From the Bakersfield checkpoint cars were standing three miles back, most of them with their motors switched off. The marines from Twenty-Nine Palms were Iraq veterans and they knew how to perform a vehicular search quickly and efficiently. They also knew the danger of letting anything at all slip by uninspected.
“Sir, with all due respect.” First Lieutenant Armitrading, United States Marine Corps bit off what he was about to say. He gestured at the soldiers arrayed around the checkpoint. They wore the new ACUs with digital camoflauge, something the Marines had invented and the other service branches were starting to adopt. The grey and black uniforms looked pixilated up close, as if the Marines were characters from some truly violent video game. “I get five thousand thumb-suckers a day through here, headed for the camps at California City. Most of them are blonde.”
Bannerman Clark watched, only mildly indignant on her behalf, as a fifty-nine year old woman was subjected to a DNA swab from the inside of her cheek by a nineteen year old girl in pigtails, freckles, and Interceptor body armor complete with CAPPE plates. The woman’s four children, the oldest the same age as the marine, stared through the windows of their stopped car as if they never expected to go anywhere again, as if they assumed they were going to set up housekeeping right there at the roadblock. The test was the creation of Desiree Sanchez, Clark’s main medical investigator in Florence. She claimed it was foolproof. A few epithelial cells taken from the cheek could be examined under a microscope. If they looked vital and healthy the person was not infected. Easy.
“You heard me about the tattoo, correct? This is important. I need you to start looking for her—she could be the answer to this thing.” This was the place, it had to be. She was heading east, toward Nevada. Clearly she wanted to get out of California. From Lost Hills Route 15 was the easiest way to do that. If she went too far north or south she would be trapped—every road around Los Angeles and San Francisco was locked down and she would be picked up in minutes. 15 was the only way out. There were smaller roads, more circuitous paths but they all lead right through hell on earth. She’d be a fool to go that way and infected or not she had some intelligence left.
Down the line someone honked his horn three times in rapid succession. A marine dashed across the heat-smeared blacktop and smacked the hood of the offending car with the butt of his SAW. The honking stopped but the driver and the soldier had more than a few words to exchange.
“Sir, I will reiterate my respect for your rank,” Armitrading sneered. “However this is not a joint operation, sir. You are far from your jurisdiction right now, sir. I promise I’ll keep my eyes open for her. Now, if you don’t mind?” The First Lieutenant turned and dashed off, his M4 held at low ready, barrel pointed at the ground, finger on the trigger guard.
Up the line a car door opened—the sun flashed off of it like a warning beacon. A man holding a baby got out and just walked away, leaving his car chiming plaintively behind him. Clark wondered where he thought he was going to go.
Others in the line must not have shared his insecurity. A family of four followed him out into the shoulder on foot. A trio of young men in sweatshirts came next. Soon a small crowd had gathered at the checkpoint, their cars forgotten, intent on crossing on foot.
The Marines were there before them, falling into perfect formation. A single line of men and women, weapons in plain sight but not pointing anywhere in particular. There was a lot of screaming and gesturing going on but none of it came from the Marines.
What were these people fleeing from, Clark wondered, that would make them face off with Marines armed with automatic weapons? He pondered going inward, to Los Angeles, to see what was becoming of California. He was stopped from actually planning such a move by Vikram who came running over from the helicopter waving his arms in distress.
“Bannerman!” he shouted. “Come quickly!”
Chapter Twelve
LOOTERS WILL BE SHOT ON SIGHT! [Signage posted in Los Angeles, CA, 4/3/05]
Nilla was sitting in the backseat when Charles and Shar arrived at the car. They stood there very close to each other for a while and then Charles climbed in.
“Damn, woman, you clean up nice,” Charles said, looking at her over the back of his seat. His eyes searched her face, looking for something. He didn’t find it.
Shar stood perfectly motionless outside the passenger-side doors. Nilla couldn’t see her face from that angle, just the fists she kept clenching and releasing, clenching and releasing. Nilla wondered what the two of them had said to each other last night.
