Awake

by Edward J. McFadden III

  “What the hell?” Tim said. “Did that guy he was talking to shoot him?”

  Lilly said, “It didn’t look like it.”

  “No,” Maureen said. “The guy didn’t have a gun. It must have been that second shot we heard. Stray bullet.”

  Dante and Conrad were almost back to the van. More police cars ripped passed, and there weren’t many people left in the lot. Things were settling down, and it would only take a few more seconds before the police noticed the van in all its jungle-colored glory. The side door slid open. Conrad threw Dante inside and jumped into the driver’s seat.

  “You think it’s a good idea to leave now?” Maureen asked. “Dante’s been shot. We should report that and get him to a hospital.”

  At this, Dante stirred, and his face grew panicked. “No… please, no. I can’t go to the hospital or the police. They’ll send me back to Cuba. Please. The bullet just grazed my leg.”

  “What would we tell the police? We have no idea what happened,” Lilly said. “And he doesn’t want us to.”

  “We’ll miss the launch and get Dante deported. And for what?” Conrad said.

  Maureen looked at Tim, who shrugged. Then she turned to Dante. “You sure you’re okay? Bleeding to death is worse than going back to Cuba.”

  “Says you,” Dante said through clinched teeth. “I’ll be fine.”

  Silence fell. Conrad started the van and inched out onto the road, and away from Chubby Rain. Dante whimpered a little, blood still seeping from his wound. Maureen wasn’t comfortable with this, but she’d been outvoted, and as usual, Tim didn’t even take a position, let alone support her. She was used to this. As a nurse, Maureen did things that would appear revolting to the average person, and those experiences strengthened her. More than once, she’d taken control of an emergency or an operating room, but things on the streets were different.

  “Let me at least mend your leg,” Maureen said.

  “With what?” Lilly asked.

  “This,” Tim said, pulling a first aid kit from the rear door panel. It had bandages, tape, gauze, and a bottle of aspirin.

  “Here, take some of these.” She handed Dante four pills, and he swallowed them. Lilly climbed into the back of the van with Tim, and Dante laid his wounded led on Maureen’s lap. She ripped his pant leg open and examined the wound.

  “Looks like the bullet took out a small chunk. I’ll—”

  “Which way?” Conrad said.

  Dante forced out directions through clinched teeth and turned to Maureen. “Thank you for doing this. You a doctor or something?”

  “Or something,” she said. “I’ll clean the wound and bandage it, but I suggest getting meds so an infection doesn’t take hold. I don’t have any alcohol to clean the wound and—”

  “Check the glove box,” Dante said.

  Holding the steering wheel with one hand, Conrad reached across the passenger seat, popped open the glove compartment, and found Dante’s silver flask. It had a brass eagle on one side, and before Conrad handed it to Maureen, he took a quick pull, and winched. “Vodka.”

  “Perfect,” Maureen said as she went about cleaning the cut. To Dante’s credit, he only squeaked as the alcohol drenched the wound, and she wrapped it in bandages.

  Civilization faded as they drove further southwest. Large open areas filled with palmetto trees and unfinished housing developments gave way to waterways that led to the inner Glades. It was surprising how fast the city had fallen away. Insects hummed and buzzed, frogs sang, and night birds squawked. The bright lights of South Beach were gone, and Miami seemed very far away. Dead pine trees poked through the palmetto, and in the moonlight, Homestead looked deserted.

  They tried to stop at two gas station convenience stores only to find them closed, despite the hours listed on the doors insisting they were open. The eastern sky grew purple, and the light of day fought back the darkness. If they had no more delays, they would hit the launch right on time. Dante said he felt fine and promised to get stitches. Lilly stared out the window, and Tim still played with his cell phone. Maureen punched him on the shoulder. He didn’t look up. She grabbed the phone and shut it down.

  “Hey,” he said. His voice was submissive. No emotion.

