Redaction: Extinction Level Event (Part I)

by Andrews, Linda

  After wiping her damp palms on her pajama bottoms, she scooped up a bite of oatmeal. It tasted like ash on her tongue. Ash. Black ash. From China. She dropped her spoon. Oatmeal splatted on the table and clung like a pimple to the computer’s metal skin. Her stomach churned and bile soured her mouth.

  Great, now she’d lost her appetite, and she still didn’t know if the warning had gotten through. She stirred her oatmeal, seeing not the dehydrated strawberries but the red eyes of the sick and dying. Should she pour it down the disposal? Her aunt would have a fit if she knew.

  But what she didn’t know wouldn’t get Sunnie a lecture about waste.

  Sunnie reached the sink just as the arcadia door slid open.

  Aunt Mavis strode in on a cloud of smoke. “Ah, you’re up. Did you sleep well?”

  The container of ashy oatmeal shook in her hand. Sunnie quickly set it on the counter and yawned. Tears gathered in her eyes, but didn’t wash away the sleepy dust. “Not really. I could use another three or four hours.”

  Or a pill that would make it so she’d sleep until the coming pandemic was over.

  “Let me guess, thoughts of the Rattling Death kept you awake.” Shutting the door, her aunt locked it before twisting at the waist and tugging the metal coffee cup out of the mesh holder hanging from her belt.

  “Yeah.” Sunnie stirred her oatmeal before raising a spoonful and watching it plop back into the container. So appetizing. Not! Worse, she’d have to eat it since her aunt had returned. “I don’t think our message got through, Aunt Mavis. There wasn’t anything on the news about China except for the ash cloud.”

  And no one connected the respiratory problems to the Redaction.

  Smiling, Aunt Mavis wrestled the lid off her liberated mug. “That’s because you weren’t watching the right channel.”

  Right channel? There were only seven to choose from. People in caves probably had more choices. At least, they had an excuse for not having cable. Her aunt was just too cheap. Dropping her spoon, Sunnie wiped her hands on her pajama bottoms. “You only have local channels.”

  “Maybe channel is the wrong word.” Setting her mug on the table, Aunt Mavis carefully opened her computer, brought up Yahoo’s main page, and spun the screen to face Sunnie.

  She scanned the search engine’s headlines. Celebration in New York. Celebrity parties in Los Angeles. Making pasta from rations. Economic forecasts. And the very last link in the column—mention of the ash cloud and sickness.

  “So they have made the connection between the ash and the respiratory problems of the soldiers.” The meat puppets on the news had mentioned that. Where was the word Redaction in those exact letters? A stray thought wandered across her consciousness. Maybe the connection didn’t exist. Hope bought a ticket on the train of thought. Maybe… “Isn’t the upper atmosphere really cold?”

  “It is.” Aunt Mavis clicked on the link and a photo of men and women under plastic oxygen hoods ballooned across the screen. The caption read: Victims of the new Ash Pneumonia Epidemic at Walter Reed Hospital in Washington D.C.

  Sunnie stepped forward. Bracing her hands on the kitchen island, she leaned closer to the computer. “Viruses can’t survive up there, can they?”

  Aunt Mavis nodded. “Viruses live in the polar ice caps. The Ultraviolet rays in the upper atmosphere might have killed most of them off, but they can hide pretty well under all that ash.”

  Of course it wouldn’t die so easily. Her knees banged into the cabinet while the pain rattled up her body and out of her head. Her damp palms squeaked on the laminate.

  “Some scientists theorized that the Rattling Death actually came from the melting polar ice caps.” Concern furrowed her aunt’s forehead, but she didn’t step closer or ask what was wrong. “Since they formed around the same time as the last genetic bottleneck, it’s a possibility.”

  For a moment, Sunnie regretting snapping at Aunt Mavis every time she’d expressed her concern. But dammit, when her aunt had spoken all she’d heard was her mother’s voice, her mother’s concern. And then she’d feel that pitchfork pierce her gut and twist. Locking her knees, Sunnie straightened. Time to shift things away from thoughts of Mom. “Genetic bottleneck?”