Eventually Shar opened the front door and got in. She buckled her seatbelt very carefully.
All citizens unable to reach the evacuation staging area at Loma are implored to stay in their homes and only open the door to law enforcement personnel with appropriate credentials. Please do not use your telephones: this will only tie up vitally-needed lines of communication. [Emergency Broadcast for Grand Junction, CO 4/3/05]
There was no time to go to Commerce City, even if it wasn’t denied territory. What would he find there anyway—some ruptured cyclone fencing? A latrine pit that had never been used?
“We’ve never seen organized behavior from them before,” Clark kept telling people. It felt like he was making excuses. He had to pass through any number of clerks and military police before he finally reached the Esplanade south of City Park. There was a high school there, a big brick pile with a clock tower. Alvin Braintree, the Adjutant General of the Colorado Army National Guard had turned it into a forward command post.
In a classroom set up for chemistry experiments—big black fiberglass tables, a row of sinks and exhaust hoods along one side, periodic table of the elements on the wall—Bannerman Clark stood at attention and waited while the AG received the same sitrep that Clark had heard twenty minutes earlier.
“The infected then formed what I can only describe, sir, as a human pyramid.” The chief warrant officer giving the report steepled his hands. “Some individuals went over the top, over the razor wire. Others simply pressed their bodies against the chain-link perimeter fence until it gave way. We attempted to contain the situation but we lacked sufficient force to subdue the detainees. They headed south-west, toward the downtown area. We gave pursuit but again, lacked the manpower to overcome them and eventually had to break contact. Had we been allowed to aggress on them I think we could have done something but we had strict orders not to endanger the infected.”
Clark felt the temperature in the room drop about twenty degrees. Those had been his orders, of course. The chief warrant officer was suggesting, in a not very politic way, that Bannerman Clark was personally responsible for what was happening to Denver.
Namely: it was being overrun. They had lost small towns before, all over the west. This was the first time a real city was endangered. It was the biggest setback of the Epidemic.
The AG put his feet up on the teacher’s desk and looked at the two soldiers before him. “That order is rescinded as of this fucking minute,” he said. His mouth, under the white stubble of a long day, was as straight as a ruler. “You will shoot the infected on sight and no more of this willy-wogging. Do I make myself clear?”
“Sir, yes, sir!” Clark shouted, his voice echoed by that of the CWO.
“You both need to hear me on this, because I’m putting you in charge of platoons today. It looks like I’m short on real officers.” It was a slight—a soldier of Clark’s rank should be in command of a full company, as many as two hundred warriors. Instead he was being given thirty. “Chief Warrant Officer, you’re dismissed. Go get your men and sort out what vehicles you can commandeer. Captain, you’re with me.” The AG stood up and headed for the door. Clark hurried to catch up, staying a step behind his commanding officer at all times. The AG was the highest-ranking member of the COARNG, answering only to the Governor. As far as Clark knew this was the first time in the man’s life he’d ever worn camo.
Now he wore the full battle rattle—body armor complete
with shoulder-mounted flashlight, protective gas mask stowed at his belt, a tank commander’s CVC helmet with Nomex liner under his arm with a clip for his nods—and he clattered down the hallway lined with students’ lockers. “This is your mess, Clark. I don’t particularly care to know what you were thinking but I know you’re a real barnacle on the world’s backside, now, and at least that’s something. You were supposed to keep this thing contained in the prison. You were supposed to give us appropriate guidelines for how to proceed when that failed. You were supposed to find a cure. Have you done anything but watch this mess ignite right in front of your face?”
It wasn’t a question requiring an answer. Clark stayed at attention and fought the urge to explain himself. He and the AG stepped aside to let a file of enlisted get past, their sergeant keeping them in step with obscene jody calls. “Don’t feel too bad, Captain,” the AG said to Clark as the men stomped past, even their footfalls in unison. “You’re going over Niagra Falls for this, yes. I have my own career to consider. But maybe your friends at the Pentagon can find you a job when this is all over. I think you’d make a perfectly capable dog catcher.”
