Pandemic

by Scott Sigler

  Margaret read through Tim’s numbers; they painted a frightening picture.

  “Ibuprofen could be meaningless,” she said. “People are working hard, they’re beat-up, stressed, but look at this — the Pinckney’s ship store is out of Chloraseptic, Robitussin and Sucrets. Almost out of Motrin and Tylenol.”

  “Inventory for those items was at eighty-five percent the day before the Los Angeles attacked,” Tim said. “Two days after the attack, inventory on pain meds and cold meds dropped to fifty-five percent. Three days after the attack, those supplies were at about thirty percent. Today — four days after the attack — the supplies are gone. Those supplies should have lasted six months or more.”

  He sniffed, whipped the back of his hand across his nose. His bloodshot eyes stared out. Tim was in bad shape.

  “The Brashear isn’t as bad,” he said. “But consumption is clearly up. If I’m right, the Pinckney is badly infected and the Brashear is close behind.”

  Margaret noticed that Clarence was staring at Tim. Not in disbelief, or in surprise or admiration, but in suspicion.

  “Tim,” he said, “you have a runny nose?”

  Margaret felt the room grow cold. Clarence’s hand had drifted near the pistol strapped to his left side.

  Tim, however, didn’t seem to notice. “A little,” he said. “I’m kinda wired and worn out, you know? Fuck-all long days it’s been.”

  Then he, too, saw Clarence’s stare, and understood. Tim leaned back, held up his hands.

  “Don’t get crazy, big fella. I just tested negative like ten minutes ago. Besides, the yeast probably made me immune.”

  “Probably,” Clarence said. “But if you were already infected for more than a day or two, the yeast doesn’t do anything, right? You were here during the attack, treating dozens of sailors. You could have been exposed.”

  Margaret reached out, put a hand on Clarence’s arm.

  “Just test him again,” she said. “Remember, he’ll test positive well before he’s contagious to us, so calm down. I doubt he’s infected.”

  Clarence raised his eyebrows: how do we know that?

  “I’ve got the sniffles, too,” she said. “And my body hurts all over.”

  Clarence took a step back, giving himself enough space to watch both her and Tim.

  Margaret sighed in exasperation. “Clarence, for fuck’s sake. Tim and I are working around the clock here — at some point, the body breaks down. You get the sniffles, you get headaches. So how about we all test now, together, just to be sure? We can test again every time we step out of the suits.”

  Clarence relaxed slightly, almost imperceptibly, but he wasn’t convinced.

  “Okay,” he said. “But unless you’re in your suits, I need you two to stay away from each other. And both of you keep your distance from me, got it?”

  She let out a sarcastic huff. “Good to see you’re consistent.”

  Now he looked only at her. There was hurt in his eyes. She wanted to take those words back, but she couldn’t.

  Clarence put both hands on his face, pressed hard, rubbed. He lifted his head, blinking rapidly, sniffing in a big breath.

  “If Tim’s theory is right, we have to assume well over half of the Pinckney is infected, about to convert and become violent. I need you both to suit up and finish whatever you’re doing in the lab. Get samples of your work packed up and ready to travel on a moment’s notice.”

  Margaret had been thinking only of numbers, but Clarence’s urgency drove home a harsh reality: the Pinckney was a heavily armed warship, one that might soon be overwhelmed with the Converted.

  THE SEAL

  Paulius Klimas had never seen a cell phone quite like the one that had been handed to him by the captain of the Coronado. It was a bit smaller than the satellite phones he’d carried into at least a dozen missions, and ridiculously heavy for its size.

  The captain had asked Paulius to his stateroom, provided the phone, then left, giving Paulius privacy. That alone indicated some important shit was about to go down. The first call to the new phone had come from none other than Admiral Porter himself. That call had lasted all of three minutes, long enough for Porter to stress that the safety and future of the United States was on the line, and that Paulius was to facilitate in any way possible the next person who would call.

  Maybe that finally meant some action.