  “We’re disconnected. Period. I don’t want to hear any bitching. Pull on your big boy pants,” Maureen said. She would push him this trip. She’d been a kayaker since childhood, and she could paddle better than she walked. Tim had paddled with her one time in the ocean, and he’d been tussled so hard he never went again. She couldn’t wait to see his face when they kayaked past gators.

  Dante instructed Conrad to turn down a dirt road, and in moments, they were traveling through a thick forest of pine trees. “Maureen and Tim have already switched off their phones, and I suggest you two do the same,” Dante said. “Hawk don’t like any outside interruptions interfering with his tour. ‘Specially cell phones.”

  “Done,” Conrad said.

  Lilly hesitated. She was young, and her face wrinkled as she rubbed her phone between her hands. Everyone stared at her, waiting for compliance. Lilly shut off her phone and let it drop to the seat beside her.

  “And before I forget,” Dante said, reaching into his jacket. Then he glanced at Maureen and Tim, and didn’t continue.

  With their digital connections severed, the group fell silent. Crocodiles rumbled as the darkness slowly drained to the gray of early morning. A sour-sweet breeze snaked through the van’s open windows, and the sounds of the world waking carried over the growl of the van’s engine. A key instrument was missing from the band that plays civilization’s music. No planes. This close to several major airports, there was always a plane streaking through the sky, yet Maureen heard no jet engines.

  “Here we are,” Dante said, and with his words went all thoughts of planes, civilization, and her future.

  Chapter Three

  The danger was gone for the moment, and cops stood around drinking coffee. Don rolled his shoulders, stretching his back as concern rose in him like a tide, invading all his empty spaces, his mind looking five steps ahead. Three related calls had come in while he was dealing with Phil and Marie, and the situation had picked up speed.

  Two of the calls were isolated incidents similar in nature to Phil Redro. For now, he’d decided to move no one, and confine victims in their homes until he knew more. The third call was from a club owner who claimed to have a monster mash going on in his nightclub. Law enforcement on scene were being held back at Don’s command. The locals were pissed, but Don was impervious to the complaining of people who deemed themselves important, because no matter how high the local bigwigs complained, he couldn’t be called off.

  He was part of a team buried so deep within the Department of Defense the president’s office would have a hard time finding their budget allocation. Support came from all branches of the military, and even Don didn’t know who ultimately controlled his unit. He assumed it was the president, or someone close to him, because not many people had major threat authority.

  Across the spectral currents of the United States—and when the higher-ups deemed it important, other countries—Don sailed on a sea of oddities whose only similarity was that the United States Government considered it important to investigate and catalog them. Like most governmental tasks, the finish line often remained hidden, and the mission unclear.

  A man in a blue jumpsuit matched Don’s stride as they left the house and headed for the support van. Don recognized the kid. He had ready teams all around the country, but personnel shifted often, so he could go years without meeting a recruit. Don stopped next to the van and addressed his man. “Shut down the airports. Make up an excuse and issue it through the FAA. Block the main roads heading north with some accidents. I need time to determine how bad this is.” The man nodded and disappeared into the van.

  Don rode shotgun, with one of his men driving, and the other four in the rear partially shutting down Miami. Phil Redro had been checked out medica
lly on scene and nothing major jumped out. He was somewhat back to normal, but had no memory of the two and a half hours he’d been transformed. The question no one had asked, but everyone knew needed to be asked, was what will happen when he falls asleep? Don could put him to sleep. That remained an option, but for now, Phil was overdosing on caffeine.

  The club, Chubby Rain, was on south beach, off the main drag a few blocks. The city stirred, and they passed delivery trucks and other early morning workers as they started their day. They went over the bridge and headed for A1A. Soon large mansions replaced the businesses, apartments, and office buildings. Nothing stirred in the bloated community except security guards who patrolled the rich areas twenty-four hours a day. It was amazing how the high-dollar neighborhoods encroached right up to the strip. Lights from tall hotels and condominiums rose above the palm trees in the distance. His man made a right, and had to stop when a tour van covered in jungle decals inched out onto the road in front of them. Don’s driver cursed as he made a fast left, and they entered a parking lot filled with people, cars, and police.