Clark clamped his teeth shut, ashamed more of the AG’s lack of professionalism than his own complicity in the breakout. He didn’t say a word as he was lead into an impromptu armory set up in the gymnasium. The AG selected a sidearm for him, an M9 Beretta, the standard weapon for the officer corps since the mid-eighties and a definite step up from the old traditional Colt .45. It felt heavier than Clark remembered—he hadn’t hefted one since his last visit to the pistol qualification range, nearly a year past. He fed his belt through the weapon’s holster and checked the safety before putting it away.
“You’ll at least have a chance to redeem yourself,” Braintree told him. Clark kept his eyes front so he didn’t have to look at the man. “That’s more than I can say for the three troops who were eaten alive during the breakout.”
Clark felt his knees turn to water and he consciously forced his spine to stiffen. He hadn’t heard about those casualties. He had dozens of questions to ask—what were their names, had their families been notified, were they weekend warriors or heroes from the fighting in Iraq—but he hadn’t been given permission to question his superior officer.
Vikram was waiting for him in the school’s lobby when he was dismissed. The Major belonged to the Regular Army and had no standing in the command post and in the interest of base security he shouldn’t have been allowed inside at all but Clark was truly glad to see his old friend.
“He chewed out my fourth point of contact,” Clark said, surprising himself a little. It was a euphemism he hadn’t heard or used since the earliest days of his career. “I’ll be lucky not to be court-martialled after this.”
Vikram shook his head to brush away the negativity. “We can do good in this world, or we can be miserable over the bad that is already done. What would you have me do?”
“Get up to Florence. Sit on the prison, clamp it down. We cannot let the work there be delayed, no matter what else happens. You may receive new orders while you’re there—I can hardly ask you to counter them, but make sure before that happens that Florence is airtight.”
Clark dismissed him and headed down to the parking lot of the school where a convoy of RTD buses was headed out, stuffed full of civilian evacuees. A motor pool staff sergeant assigned him the last military vehicle in the lot—an enormous lumbering eight-wheeled M977 HEMTT (Heavy Expanded Mobility Tactical Truck) that was built for hauling cargo. Before Clark could even inspect the two man crew he had his platoon, too, a scared-looking group of warfighters who fell into ranks behind their platoon sergeant without a word.
“Sir, platoon reporting for duty, sir!” the platoon sergeant barked. He looked like a prospector with a bushy white non-regulation hair spilling out of his helmet and eyes like embers set at the bottom of dark pits. He had his men in line, though, there was no question of his ability. He gestured and a specialist ran up holding a soft boonie hat—a fisherman’s hat in desert camo—as if it were a crown. Clark understood the gesture and knew he should not outwardly acknowledge it. These were veterans and they were acknowledging that he was one of their own. He put on the boonie hat and handed his peaked uniform cover to the specialist in return. He had no doubt he would get it back dry cleaned and reblocked. The sergeant major nodded discretely and turned to face his platoon. “Attention to orders!”
“Drive on, chief,” Clark said. It was the traditional order to keep up the good work. The platoon leapt like synchronized swimmers into the HEMTT’s boxy cargo compartment. Clark rode up front with the crew in the much more comfortable shovel-nosed cabin. The driver got the prime mover roaring and shuddering out onto a deserted Colfax Avenue, threading the needle between big tent churches and peepshow parlors, fast food franchises and gas stations.
Everything had changed.
Chapter Thirteen
Author's Note: There will be no update for Friday, Nov. 26, due to the Thanksgiving Holiday. Unfortunately I'll be away from my computer for the rest of the week. Regularly scheduled posts will resume on Monday. Happy Thanksgiving to all my American readers!
