by Unknown
“Those babies are really all we have to hope with. Most people will die outright. They will never make it past the quakes, eruptions, and the resulting ash clouds and gases. Up here we should be okay as far as gases go, eruptions, but there are fault lines that crisscross this area. This whole facility is bored from limestone caverns. Probably won't make it through the quakes, although it is a good eighty miles from the closest line,” he shrugged. “Maybe, maybe not. My point is there should be a good chance for survivors here.”
“So we do what with these? Can they harm us?” John asked.
“Harm you, kill you? No, but you will be infected the minute you push that button. It will protect you the same as anyone else. There is enough in a single canister to infect about five hundred million people,” Weston said quietly.
“Whoa,” Sammy whistled. “Why infect... Why not inoculate? And why six canisters... Three Billion people?”
“Minimum three billion. That is before those infected pass it along themselves, after a while it won't matter. As to the question of infected, this is a designer virus. You catch it just like the flu. We infected whole platoons by releasing it in the air over them. One hundred percent infection rate. Be glad they decided on this. They have some others that will kill everybody in the world in a matter of days.” Weston nodded at the raised eyebrows that greeted his remarks. “I don't doubt that the merits of which way to go were debated hotly,” he finished gravely.
“The virus is designed to live within the host, but it can live outside of the host. It can stay alive in a dead body for days, even if the body is frozen. In fact that just freezes the virus too. Once the body is thawed it will infect any living person that comes along. So those,” he pointed to the silver canisters, “are overkill. Same stuff is being released across the globe. Great Briton... Germany... Australia... West coast just a few hours ago. Manhattan has already been done, all the East coast in fact. I want the two of you to head out from here. One vial here, then one of you head west, the other south. Go for the bigger cities... Water supplies... Reservoirs... Release it in the air or water, it doesn't matter. There are men heading out from the south, the west coast...” He rose from the desk. “I'll see you out.” He turned to Alice. “Alice... Pack us up.” Alice nodded as Sammy and John got to their feet, but her hand remained on the butt of the pistol. Rubber grips, Sammy noticed as he passed her.
“Alice,” he said.
“Um hmm,” Alice murmured.
Sammy nearly stopped in his tracks, but managed to hide his surprise as he passed by into the hallway. The Major fished two sets of keys from his pocket. “Parked in the back lot. A couple of plain Jane Dodge four-bys. Drive 'em like you stole 'em. Leave 'em where you finish up. Hell keep 'em if you want 'em. Nobody is going to care.”
The three stood in the hallway for a few seconds longer. Sammy's eyes locked with the Major's own, and he nodded. The major walked back into his office, and the door rose from its pocket behind him. Quiet, except the slight buzzing from the fluorescent lights.
John shrugged as his eyes met Sammy's, waiting.
Sammy sighed. “You heard the man... West or south?”
“Flip for it?” John asked. His mouth seemed over dry and he licked his lips nervously.
Sammy pulled a quarter from his pocket and flipped it into the air. “Call it, Johnny.”
“Tails,” John said just before the quarter hit the carpet.
Sammy bent forward. “Tails it is. You got it, Johnny.”
John looked down at the carpet. “West, I guess.” John said.
Sammy nodded, looked down once more at the quarter and then both men turned and walked away toward the elevator that would take them back to the surface.
Watertown Center
Shop and Save Convenience store: Candace Loi
1:30 AM
“Last one,” Neil said.
Neil was a detective for the Sheriffs department. It was closing in on 2:00 AM and he and his partner Don had just come back from six hours of sleep to get a jump on the day. Yesterday one of the checkout girls had disappeared between the Shop And Save and home. Earlier this morning she had turned up dead in a ditch just a quarter mile from the front door. The techs were still processing the scene, but it was looking personal. Stabbed to death, multiple wounds, no defense wounds, at least none that he or Don had been able to see, and fully clothed. Her purse had been found nearby, wallet and cash inside. They would know more in a few days once the coroner did her magic. It all pointed to someone she knew, and they had no known boyfriend. The trailer park where she lived had turned up nothing, they had questioned some people at the convenience store, but some had been off shift, so here they were back at the store questioning the other employees.
