Plague of the Dead
Page 3
Then Dr. Mayer clicked his ballpoint pen. The soft noise caused the guard to turn his head in that direction. He opened his mouth as if to speak, but no words came out. He managed a sound like a sigh.
Dr. Mayer had come to the only possible solution: the guards had been bitten to death by their attackers, the four unidentified men. Those same men were (if the evidence was correct) already dead at the time they bit the guards. If he was any less rational a man than he was, Dr. Mayer would have cracked right there. He reasoned that there was simply some small piece of evidence he had missed that would allow him a nice, logical, safe conclusion to give the police—and himself. After all, there was absolutely no such thing as the undead.
That was when he heard the sigh behind him.
Dr. Mayer felt a shiver run down his spine and was tempted to look over his shoulder. He chuckled to himself suddenly, brushing the feeling aside and delving deeper into his notes, looking for that missing clue. Surely the sound was nothing more than the morgue cooling system kicking on, that was all. His imagination was getting the better of him.
As Dr. Mayer chuckled, the guard slid off the autopsy table and landed awkwardly on his feet. If the good doctor had remained silent, he would have heard the soft slap of flesh against ceramic tile when the guard hit the floor.
The guard took one careful, lurching step forward. His toe tag skittered along the tiled floor.
This time, Dr. Mayer did turn around.
His eyes widened and he fell back onto his desk, knocking the cup of pens and pencils over. They scattered. The x-rays and folders were pushed off as well as Dr. Mayer scrabbled.
The guard was right behind him. Dr. Mayer felt hands grip his arm and neck and pull him back onto the desk. He saw the glowering visage of the dead guard scowling down at him.
Dr. Mayer screamed.
This isn’t possible! The dead can’t live! They’re dead! They’re DEAD!
The guard scratched at Dr. Mayer, leaving angry red marks down both arms. The guard wrapped his teeth around one of Dr. Mayer’s hands and bit down. Dr. Mayer screamed again, kicking furiously. The doors to the morgue burst open and the nurse that had brought him the x-rays earlier dashed in once more. However, she took one look at the scene within and turned on her heels, fleeing and screaming for help.
“Don’t leave me here!” Dr. Mayer called out.
The guard perching over him seemed to growl in response, a deep guttural groan issuing from the slashed remains of his neck.
The doors to the morgue swung shut, and Dr. Mayer had one more chance to scream before his voice was cut off. The fluorescent light above continued to hum and flicker, creaking slightly from side to side.
START INTERCEPT_
Electronic Mail Window
From:
Anna Demilio
To:
Francis Sherman
Date:
December 12, 2006, 11:10:05
Subject:
MORNINGSTAR
General,
We have recently acquired a victim of the Morningstar strain from a contact in Mombasa. Apparently the man was bitten by another victim and fell ill shortly after. I wouldn’t have bothered writing you with this update unless I thought it was important—in fact, I’d call it vital. We have identified the victim as one Dr. Klaus Mayer, late of Austria. We have confirmation of the time he was infected, as well as a sample of tissue from the original host. In this particular case, it took only a matter of hours for Dr. Mayer to succumb to the disease. My hypothesis is related to the wounds he suffered in contracting the virus, made about the head and neck by the original host’s teeth and fingernails.
As you know, in our laboratory experiments we inject our subjects with a dose of the virus, usually in the haunch or hindquarter, and observe the reaction. In Dr. Mayer’s case, a much larger amount of the strain was transmitted directly into the carotid artery, giving the virus an instant route to the Doctor’s brain and central nervous system. In our experiments, the virus would have infected vessels and capillaries near the injection point, multiplied, and spread slowly toward the brain before symptoms occurred. I believe that Dr. Mayer’s quick deterioration was due to the size and location of his point of infection. Notable is the original host’s apparent choice to attack Dr. Mayer in those particular areas rather than in the chest, for example, or Dr. Mayer’s head itself, which was left alone entirely.
I have a theory about this as well, but without further evidence I cannot in good conscience reveal it.
Hope this comes in handy.
Lt. Col. Anna Demilio,
US Army Medical Research Institute of Infectious Disease
/end
ADDITIONAL DATA INCOMING_
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From:
Francis Sherman
To:
Anna Demilio
Date:
12.13.06 - 13:17:34
Subject:
Re: MORNINGSTAR
Colonel,
You’re saying that a large wound, in the right place, by an infected person, can drop the incubation period of Morningstar from a little over a week to less than a day?
You had better be shitting me. And you’re about to find out why, even if disclosing it costs me my stars.
There are more cases in Mombasa, and we’ve gotten reports of victims in Kinshasa and the Lake Victoria vicinity as well. Looks like we’ve got us an outbreak on our hands. Virus seems to be centered on the Congo River basin. Somewhere in there is the Morningstar strain’s home. Anyway, so far, almost three dozen confirmed cases. God only knows how many unconfirmed ones are hiding out there in the jungle, praying they’ll get well without having to go to a hospital. You know how most of the rural-types there feel about hospitals, Anna. They think you only go there to die.