--David Wellington
Downtown Denver is considered a safe zone until 9:00 PM tonight or until further notice. Medical care and food distribution centers on the 16th Street Mall will remain open until that time. [Emergency Broadcast, Denver, CO 4/4/05]
“Shar, turn the AC up. It’s getting’ all sweaty in heah.” Charles wiped at the back of his neck. Nilla studied the small thin hairs there, the way they lined up where his hand had plastered them down. She could see his pores opening up in the heat, the tiny droplets of sweat gathering together, turning into rivulets that ran down into his collar.
“It’s all the way up already,” Shar complained, but she played with the controls anyway.
In the back seat Nilla felt the heat but she stayed perfectly dry. Her sweat glands didn’t work anymore. She tried rolling her window down a crack but the air that came pushing in felt like the exhaust from a blast furnace. Too much. She was tired of riding in the car, tired of being hot and cooped up.
The two of them shared a coke—the last of the sodas they’d pilfered from the motel—but they didn’t think to offer her any. They had barely spoken to her since they’d started out that morning. When Charles had stopped to refuel at an abandoned gas station at a lonely intersection high in the mountains Shar had gotten out with him, as if she didn’t feel safe in the car with Nilla.
She could hardly blame the girl, she supposed. Not with the kind of thoughts she’d been thinking. Mael Mag Och had told her the kids weren’t her friends. She’d seen for herself the way the living looked at her—like she was something unclean. The enemy. Why should she think of them any other way? She didn’t belong among them anymore. That should have been clear to her from the start.
Mael had said she should abandon Charles and Shar. That she should make her own way east. He’d said some other things that she didn’t even want to think about but he’d been quite clear on that point. No more fraternization with the living. Something in her responded to that message and she longed to strike out on her own. No more dirty looks. It would be so much easier than the silent game the three of them were playing.
Still—he was who knew how far away. Hundreds, maybe thousands of miles away. She could hardly walk across the country. She needed the kids. If she wanted her name back she had to have a ride. Surely he would understand. He seemed to have a pretty poor grasp on the English language and he had kept lapsing into what sounded a little like Gaelic, she thought. Maybe he wasn’t from America originally. Maybe he didn’t know how far his body was from her. He would have to understand.
Just to get out of her head for a while Nilla nudged the back of Charles’ seat. He tried not to flinch. “So when are you going to tell me?” she asked, intentionally cryptic, a little ashamed of what she was demanding when the two of them had clearly intended to keep it am
ongst themselves.
“Charles,” Shar said, as if she expected her boyfriend to lurch into violence at any moment. Maybe that was what Nilla expected, to, or even hoped for. It would be a great justification. The boy didn’t say anything, though.
“Seriously, I want to know. Why did you run away? Were you getting beaten by your parents or something? That would make sense.”
“I know you didn’t just say somethin’ ‘bout my moms,” Charles muttered. There was no force in the words, no anger. He was scared of her now. It angered her more than anything. She had turned to him for a little human contact and now he was scared of her. What the hell was up with that?
“Please don’t,” Shar said. It sounded like she was saying it to herself.
“Was it school? Were you having a hard time at school? Come on. Just tell me. We’re all friends now, right?” The neediness in her voice annoyed her and in frustration she slid across the back seat, putting the soles of her bare feet up against the window. The sun felt like a blowtorch on her skin and she yanked them away. When he maintained his stony silence she sat up on the warm seat and stared out at the mountainous land that flew by, its folds and creases etched into the side of a barren, unfinished planet. “Were you just bored?”
“Shar,” he said, but she knew he was speaking to her, not his girlfriend.
“Huh?” she asked. “What does that mean?”
“Shut up! Oh my God don’t you say it!” Shar scrunched down in her seat and buried her face in her hands.
“Her name—” Charles began, keeping his eyes on the yellow line running down the middle of the road.
“My fucking name is Sharona, okay? Is that what you wanted to know?” The girl whirled around in her seat, her eyes huge and sharp. “You know. Like ‘M-m-m-my Sharona,’ like in that stupid song! That should tell you a little about my parents. You know the song.”
Monster Nation Page 12