They had commandeered the night manager's office which was barely larger than a broom closet, but at least it was a place to sit with enough space left over to call in the workers and ask their questions. Free coffee via the same night manager, who had still not gone home, was taking a little of the six hours of sleep sting off, but to Neil free coffee in a convenience store was like a whore offering a free shot of penicillin to the first twenty five customers.
“Who's next?” Don asked.
The last half hour they had been interviewing the people who worked the same shifts as Amber Kneeland.
“Candace loi,” Neil said.
Don looked up and stopped writing in his little notebook. “How do you,” spell her name, he had meant to ask Neil, but she was right in front of him.
“EL. OH. EYE,” she said with a smile.
“Vietnamese?” Don asked. She was obviously mixed race, African American and Asian, he questioned himself.
“Japanese,” she told him.
“Nice name,” Neil said, “Candace.”
Beautiful girl, Don thought. “Did you know Amber Kneeland? Sometimes works this shift?” he asked.
“Not really,” she answered. “I mean, I met her, but only in passing... I just started here myself.”
She really is beautiful, Don thought. “You wouldn't know if she had a boyfriend... Other friends?” he asked.
Candace shook her head. “Sorry,” she said... “What has she done?”
“Nothing,” Neil supplied.
“She went missing last night,” Don said. “Turned up dead this morning.”
Candace shook her head. “Oh my God. That's horrible. She was such a nice girl... Quiet.”
Neil nodded his head. “So maybe you did know her a little better than you thought?”
“I just started here a few weeks back, and like I said, I don't really know her... But it might be a girlfriend not a boyfriend.”
Don looked at her. "You wouldn't know who?"
“No. It's just a rumor. Someone said it to me... I don't even remember who... But I've never seen her with a guy, and I have seen her with other girls... Maybe also the way she looked at me a few times...”
“Go out with her?” Don asked.
“No... Never... I...”
“Don't swing that way?” Don added.
Candace frowned slightly before she answered. “I work. I don't swing any way. But if I did she wasn't my type. She never asked me out, I never asked her out.”
“Didn't mean to offend you,” Don said. He shrugged. “She's dead.”
“She would probably do the same for you,” Neil said.
Candace nodded. “That really is all I know. I hope you find who did it though. She seemed like a nice girl,” Candace said.
“You don't seem the type for this... Bagging groceries at 2:00 am,” Don said, changing the subject. “You aren't local or I'd know you... This city really is small despite the base.”
Candace smiled. “Came here a year back with a boyfriend, Army. He left, forgot all about me, I guess. I had this idea of modeling... Tough to get a foot in a door though.”
“Wow, if he left you behind he must be a fucking idiot... Any good?” Neil asked.
Candace laughed
.
“Excuse mister smooth there,” Don told her. Neil feigned a hurt look and Candace laughed. “He meant have you done anything? I know somebody... Might be interested.”
Candace arched her eyebrows. “I can model. I did a You Jeans ad back in Georgia a few years ago. I just need to prove it to the right person.”
“Escorting? It's strictly escorting, no funny stuff. Dance clubs... Clothing modeling,” Neil said.
“Probably start out escorting... Dance a little... Then if he likes you he'll put you into the modeling end of things. He owns a lot of shit... Several car dealerships across the state... Some of the biggest dance clubs, clothing outlets, those bargain places, but still, modeling is modeling, right? Not the big name stuff, but it's a foot in the door,” Don added.
“I can do that,” she said slowly.
Neil passed her a white business card with his own name scrawled across the back. “Tell him I sent you... That's my name on the back.”
“Jimmy Vincioni,” Candace asked.
“Just V... Jimmy V, good guy,” Neil said.