  When the battle had occurred four days earlier, he and his men had been ordered to do nothing. The Coronado hadn’t launched boats to rescue the drowning, hadn’t welcomed the wounded aboard. Zero contact.

  As other ships sank, as flaming oil spread across the water, Paulius had watched sailors fighting for life and he had done nothing to help them. He and his men from SEAL Team Two could have put their three Zodiacs into the lake, could have grabbed dozens of sailors from the water, could have saved many lives — he had never felt so ashamed of following an order.

  But he had obeyed. He had made sure his men obeyed.

  Paulius understood the order, even if he didn’t agree with it; so far, no one on the Coronado — SEAL Team Two included — had tested positive for the infection. He and his men were a contingency plan, to be used in a worst-case scenario.

  And now, it seemed, that scenario had arrived.

  The Pinckney, the Brashear and now even the damaged Truxtun had reported positive tests, incidents of violence and murder, even the execution of military personnel. Porter’s call meant it was almost time to act.

  The phone buzzed. Paulius answered.

  “This is Commander Klimas.”

  “Hello, Commander,” said a baritone voice on the other end. “This is Agent Clarence Otto.”

  Paulius nodded. Yes, finally, there would be a role to play.

  “Agent Otto, I have been instructed to follow your orders.”

  “Good,” Otto said. “What have you been told so far?”

  “That you control the package, and that the package is our highest priority.”

  The package, in this case, was a person — one Dr. Margaret Montoya, and whatever she might be carrying. Tim Feely and Agent Otto were to be rescued as well, if possible, but Dr. Montoya had become the focus of Klimas and his team.

  “Excellent,” Otto said. “I need you to prep for an extraction.”

  “Understood. When?”

  “Soon. We’re hopefully finishing up some research here, but we may have to bug out at any moment.”

  Three people from a ship that was already known to be compromised. When Paulius went after them, he’d probably take all twenty SEALs under his command, bring the package back to an isolated ship with a crew of fifty. Just one infected person could mean the death or conversion of everyone onboard.

  “May I ask as to the state of health for you three? I’ll come get you if you’re halfway down a crack leading straight to hell, but I’d like to give my people the best possible chance of making it out of this alive.”

  “Are you asking if you should be wearing CBRN gear?”

  The acronym stood for chemical, biological, radiological and nuclear, and applied to the bulky biohazard suits military forces wore when any of those four threats were present.

  “They do get in the way a bit,” Paulius said. “If possible, we’d rather go with our usual attire.”

  Paulius heard the man breathe in deep through his nose, let it out slow. A thinking man, perhaps. If so, that was a good sign.

  “All three of us are negative at the moment,” Otto said. “But be ready to adapt. Listen, Commander, I want something to sink in. If I call you, the people you’re bringing out and the material they are carrying could save the world. That’s not a figure of speech. It’s literal.”

  “Admiral Porter told me we were saving the USA. Now it’s the world. Go figure. If we fail to extract the package, what’s the worst-case scenario?”

  “Extinction,” Otto said. “The entire human race, gone. If any of your men signed up to be heroes, Klimas, this is their chance.” />
  Agent Otto sounded like an okay guy. Maybe he had a service background. He didn’t sound like a bullshitter, but he was still a suit — bullshitting and suits went hand in hand. His words, however, stirred Klimas’s soul; no one joined the SEALs to push pencils.

  Saving the world? This was as big as it got.

  HEADING FOR PORT

  Cooper sat in the bridge of the Mary Ellen Moffett, guiding the ship toward Chicago at eight knots. The wind had picked up to forty miles an hour. Waves hammered the boat. It was two in the morning, the storm blocked out all stars, and snow swirled madly — his visibility was damn near zero.

  At a time like this, Lake Michigan was the wrong place to be.

  The weather forecast said the storm would die down in a few hours. Once it did, he could make better time, probably hit Chicago sometime that afternoon.

  Everyone else was asleep. As well they should be — the job was almost over, and the weather had made everything about as difficult as it could be.

