanford’s afraid of him.” He was silent for a while. “Damn. Zombie Martin. Has a ring to it, don’t you think?”
Martin made a snorting sound. “Asshole.”
There was a gurgling sound from Polo. Martin turned to look at his fellow medic—but Marco wasn’t there. Martin was standing on top of the bunker, cradling an M4, and there was a mob on the ground trying to climb up. Zombies! They were all zombies!
There was Polo, and the baby doc, whatsisname...Stephens? No, Patrick...E4 Stephen Patrick. They were hissing and moaning, trying to get on top of the bunker, and Martin was just standing there holding his M4. If they looked like they were going to get up here, he’d have to start shooting. Now they were joined by Captain Sanford and Major Little. There were nurses in scrubs and doctors in white coats mixed in with the crowd, great big sores and open wounds on them all.
“Zombies. Hmmm, I never thought of that!” The voice came from behind him. Martin whirled, brought the carbine up, but lowered it when he saw Dr. Greene, in uniform, with a general’s rank insignia, which was strange since he was a civilian...
“Sir, we have to...” but Greene wasn’t listening, he was looking down at the crowd below.
“Strange, but I don’t remember treating them.” He pointed to a woman and child.
Civilians. They didn’t look sick, though. Claire? Sally!
The zombies were climbing now. Polo was in the front, about to get hold of the roof line and pull himself up.
“You know what you have to do, Marty. You know you need to do it!” Now Greene was a zombie, too. He moved to the edge of the roof and reached down a hand and started helping the crowd onto the roof.
Martin brought up his M4. Time to rock-and-roll, time to...
Greene reached down and pulled up Claire, holding Sally, just a baby...
* * *
“Aaaaaugh!” Martin woke up with a start, drenched in sweat. Where had that dream come from?
It had been a month since his conversation with the colonel. Most of Martin’s time had been busy with certifications for the new medics and refreshers for the experienced ones. Added to Martin’s load were a promotion and quite a few afternoons down at SAMMC, where med techs poked and prodded him, took x-rays, scans, and blood. Man, did they ever take blood. He was beginning to feel like a pincushion. They told him that the reason for so many blood tests was because they didn’t dare put him in the MRI.
The tests confirmed there were indeed nanobots in Martin’s body. It was a small amount, much less than if he’d had one of the major procedures in which the surgical ‘bots were used to track and repair damage to blood vessels and internal organs. Nevertheless, the tiny machines were present, and the medical staff was reluctant to find out if they’d respond adversely to the strong magnetic fields of the Magnetic Resonance Imaging scanner.
Four-thirty A.M. Since he was now awake, he might as well get ready for PT and start the day. There had been many more landings in the past weeks, and word had finally gotten out to the public. After the initial panic, things had settled down, but with each new landing, there were more refugees to be dealt with. Fortunately, most landings were not in the major urban areas, so people were flocking to the cities. The president and various state governors had made announcements, trying to stem the tide, but had finally acquiesced and passed several emergency measures to declare “fortress cities” and concentrate essential services in defensible locations.
Pre-dawn was the only time to run during a South Texas summer, and Martin wasn�
��t the only SNCO or officer running along the track out to the old airstrip and back. During the run, Martin planned out his day. Claire was coming up to S.A. to interview for a clinic manager job at one of the hospitals in the sprawling South Texas Medical Center. This job might allow her and Sally to move closer and be within the defensive zone planned for the city. He was taking a leave day to watch Sally during the interview, after which they would look at apartments and try to find a place to live that didn’t involve refugee housing.
* * *
The interview went well, but not the apartment hunting. There were no available rooms to rent...at least nowhere that they would trust for someone who was effectively a single mother. As a fallback, Claire and Sally could stay with Martin’s sister in Johnson City. It would be a bit crowded, but it was with family. Unfortunately, it was also outside the defensive perimeter of S.A., and at an hour commute, he’d still need a pass to be able to visit them, the same as if they were still in Corpus Christie. At least it would be an hour, and not three.
With the onset of evening, the heat of the day had started to fade, so Martin took his wife and daughter down to the Riverwalk for dinner and a ride on one of the tourist boats. It was amazing that there were still tourists, but some people obviously felt that as long as they ignored a threat, it wouldn’t hurt them. They continued to party, and the locals continued to find ways to profit from them.
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