Candace nodded and tucked the card into her front jean pocket. “I'll call him... Thanks. Look...” Her voice dropped to a near whisper. “I'm pretty sure she had a girlfriend here... I just don't know who,” Candace added quietly.
Don finished writing in his notebook, nodded once he met her eyes and then shook the hand she offered. She walked away.
“Beautiful,” Neil said.
“Absolutely,” Don agreed. “You ain't getting none of that though.”
“Yeah? But if Jimmy V hires her? It'll be the next best thing.”
Don shook his head, but smiled. His eyes rose and watched as Candace walked away. “Guess I'll have to have a few drinks at the club if that happens.”
Neil chuckled low. “You and me both,” he agreed.
TWO
March 1st
Watertown Center: Robert Dove
10:00 A.M.
At a large gravel pit on the outskirts of Watertown, Robert Dove carefully maneuvered the wide mouth of the loader bucket over the dump box of the truck, and pulled back on the lever closest to him to release the load. Ain't this something, he thought as he slowly topped off the dump box, barely 10 AM and we've already sent out twenty-seven truckloads of gravel to the base.
Six men out sick, and another forty truckloads to deliver before five tonight. What in hell are they doing with all this gravel? He wondered. It was a question he had asked many times before, and still had not gotten an answer to. Uncle Sam paid well though, and on time to boot, so he guessed he probably shouldn't look a gift horse in the mouth. He signaled the driver, and he pulled away with a whoosh of air as he released the brakes. Another dump truck lumbered up to take his place, and he pushed the questions out of his mind as he began filling the box.
March 1st
Watertown NY
Off Factory Square: Mike Collins
5:00 PM
Mike sat at bar and watched football on one of the big screen TV's Mort had just put in. It was a slow game, he was tired, and his mind kept turning to other things. He couldn't concentrate. Part of the allure of the Rusty Nail was the quiet. After a 12 hour shift at the mill with the constant noise from the huge machinery, the quiet had been nice. But that had all changed once the bar had become popular with the nearby base. He needed to go home. The crowd in the bar was starting to build and the noise was giving him the beginnings of a headache. He caught Mort's eye and went back to his thoughts as he waited.
The Rusty Nail had always been a locals only bar up until a few years back when the economy had taken a nose dive. The nail was wedged up a side street off Factory square. Not exactly easy to find, and that had hurt business too as the old people left and the new people came in.
Mort, Mortimer to anybody that felt like being tossed out on their ass, had nearly lost the small bar and the building above it to the bank. The building above it had six small apartments that Mort had purposely left empty when he had bought the building fresh out of the service thirty years back. Who wanted to deal with tenants, he had said then. But times changed, and so he had sold his house, moved himself into one of the apartments, and then sold the bank on remortgaging the whole building as well as renovating the other five apartments. The bank had come up with a loan that took all of that into account and added a second income source from the apartments that could pay the monthly mortgage and put a good chunk of change into his pocket too.
He had signed on the x, taken their money, renovated the building, moved in the tenants and then taken a hard look at the Rusty Nail. He had decided to completely gut the bar and do it over. He had dumped far too much into the renovations though, including being closed for nearly a full month, and then opened it to find that the economy had taken an even deeper nose dive during those nearly thirty days. The third month into the new mortgage and he had found that he was maybe in a bad spot already.
Mike remembered now that he had sat right at the end of the bar when Mort had talked it over with some others, Moon Calloway, Johnny Barnes, Jim Tibbets, Mike had been welcome to include his two cents which he had declined to do.
“Well, what you do is put the word out to those cab drivers. Believe me, I've seen it. They will have them soldiers down here in no time, even if you are off the beaten path,” Jim had said. Jim was a school bus driver for the north side district and less than a year away from a fatal car accident on the interstate. Jeff Brown, who had been a local football star, was doing ten years up at Clinton Correctional for hitting Jim's car head on drunk and killing him. But that night Jim had still been alive and had wanted to be a part of the New Rusty Nail that Mort had in mind. Something a little more modern. Modern bought the soldiers, but more importantly it also bought women.