  “A lot of a species dies very quickly, leaving a very small gene pool to produce future generations.” Aunt Mavis shut her computer and picked up her coffee mug.

  “This has happened before?” That hadn’t been in any history book she’d read. Of course, she hated history and rarely read the entire assignments. Lifting her hands from the counter, Sunnie tested her legs. They held up her weight. Good.

  “A couple of times.”

  “So the Redaction could come on the ash?”

  “We think that’s exactly how it will come. Which is why the border screen procedures the government is proposing for containment won’t work.” Scooting around her, Aunt Mavis walked to the coffee pot. “Miles is collecting air samples daily and growing them in viral media. They’ve confirmed the virus’s presence.”

  Sunnie shuffled back to the sink and picked up her oatmeal. Her stomach cramped. She needed to eat. She knew that, respected that. It just looked so gross. “How many of the soldiers have died?”

  “None actually.” Aunt Mavis dumped the coffee pot’s contents into her mug. “They’re recovering thanks to a heavy dose of antivirals, fluids and bed rest. And unfortunately, that makes the President think that I’m Chicken Little and my simulations are nothing more than female hysteria.” She slapped the lid on her mug and pounded it into place. Droplets hit the coffee machine’s heated bottom and sizzled.

  Obviously, her aunt liked the President’s opinion even less than he liked hers. Stirring her oatmeal, Sunnie shifted away from the flying droplets. “But that’s good, right? The soldiers recovering, I mean, not the President ignoring your advice.”

  Or insulting her aunt’s professionalism. Really, did people actually still think female hysteria existed? Didn’t that go the way of cooties?

  “I’d love to be wrong about the Influenza.” Aunt Mavis slurped up the coffee pooling in the lid of her cup. “Unfortunately, there aren’t enough hospital beds, saline or antivirals for the entire population, depleted as it is. And since the politicians are prioritizing themselves and their rich cronies over the average Jane and Joe Citizen, things will get real ugly, real fast.”

  “Especially if they learn the government knew about the outbreak and kept that knowledge to themselves.” Sunnie scooped up a strawberry. Raising the spoon, she willed her mouth to open. Her closed jaw throbbed.

  “Exactly.” Crossing to the sink, her aunt removed the wash cloth from its position draped over the faucet, wet the fabric then scrubbed at the coffee droplets on the counter. “Study after study has shown the people will keep the faith as long as they feel the government is dealing honestly with them. If the President would only make a statement about the possibility of an outbreak, thousands might be saved.”

  “But word is getting out.” Setting the spoon back into her oatmeal, she jerked her head to the closed computer. Not that her aunt could see, she was too busy cleaning the Formica off the countertop.

  “Rumor is and that’s something.” After rinsing the washcloth, Aunt Mavis wrung the water from the cloth. Her knuckles turned white and the fabric twisted into a tight rope. “The Chinese government is holding a press conference since it’s been rumored that they have ongoing influenza cases.”

  Sunnie glanced toward the bedrooms. Somewhere there was a case from a Chinese spy that had been used to make a comment on the Redaction in Action list serve last night. “Your suitcase.”

  “Exactly.” Aunt Mavis slapped the towel over the faucet and wiped her hands on her pants. Wet marks scored the tan Dockers. “It also means we’re not alone in trying to get the word out, as only someone in the CIA, FBI or NSA could have leaked the source to the reporters. Not everyone agrees with the politicians. Now we wait to see what China says during the press conference.”

  �
�Then what?”

  “If China confirms their cases, then our job is done. If not…” Aunt Mavis shrugged and picked up her mug. “Well, there are too many variables to guess. Besides we have more pressing matters.”

  Sunnie dropped her container on the counter. More pressing than the return of the Redaction? The congealed oatmeal barely quivered. She was almost afraid to ask. “Like what?”

  “Plague, Hanta Virus and typhoid, to name a few.”

  Plague. The Plague as in the Black Death. She felt her jaw drop. Cold air skimmed her teeth and stripped the moisture from her tongue. Of course, that plague. As for the others, who knew what they meant but it couldn’t be good. “Where did those come from?”