  As he exited the van, one of his men said, “Four more calls have come in.”

  “Make sure all cases are confined. Speak with the local watch commanders personally.”

  It didn’t take long to find the officer in charge. Captain Lou Campo held court outside Chubby Rain, the purple facade of the building giving him a star-ish quality. The captain noticed Don, stopped lecturing, and made his way through the crowd. He looked putout as he approached—they always did. The locals never liked having rank pulled on them, and the feelings usually got worse when they meet Don in person.

  “I’m Captain Campo. You the guy holding up this mess?”

  Okay, if this is how you want it to go, Don said to himself. Out loud, he said nothing. He stared at him, a slight grin goading the man.

  “You going to say something?” the top cop asked.

  The man was under significant strain, so Don decided to forgo his usual manipulation tactics. “What have you got?”

  “First, why have I been held back? I’ve got a situation here, and I need to act.”

  So much for doing things the easy way. Don stepped forward and got in the man’s face. “You’ll act when I tell you to act, and not before.” No response, but the man didn’t back down. Don liked him already. “Now, what do we have here?”

  The captain stepped back, and shook his head, and in doing so shed his arrogance. “Hell if I know. The club owner said a patron passed out in the bathroom, then came running out attacking people. And he had, um… changed. They evacuated the building, but a few people were trapped inside.”

  “What are they doing in there?” Don asked.

  “There’s about ten of them in there now, huddled in a corner of the dance floor. They look like… oh shit, just go see for yourself or you won’t believe it.”

  Don chuckled. “Okay, how are you watching them?”

  “From the main office above the dance floor. I’ve got two men in there now. I’ve been keeping in contact via radio. We can get up there easy enough.”

  “I take it most of the people who were inside have left? So there’s no point in detaining the crowd hovering around?”

  The captain looked sheepish. “They busted out of every exit when the fire alarm sounded, and most of them were gone before we arrived.”

  “Have your men disperse this crowd. Send everyone home except the club owner.” Campo issued orders and waited. Don turned on his heel, motioned for his men and Campo to follow him, and entered Chubby Rain.

  That name. Where had he heard it? A memory way in the back of his brain told him it was from a movie, but he couldn’t place it. He’d seen so many films with Desiree. That’s all they did together outside of bed. Don had been young and inexperienced, speeding toward the edge of a cliff he couldn’t see. She had been a young officer, with nothing but business on her mind. They’d met in the line of duty over the years. She always picked movies that made him think. Made him question what he stood for and why. Chubby Rain wasn’t one of those.

  The locals hadn’t cut the power and dance music with exaggerated bass still pounded through the place. Decorative lighting created the illusion of purple rain running down the walls. Was Purple Rain the movie? No.

  They went up a narrow staircase that lead to a door and entered. The room was small, and one entire side was a large window that looked out on the club. Two plain-clothes officers crouched under the windowsill, peering over its lip. Purple light danced on the walls, and the music pounded. The room smelled of smoke and beer and sweat.

  Don didn’t bother hiding as he peered out the window. The dance floor was deserted, the bar empty… then he saw them.

  Don had investigated many strange anomalies during his years of service. He’d seen bodies decompose in seconds, a man who could make plants grow, a two-year-old who spoke with Abraham Lincoln, and many other things most people would judge to be impossible, but still his jaw dropped a little.

  The mutated people huddled together in a corner, just like Campo had said. They resembled Phil, and were nodding and moving their heads as if communicating through their sleepy haze.

  “How long have they been like that?”

  One cop kneeling before the window said, “For the last half hour. Since they got the last guy.”

  “The last guy?”

  “One customer got trapped behind the bar, and when the others found him, they attacked.”