“I'm not paying no fuckin' cab driver to bring me G.I.'s,” Mort had said. “And I know your game. You're just hoping to get some pussy out of it.”
They had all laughed at that, except Jim who had turned red. But after a few seconds he had laughed too, and the conversation had plodded forward the way bar conversations do.
“Well, you ain't got to pay them exactly, give them a couple beers,” Moon threw in.
“Jesus Christ,” Mort exclaimed. “That's why you boys ain't in business. You think the beer is free.”
“I know it ain't free, Mort,” Jim said. “But it don't cost you that much. You get it wholesale.”
“Wholesale? I drive right the fuck out to that wholesale club and buy it by the case most of the time just like everybody else. Cheaper than them beer guys, except draft, of course. That ain't free. You got to pay the yearly fee. You got to pay them taxes to the feds. You got a lot you got to pay for. Some fuck crushes your can you're fucked for that nickle. Jesus... wholesale my ass. It ain't no bargain.”
“Yeah? ... Let's see,” Moon starting writing in the air with his finger. You get it for let's say six bucks a case, I know that cause that's what I pay out there too. So six bucks divided by 24 is,” he drew in the air for a few moments, erased it, and then started over. “How the fuck do you do that, Mikey... The six goes into the twenty-four? Or times the twenty-four?” Moon asked.
“Uh, it's a quarter a can,” I had supplied.
The argument had raged on from there. Once Moon found out he was paying a buck fifty for a can of beer that only cost a quarter he was pissed off.
In the end Mort had talked to a couple of cab drivers. Free draft beer one night a week if they bought soldiers by all week long and told as many as possible about the place. Within two weeks Mike hadn't recognized the place when he had come by after shift to have a couple of beers. The soldiers drank a lot of beer, the bank mortgage got paid, and life was fine. Except for the fights, Mike thought, but you can't load young guys up on alcohol and not expect trouble. Especially when those young men were just waiting on the word to go and maybe die in another battle that remained undeclared as a war. High stress levels meant heavy duty unloading. The M.P.'s go
t to know the place as well as the soldiers did.
“Mike,” you ready?” Mort asked now.
Mike smiled. “I was thinking back to last year...” He had to shout to be heard. Tomorrow his voice would be hoarse. “This place was empty! … Yeah... One more then I gotta go,” Mike agreed.
Mort leaned closer. “Gov'ment tit. I know it, but fuck it. It's all the Gov'ment tit. Road and Bridge projects. Job centers. One way or the other it comes out the same. Even them subsidies so the paper mills can still run. It's all the Gov'ment tit, ain't it, Mike?”
“Its is,” Mike shouted. He nodded. It was. This town would have dried up years ago without it. Mort left and then came back a few moments later with a fresh beer.
“Vacation?” Mort yelled.
Mike nodded. “Two weeks of silence,” He shook his head at the irony and Mort's laughing agreement was drowned out by the noise.
“If I don't,” Mort said leaning close.
Mike nodded. “I will.” He raised his glass and then tossed off half of it. A few moments later he was outside on the relatively quiet sidewalk punching numbers into his phone, calling for a cab. The night was cold, but the cold sobered him up. It seemed nearly capable of washing away the smoke and noise from inside the bar. He stood in the shadows beside the door waiting for the phone to ring on the other end. The door bumped open and Johnny Barnes stepped out.
“You ain't calling for a cab, are you?” Johnny asked when he spotted him.
Mike laughed and ended the still ringing call. “Not if I can get a free ride from you.” Mike told him.
“Yeah, you were always a cheap prick,” Johnny agreed. “Hey, I heard you're heading into the southern tier tomorrow?”
“Two weeks,” Mike agreed as he levered the door handle on Johnny's truck and climbed inside. His breath came in clouds of steam. “Get some heat in here, Johnny.”