  Cooper yawned. He drank a little coffee; it was already cold, but he didn’t care. He just needed to stay alert for three more hours, then Jeff would take over and Cooper could get some sleep. If all went well, he’d wake up just in time to help dock the Mary Ellen. Then he and his best friend would be rid of Steve Stanton and Bo Pan. They wanted off in Chicago? Well, that was just fine.

  After that sweet good-bye, Cooper and Jeff could hit the town. A couple of days in the Windy City would be just the thing. José could come, too, if he opted to go out for once instead of rushing back to his family, as usual.

  Look out, Chicago … the boys are about to be back in town.

  BATTLE STATIONS

  “Hey, Margo,” Perry said. He smiled, that smile that would have made it rain endorsement-deal millions had he fulfilled his destiny in the NFL.

  “Hey,” Margaret said.

  “I got Chelsea.” Perry’s smile faded. “The voices have finally stopped, but … I don’t think I’m doing so good. I’ve got those things inside of me.”

  His face wrinkled into a frown, a steady wince of pain.

  “It hurts,” he said. “Bad. I think they’re moving to my brain. Margaret, I don’t want to lose control again.”

  I’m so sorry I failed you, Perry … I tried so hard …

  “You won’t,” she said. “They won’t have time.”

  The same dream, the same lines, and now, the same sound — the whistle of a bomb rushing downward to kill him.

  A small shadow appeared on the ground between their feet, a quivering circle of black.

  Perry stared at her. Then, he looked to the sky. “That doesn’t sound right, does it?”

  The whistle; it had always been a consistent sound, growing steadily as the bomb fell, but this time it sounded intermittent … on, then off, on, then off.

  Perry leaned in close. “General quarters, Margo — all hands man your battle stations.”

  Margaret jerked awake. She was trapped, held down, something wrapped all over.

  Cocooned.

  Margaret blinked, reeled from the stab of terror that flooded her chest. No, she wasn’t in one of the fleshy brown cocoons … she was in her biohazard suit.

  She was in the lab.

  The sound of an alarm filled the air, audible even through her thick suit, a high-pitched whooop … whooop … whooop that told her things had gone bad.

  She was sitting at a workstation next to the butchered body of Candice Walker. Margaret had fallen asleep, right on the keyboard. On the screen, an endless line of BBBBBBBBBBBBBB stretched from the top to the bottom.

  She heard Tim’s voice in her helmet speakers.

  “Margaret! Get up! We’re under attack!”

  Under attack? That didn’t make any sense. Who would attack them on Lake Michigan?

  A hand grabbed her arm, gripping hard against the blue synthetic material, jerked her around. Tim Feely, eyes wide and nostrils flaring behind his clear visor. He held a metal canister in each of his gloved hands.

  “That’s the combat alarm,” he said. “What do we do?”

  A voice bellowed over the speaker system, making them both jump.

  “General quarters, all hands man your battle stations.”

  The blaring alarm returned at full volume.

  The floor suddenly bucked up beneath them, tossing them into the air. Margaret landed on Candice’s body — both she and the corpse fell to the floor. Monitors, tools and equipment rattled down all around them. Margaret found herself staring into Candice Walker’s empty skull, the concave impressions of where her brain had once been reflecting the lights from above.

  Candice … the hydras had made her immune …

  The hydras. Margaret had to save the hydras.

  She jumped to her feet, as did Tim. A canister had fallen to the debris-cluttered floor. He picked it up and clutched it to his chest.

  Margaret pointed at the canister. “That the yeast or the hydras?”

  Tim flashed a glance at it. “It’s the yeast.” He looked down, around, a move made awkward by the bulky helmet. “The other one has the hydras … where is it?”

  A cold vibration in her chest; if they lost that canister, she’d have to go back into the holding cells — in the midst of all this insanity — and draw blood from Edmund. She turned, looking for the canister amid the fallen equipment and scattered supplies. The morgue module looked like an earthquake had thrown it to and fro. Candice’s body lay on the floor, half on and half off an overturned autopsy table.