  “That’s new. The other victim I’ve seen was somewhat timid.”

  “Yeah, until they get together.”

  Something still didn’t make sense. Though he didn’t know much, Don knew the transformation took place when the victim fell asleep. The last man hadn’t taken a nap after he’d been attacked and infected. “Did you see it happen?” he said.

  The other officer said, “No, we watched the security video.”

  “Show me.”

  The cop went to a desk against the far wall. He sat, played with a mouse, and the large computer screen lit up. Don stood over his shoulder. The footage was grainy and a bit fuzzy, but it was easy to see. The officer cued up the file, and Don looked on in amazement as the first victim came out of the bathroom.

  “Doesn’t look like he’s attacking anything,” Don said.

  “Wait,” the cop said. The victim walked erratically out onto the dance floor, and bumped into several dancers, knocking a thin blonde woman to the floor. A mountain of a man punched the victim, and he went down, only to bounce right back up.

  A melee ensued, and it was hard to see what happened. “Pause it. Where did those two new ones come from?”

  The cop ignored Don, and didn’t pause the video. “Keep watching.”

  For another fifteen seconds the fight raged on, then the strobe lights of the fire alarm filled the room. The purple lights went out, and the emergency lights came on. “Their computer system turned the decorative lighting and music back on as soon as the alarm shut down. The bass seems to soothe them a little,” the cop said.

  Don’s phone buzzed, and the officer paused the image as he answered it.

  “What?”

  One of Don’s men said, “Sixteen more calls in the last few minutes, and the locals are running out of people.”

  “Any early trends?”

  “Of the victims we’ve been able to identify so far, almost thirty percent are connected to the drug trade in some way. Users and low-level salespeople, mostly. Arrest reports and citations mention ride.”

  “Okay. I’ll be out in a minute. Prepare to call in the Big Dogs.” He clicked off, and the cop restarted the video.

  Two normal people were cornered. The walkers went for one of them, and the other ran behind the long bar for cover. The remaining person didn’t have a chance. They grabbed the young man, who looked to be Hispanic and about twenty-five years old. They held him while the others bite and ripped at him as though he were a rib roast.

  A sleepwalker h
ead-butted the young man so hard he fell to the floor, unconscious. “Watch close now,” said the cop, and Don leaned forward.

  The walker stepped away, watching as the man lay on the floor, his eyes closed. Over the next few seconds, the man transformed. It was hard to see the finer details due to the video’s resolution, but when the man got up he looked like Phil had, and he joined the group with no protests. They had forgotten about the guy behind the bar, and huddled into the corner like a lost flock of birds with no wings.

  “That what happened to the other guy?” Don asked.

  “Yeah,” the cop said. “He made a run for it and they caught him. They look like they’re in a mindless haze and uncoordinated, but when they want to move fast, they can.”

  “It appears they have basic cognition as well. That one knew he was knocking the guy out and probably why,” Don said. His watch read 5:09AM. Sunrise in less than an hour. “Keep them locked in here and don’t disturb them.” The captain said nothing, and the cop returned to his spot behind the window.

  Don left Chubby Rain, and called command. Major threat authority meant he could bring high-end resources to bear on any problem he deemed to be a significant danger to national security. He’d quarantined a college campus, and now he was going to quarantine a huge chunk of a state. At least his area of demarcation was surrounded on three sides by water.

  He exited into the predawn dusk as a monotone male voice answered. “Yes?”

  “2719 dash, 3385 dash, 0289,” Don said. It was his universal ID number.

  “Please hold.”

  “Don?” asked a female voice.

  “It’s me. We’ve got a major problem down here. I need everything south of Alligator Ally locked down. Full quarantine. I need all local radio and TV to broadcast our standard stay in your homes message. Confined curfew. All businesses closed. Current emergency workers on duty are to stay on post until further notice. Have the message say a deadly chemical was released into the air and staying inside will guarantee safety. Say the threat should pass in 24 hours.”