  “Rats.” Aunt Mavis tucked a strand of hair behind her ears. “That’s why we were having a burn the trash day, to control the population or at least keep it at bay in the neighborhood. You should come out and join us. Everyone who’s left is there. It’s kind of part block party/part wake. I just came in to refill my cuppa.”

  Sunnie blinked. Her aunt wanted her to go outside when she’d just confirmed the Redaction was out there, floating in the air. Was she nuts? Maybe it would be safe with one of those white suits or SCUBA gear. “Maybe later. I wanna check the boards.”

  “Okay.” Aunt Mavis kissed her cheek before cupping her chin.

  Just like Mom had done. Sunnie gasped.

  “Oh, and Sunnie, eat your oatmeal.” Her aunt winked on her way to the door. “We can’t afford to waste food, especially now.”

  That was pure Aunt Mavis.

  “I was going to.” Sunnie sniffed despite the sting of tears. Thank God that hadn’t changed. Silently, she prayed it never would. Turning to the window, she watched a flake of ash settle on the windowsill.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Jogging over to the truck, David ignored his rumbling stomach. Breakfast could wait. He cracked a yawn and heard his jaw pop. So could a nap. If this was Patient Zero, then he needed to know. His men needed to know. Climbing into the passenger side, he sank onto the seat. Plastic crinkled under his butt. Pulling the stiff bag out, he eyed the MRE. Hot damn! He’d get breakfast after all. “Did you pack the full body protection?”

  “Sure thing, Big D.” Private Robertson tossed the papers about the plague’s and Hanta virus’s symptoms onto the console between them before climbing inside. “Hey, you don’t think that these two…”

  “Are Patient Zero and a spare?” Pulling his switchblade from his boot, he flicked open the knife and slit across the top of the tan bag. “Yeah. It’s a possibility. And one that we can’t ignore.”

  “God-damn-fucking-shit-eating-scum-sucking-bastard.” Robertson slammed the door and rammed the keys in the ignition. The engine roared to life before he slapped it into gear. “Who’d have thunk, I’d be praying for the Black Plague over the damn flu?”

  “Exactly.” David fished out the heating sleeve, added his beef pot roast pouch then plucked the water bottle from the cup holder in the center console.

  The truck bounced over the potholes in the asphalt. Robertson rested his wrists on the steering wheel as they headed for the exit. “What’s our chance of survival?”

  Bent at the waist, David made sure his face was concealed from his subordinate. “Not bad.”

  “Not bad?” The truck began to slow.

  David concentrated on pouring just the right amount of water into the sleeve while the private aimed for every pothole. The men didn’t need to know they faced overwhelming odds. Especially since they faced an enemy they couldn’t shoot, bludgeon or evade. After adding the bags to his MRE wrapper, he folded over the top, propped the food against the hump in the center of the truck, and sat up in his seat.

  “What does that mean?” Robertson’s foot jumped along the floorboard while the guard slowly opened the chain link gate. “Thirty-five percent like the initial Redaction?”

  Opening the vanilla shake pouch, he emptied the water bottle inside, folded over the opening and shook it. “Higher.” Much higher. Ninety-nine-point-nine percent when all was said and done. The thought stuck in his craw. “But we’ll survive. And we’ll save as many civilians as we can.”

  He hoped.

  Robertson’s leg continued to bounce as they rolled onto the street.

  Yeah, it was a great morning conversation—the equivalent of getting a Dear John letter while taking enemy fire and having the trots. Freeing his fork from its plastic prison, he cleared his throat of platitudes. No use pretending there wasn’t a shit storm on the radar. “Where are the bodies?”

  David tapped Robertson’s arm, offering him the drink.

  The private glanced at the pouch before shaking his head. With one hand still on the wheel, he twisted the GPS, aiming the screen at David. “Here.”

  The red arrow aimed at a house off of Baseline. Damn. They had been there yesterday, replenishing supplies. Could they already be exposed? His stomach clenched. Well, if they were, he knew how to deal with it. Antivirals. There were enough for him and his men. He backed the map out a bit. “And the rest of our squad?”

  “Sector G.” Robertson braked at the stoplight and fiddled with his sleeve jacket. “They’ll be doing the normal rounds and rendezvous with us at Baseline and Seventh Street to feed the neighborhoods we missed yesterday.”