  An excited voice blared from the ship’s speaker system.

  “All hands to battle stations, we’re under fire from the Pinckney. Repeat, under fire from the Pinckney. All hands to battle stations! This is not a drill. Repeat, this is not a drill.”

  The ship lurched again, hurling her across the module. She slammed into a wall, felt her head bounce off the inside of her helmet. Lying on the floor … left shoulder stinging … someone yelling … she smelled smoke.

  How could she smell smoke? She was in the suit …

  The stinging in her shoulder. She looked, saw a piece of torn metal jutting out, blood trickling down the blue synthetic fiber of her suit. A hole … six inches long, ragged …

  She was exposed.

  Hands pulled her up, hands far stronger than Tim Feely’s. Margaret found herself staring at Clarence. He, too, was wearing a suit, but there wasn’t a mark on it. He had his pistol holster strapped to his right leg.

  “Margo! You okay?”

  She glanced at her shoulder. No, she wasn’t okay.

  Clarence pulled her close, looked at the shard of metal. “It’s not deep. Hold on.” He reached up, grabbed it, gave it a light tug — the sting intensified for a second, then eased off.

  He put his left arm around her, placing that hand on her wound and squeezing, applying direct pressure even as he urged her toward the door.

  “Come on,” he said. “We’re moving. We’ve got to reach the side airlock.”

  Margaret planted her feet.

  “The hydras,” she said. “There’s a canister of them around here — we have to find it!”

  The floor lurched beneath her again, a concussion wave slapping like the hand of a giant. Stunned, she started to fall back, but Clarence held her up.

  “No time,” he shouted. “Move! Feely! Get your ass up and follow me!”

  Margaret didn’t have a chance to see if Tim was okay, because Clarence all but dragged her to the ruined door. The door and walls alike were bent and shredded, white surfaces streaked with sooty black. Small fires flickered wherever they could find purchase.

  Clarence raised his foot and lashed out, kicking the door open. He led her from the morgue into the analysis module, which was in better shape, straight through it to the miscellaneous lab and finally out of the trailers altogether.

  He turned right, pulling Margaret along, headed for the airlock that led into the receiving and containment area.

  Then Tim was next
to her, the yeast container still pressed to his chest. Something had split his helmet visor. Blood poured from his forehead down the left side of his face, making his left eye blink spasmodically.

  The airlock looked intact.

  She planted her feet. “No! What if the explosions broke the containment cells? Those men could be out! My suit … I could be exposed.”

  Clarence pulled his pistol from its holster, pointed it at the ground.

  “Tim, get that door open,” he said. Tim ran to it.

  Clarence pulled Margaret forward. “Margo, we don’t have a choice. We either get into the water so the SEALs can rescue us, or we go down with the ship. We don’t have long before strike fighters blow everything to hell.”

  Fighters. Murray had pulled the plug. He was going to fire-bomb the Brashear, the Pinckney, the Truxtun, send all of it — metal and man alike — straight to the bottom.

  Tim opened the door and they all moved inside. He sealed it up, started the pressurization cycle. As air hissed in, he looked at her arm.

  “Shit,” he said. “There’s sticky tape in the processing area inside the big side airlock. We can seal this up.”

  The airlock finished cycling. Clarence opened the door to reveal a smoke-filled mess. Sodium hypochlorite sprayed down from the ceiling; she smelled it instantly, filtering through the tear in her suit. The automatic decon procedures had kicked in, and she instantly saw why — the containment room had taken a direct hit.

  Something had blown a hole in the white wall and slammed into the clear cages, ripping apart the middle cells. Bodies and parts of bodies — some red and raw, others blackened and smoldering — lay scattered among foot-thick, spider-webbed shards of glass.

  She saw Conroy Austin’s severed head, a sleepy look on his young face. Something had torn it from his shoulders. It had come to rest on the bloody, ragged neck, temple pressed against a broken chunk of cell. A rain of bleach wet his hair to his scalp. Bits of brown material clung to his cheeks.