Actually, they’re not far off this time around. Seems the originator of the Mombasa outbreak was a trespasser the police arrested on the runway at the airstrip. He took ill a couple days after Dr. Mayer was attacked. No one was watching him; he was resting in a hospital bed surrounded by sick, injured, or otherwise defenseless patients. You see what I’m getting at here?
The bastard went ape shit on them; just seemed to snap a day after he took ill. He’d fallen into a light coma about an hour beforehand, then just came awake, running about the place, tearing stuff up. He got three or four of the patients in the process, bit ‘em good. They’re currently under observation in the ICU there. Armed observation, if you get my drift. With a little luck Mombasa will be able to hold the outbreak at its current point.
I’d love to get you more than a sample from the host that got Dr. Mayer—that guard—but his body’s been burned. Police gunned him down as he was trying to leave the morgue.
Yes, that’s right, Anna. I said the morgue. Dr. Mayer was the coroner on duty at the time he was attacked. I’m sure your generous benefactors neglected to tell you that little jewel of information, didn’t they? Deduce what you want to. I’ll just flat out tell you if you keep reading.
That man was dead, Doc. He was legally, certifiably, completely dead. He’d bled out from bites and scratches caused by another group of carriers—bet they didn’t tell you about them, either—and somehow found it in his corpselike self enough energy to jump up off the autopsy table and have a go at Doc Mayer.
I’m not a religious man, Anna, but unless you and your science can get me an explanation pretty fast, I’m going to start dusting off my field bible.
Now, assuming Morningstar hosts become aggressive enough to bite the nearest person, and assuming that type of bite can cause the disease to manifest within a few hours, are we shit out of luck, or do we have a shot at beating this thing?
Maj. Gen. Francis Sherman
US Army, Pentagon
ADDITIONAL DATA INCOMING_
Electronic Mail Window
From:
Anna Demilio
To:
Francis Sherman
Date:
December 13, 2006, 20:19:21
Subject:
Re: Re: MORNINGSTAR
General,
We’re shit out of luck.
The spread of the disease could be controlled easily if we had more time between manifestation of symptoms and the original bite, but if we assume most infections will occur through massive trauma, we could be looking at an uncontrolled outbreak within the span of a few days. And let’s not forget infections through more subtle means—touching contaminated blood and then rubbing your eye would infect you, but you wouldn’t show symptoms for nine or ten days, as the virus would need to multiply considerably before it gains dominance. Who knows where such carriers could be? And how can we identify them before they succumb?
I have to tell you I was highly skeptical of your claim about the host that infected Dr. Mayer being dead at the time of the incident. This is medically impossible. But I trust you to a degree, and so I decided to test the theory.
We’ve performed an experiment that I don’t think you would condone. Neither would the American public, for that matter, or the international community. But I’ll make you a deal, General. You don’t tell anyone about this and I won’t tell anyone about you disclosing classified material to me.
After what you said about the security guard and the morgue, it got me thinking. The bites and scratches would have transferred Morningstar to the guard before he bled to death. There might have been enough blood pressure remaining to carry a massive amount of virus to his brain. Over the next few hours, though the guard was physically dead, the virus must have changed . . . something. That could be the cause of his apparent revival. Or maybe he wasn’t dead at all, merely close, and the virus gave him enough rage-fueled strength to bring himself to his feet again. You know how undersupplied and undertrained some of those EMTs are down there—they might have misdeclared him dead. But there was really only one way to test that theory.
We secured Dr. Mayer to a gurney today and took some vitals. This was tricky; Dr. Mayer has completely succumbed to Morningstar and is quite hostile. He’s strong, quick, and doesn’t seem to care much about pain. We got his standard heart rate, respiration, blood pressure. Then we shot him in the chest with a hunting rifle Jack brought in. He died pretty quick—painless, too. His vitals zeroed out. We monitored the corpse for a couple of hours, and were about to give up when we caught a heartbeat. Just one, and the cardiograph flatlined after that. We waited, and a minute or so later we got another beat. After that, the ECG lit up like a nuclear Christmas tree. We’d shot Dr. Mayer in the chest at point-blank range with a .30-06, and he’d been legally dead for almost four hours, but we were getting brain activity and a heartbeat—albeit a terribly slow one. Respiration remained at zero.
Within a few more minutes Dr. Mayer was fully awake. I should tell you he seems much slower. Could be rigor mortis; most of his body seems to have begun the decay process before he re-awakened. Can’t be sure until we observe him longer. In any case, he’s a lot less dexterous than he was before we killed him.
Maybe this information can help you. All I know is, I’ve seen the dead return to life, I’ve seen the infectious qualities of this disease, I’ve tried to warn the administration about it, and I’ve seen them completely ignore me. Now it’s starting and we’re totally unprepared. I’m going to leave the lab now and go get a martini.
Or ten.
Lt. Col. Anna Demilio,
US Army Medical Research Institute of Infectious Disease
/end
INTERCEPT COMPLETE_
Cairo
December 21, 2006
1734 hrs_
CAIRO BURNED.