  In the intersection, the Marine on duty waved them through.

  Robertson scratched his arm. The truck remained stopped.

  “Sector G is ten miles from where the bodies are. Our men are safe.” As safe as they can be with the Grim Reaper looming over the city. “We’ll stop and pass them this information on our way.” Setting the shake on the floor, David grabbed a paper off the seat and opened the door. The Marine fingered his SAW. A little jumpy today. But then again, they had been attacked last night. “Wait here.”

  Flashing both palms and the paper, he jogged through the intersection.

  The Marine slid off the tank, while two more popped out of the top. All of them wore masks. Word had spread. “Sergeant Major.”

  David stared at his reflection in the Marine’s sunglasses. “Got some information for you and your men.”

  “We already know about the Redaction’s imminent return.” The African-American Marine in the hatch hissed.

  “This is something new.” He handed the paper to the man with boots on the ground.

  With one hand on his SAW, the Marine took the paper and scanned it. “Fuck that noise. Is this for real?” Within seconds, he’d climbed up and handed the paper to his buddies.

  David turned as the truck drifted into the intersection. With Robertson as rattled as he is, he might not notice his NCO wasn’t in the cab with him. “It is.”

  The African-American slammed the paper against his buddy’s chest. “Pass it down. You know, Sergeant Major, bearers of bad news used to be shot.”

  David smiled at the threat. “You want to be ignorant and dead, or in the know and have a chance to survive?”

  “We’ll survive, Sergeant Major. We’re the fucking Marines!”

  The chorus of oorahs followed David back to the truck. Hopefully Robertson had shaken off his funk. Climbing into the cab, he reached for his vanillas shake. Gone. Son of a… He glared at his companion. Maybe he’d invent a rank lower than a private just for Robertson.

  Robertson’s Adam’s apple bobbed as he squeezed the last drops from the pouch. Licking his lips, he cleared his throat and tossed the pouch into the garbage sack between them. “Sergeant Major?”

  Uh-oh. The kid had gone all formal on him, and there was no one else around. David hot-potatoed the beef pot roast from the heating sleeve before plunking it on the papers. He probably didn’t want to be holding anything when the other man said his piece. “Yes, Private.”

  Shifting into gear, Robertson drove down the road. “I got a couple bites on me. Do you think I have it? The Plague, I mean?”

  Fucking shit! Closing his eyes, David rested against the headrest. Not today, God. Pleas
e not today. He couldn’t have an infected man and Patient Zero in the same day. “When did you notice the bites?”

  “Couple of days ago.” Robertson scratched his forearm as they approached Interstate-Seventeen.

  Shaking off his worry, David sat up and picked up the flyer. Cold-like symptoms and swollen glands appeared two to six days after infection. If Robertson had the disease, he should start having symptoms any time now. David resisted the urge to scoot closer to the door. “Are your glands swollen?”

  Robertson felt under his armpits before sticking his hands between his thighs. “Nope.”

  “Fever, chills, headache, or extreme exhaustion?” David read from the list on the paper.”

  “Hell no!” Robertson wiggled in his seat. “I wouldn’t go out with any of you guys if I was symptomatic.”

  So the private didn’t actually have anything other than a few bug bites. David cut open his food pouch and stirred the contents with his fork. After spearing a potato, he tucked it against his cheek. Maybe he shouldn’t pass out the information. If Robertson, a trained soldier, got a little hypochondria, God knew what the rest of the population would do. They couldn’t afford to give out medicine. Swallowing his bite of food, he dug at the slab of meat.

  “Watch for the symptoms and, if you’re still worried, see the medic when we get back to base.”

  “I’ve scratched them. Now, they’ve got black scabs on them. That has to mean something don’t you think, Sergeant Major?” Robertson rolled up the sleeve of his right arm and shoved the limb under David’s nose.

  He moved his food to the side and leaned back. With his free hand, he held Robertson’s arm away. His eyes finally focused on the red, swollen welts. Sure enough the scabs looked kind of blackish, but that could just be the light.

  “If those Plague bugs are in them bumps and I ripped the scabs off, I could have made the whole thing airborne, right?” A car honked as Robertson merged onto the interstate.