The fire spread through sixteen city blocks in a few short hours, consuming building after building. The conflagration had begun when an army convoy fuel tanker headed south towards Lake Victoria had gone through the road, breaking into a sewer pipe buried too shallow beneath the pavement. Main battle tanks had gone before it, treads chewing the road to pieces, and made the route treacherous. The tanker’s caps had broken loose and petrol had washed across the highway.
Soldiers immediately blocked off the section of road near the spill and began cleanup, but a spark had ignited the vaporous fuel emissions and the area went up in a white-hot flash. The buildings nearest the spill site had caught fire first, and prevailing winds had carried the blaze across the city blocks. Hundreds, maybe thousands, were lost and presumed dead. Thousands more were injured.
Rebecca Hall wiped sweat from her brow, taking a moment to breathe. The twenty-two-year-old volunteer wore a dirty, stained t-shirt and had a band strapped around her arm that bore the Red Cross symbol. She had been bringing water to the burn victims for nine hours, offering words of comfort, cleaning wounds, and injecting painkillers into those who needed it most. She was exhausted. Her patients got water, but she didn’t think to drink any herself.
Rebecca could feel the heat off of the fire just a half a mile away. It was moving parallel to their position, but fire crews and soldiers had warned them to be ready to evacuate on a moment’s notice if the winds shifted. The fire and the daily heat of Egypt—even in December—was enough to make her feel dizzy.
“Becky! We need more gauze from the truck!” yelled a doctor. Rebecca was too beat to look up to see who it was. “Becky! Hurry!”
She spun slowly towards the surplus deuce-and-a-half that served as the little relief station’s supply depot. Medics were handing out packages of bandages, morphine, and canteens of water to dozens of other volunteers, who were swarming around the back of the truck with outstretched arms. They jostled and shouted at one another as they grabbed at the supplies being tossed out over the small crowd.
Rebecca elbowed her way through the crowd towards the truck. She reached the vehicle and pulled at the leg of one of the medics inside.
“Sarah! Sarah! I need gauze! We’re running low on gauze!”
The medic looked down and rummaged through the supplies. She returned, “Becky, we’re almost out! There’s only three boxes left—and maybe twenty canteens of water! What are we going to do?!”
“Keep working until we’re out, then make do!” Rebecca shouted back, grabbing the gauze before one of the other volunteers could snag it. “Cut the coats and other gear into bandages! Send some runners to fill the canteens!”
“The plumbing’s out!” Sarah yelled.
“Then send them to the river! I’ve got to get these back to the doctors!” Rebecca paused, tucked the gauze under her arm, and looked up at her friend. She added, “Are you going to be alright?!”
“I’ll be fine!”
Rebecca fought her way out of the crowd and stumbled back towards her post. Her mouth felt like sandpaper and her vision swam. Unless her eyes were playing tricks on her, the fires seemed to be getting closer. And so did the refugees. An unending stream of them poured down the street toward the Red Cross aid station. Egyptian army soldiers armed with assault rifles pointed them towards the posts that could help them. Some argued with the soldiers or tried to push past them.
Rebecca saw one man get whipped with the buttstock of a rifle. He collapsed to the ground and a woman screamed, kneeling over his unconscious form. The soldier who had clubbed him was yelling and gesturing towards the fire. Police with riot shields were trying to corral the uninjured from crossing into the aid station, and the uninjured were trying just as desperately to get to their wounded family and friends.
“Help my baby! Someone help my baby!” sobbed a woman, stumbling towards Rebecca.
She tossed the package of gauze bandages onto a bloodied and soiled gurney and walked over to the woman, holding out her arms. The woman was carrying a child who looked around five, maybe six. Its face was blackened and cracked, burned almost beyond recognition. The child wasn’t crying.
“
Let me see!” Rebecca yelled over the crowd. The woman handed her child off into Rebecca’s outstretched arms.
Rebecca laid the girl on the gurney and pressed two of her fingers against the child’s throat. There was no pulse. The child had already died.
“Doctor!” Rebecca called. One of the three doctors working at her post paused for a moment and fixed her with an inquisitive look. “Have a look at this one!”
The doctor came running over. Rebecca turned to the mother and put her arm around her shoulders, leading her away from the gurney.
“Come on, come with me, let’s get you some water, the doctor’s going to take care of your little girl . . . Don’t worry.”
The mother was still sobbing, looking over her shoulder at her child, then back at Rebecca. She was confused, hurt, and panicked, but she allowed herself to be led away.
Behind the pair, the doctor glanced subtly to make sure the mother wasn’t watching, then pulled a sheet over the child’s head. He waved to a pair of local volunteers, who ran over and pushed the gurney swiftly away.
This was a technique that had evolved over just a few hours. The bereaved were simply causing too much disorganization. The volunteers had started lying to people shortly after the first fight had broken out between a mourning father and a soldier who needed him to make room for new patients.
Rebecca hated the lying. She hated telling people their loved ones were fine, when in fact they were dying or already dead. She imagined how she would feel if someone told her that, only to find out the truth later. These people were going to be devastated. They were already hurt—and their wounds were only going to get worse.
She pulled a canteen from the back of the deuce-and-a-half and sat the weeping mother down by one of the truck’s massive tires.