by Z. A. Recht
“Here,” she said, twisting off the cap. “Drink this. You’ll feel better.”
The woman quieted long enough to take a small sip from the canteen. She sputtered and coughed, then tried again, this time taking a deep drink. When she finished she returned the half-full canteen to Rebecca with a grateful look on her face.
“There,” Rebecca said. “Better?”
The woman managed to nod.
“I’m going to go check on your little girl. Stay here and try to rest, okay?” she said, leaving the canteen by the woman’s side. She stood up and swayed back and forth on her feet for a moment. She became acutely aware of her thirst once more, but reminded herself of the other wounded people still coming in to the station. She turned, running back towards her post. She had lost count of her trips for supplies hours before. Her feet felt like they were tingling as they slapped the pavement and her vision blurred a little, then snapped back into focus.
She slowed to a stop by her post, leaning on her knees, trying to catch her breath. She’d only run a hundred feet or so. Why was she so tired?
The world seemed to phase in and out of focus, and Rebecca shot out a hand to steady herself.
“Rebecca?” asked a voice. It was one of the doctors. “Rebecca, are you alright?”
She looked up at the source of the voice, but couldn’t make out the face. The doctor was silhouetted, and behind him rose a curtain of fire. Rebecca felt the world spin around her, and then her vision went dark entirely.
She crumbled, unconscious, to the ground. She’d become one of the victims she had been trying all day to save—a victim of heat stroke and dehydration. The doctor who called to her ran over, then knelt. He called for help.
“She’s burning up! Get her out of here and back to base camp! And for God’s sake, someone get more gauze up here!”
Behind the aid stations and refugees and shouting soldiers, Cairo still burned.
Washington, D.C.
December 27, 2006
1342 hrs_
“Stick to the script! Don’t put in anything that isn’t written on those prompters, or the FCC’ll have our asses,” growled the station supervisor from the control room overlooking the news studio. “And remember to look confident, Julie. America’s watching. On in five, four . . .”
In the studio below, news anchor Julie Ortiz straightened her back and cleared her throat. The cameraman in front of her counted down silently with the supervisor, flashing fingers. Two, one . . .
The studio silenced, and a backlit sign bearing the words ‘ON AIR’ lit up. The buffer music began to play from the control room.
A pre-recorded tape announced, “Welcome back to Channel Thirteen News, bringing you around the clock updates on the crisis in Africa. Here’s news anchorwoman Julie Ortiz!”
Julie smiled into the camera.
“I’m Julie Ortiz, thanks for joining us. Our top story this afternoon—the biological crisis in Africa has reached new heights of destruction, when earlier today we learned that rescue and relief stations in Cape Town, South Africa were contaminated by carriers of what is now being called the Morningstar Strain by government officials. While many refugees were able to escape by boat, thousands more were left behind on shore.”
The station supervisor cued footage they had received of the event. The screen beside Julie began flashing images of helpless refugees standing waist-deep in the ocean, waving frantically to the boats at sea. The video footage was grainy and shaky, taken from a home video camera. The image pulled back, showing the railing of the boat the videographer was standing on.
Cape Town was more or less intact in the background, though here and there plumes of dark, oily smoke rose up from the city.
Julie continued, “What happened next was captured by amateur photographers. Channel Thirteen has decided to air footage of the fall of Cape Town, and warns viewers that the footage may be considered disturbing. Parents, use discretion.”
The footage cut to a different cameraman, this one closer to shore on a smaller boat. Voices in the background seemed to be coming from the other passengers, looking at the helpless refugees trying desperately to get to a ship.
Suddenly, the crowd on shore took up a shout, and the mob almost seemed to boil as the people splashed madly into the water, trampling one another into the sandy bottom.
“Infected carriers of the Morningstar Strain become violent and homicidal, hostile to the point of actively seeking new targets to attack,” Julie said as the video played. “The Cape Town refugees drew the attention of nearby carriers, and the crowd’s reaction cost many refugees their lives.”
The video showed the knot of refugees on the shore splitting in two, with half of the group running one direction down the beach, the other half in the opposite direction. A scattered few still tried to swim toward the boats, and a sickening number of bodies floated in the water, drowned or trampled by the mob.
The mob scattered to reveal hundreds of carriers of Morningstar.
They had plowed into the group of refugees from behind, and caught them unaware. Several people were down, clutching bloody wounds caused by the scratching, thrashing limbs of the carriers or their bloodied, gnashing teeth.
A couple of the carriers stumbled about quietly, as if in a daze. Most flicked their heads about, spraying blood and bits of flesh from their mouths as they growled and ran after the surviving refugees with fevered speed. The cameraman zoomed in, trying to capture the action as closely as he could. One refugee was tackled hard by a carrier, and his head was pulled up by the hair as the carrier sank his teeth into the back of his neck. Another’s back was flayed as a carrier dragged her nails across the refugee’s skin.
“More carriers were coming to the site than the refugees expected. Most were cut off and infected before they made it to safety. The death count is estimated at twelve thousand,” Julie said.
The video cut to a new angle. The sun in this tape was lower in the sky and the clouds were beginning to turn red in the early evening hours.
“Four hours later, the destruction was complete,” said Julie.
On the tape, the survivors on the shore had vanished completely. There was a new mob standing on the beach, waist-deep in the water.
Carriers.
Thousands upon thousands of them.
They pawed at the sky and each other, a teeming mass of infected humanity. Here and there, the carriers turned on each other, snarling and grabbing one another, falling into the water and rolling as they hissed, scratched, and bit one another. Most, however, stood fixated by the boats offshore. Their heads turned back and forth as if they were looking for some path that would lead them to the survivors onboard. They seemed reluctant to try their hands at swimming. One or two plunged into the water, but quickly resurfaced and dragged themselves back into the shallows.
The tape cut out and Julie took over the screen again.
“U.S. government officials have authorized aid to be sent to the survivors of what is being called the Cape Town Slaughter. The USS Ronald Reagan left home berth today to set sail for South Africa, acting as the flagship of a task force that will rendezvous east of Bermuda. There is still much to be decided in the matter of containing the Morningstar Strain, and fighters on the aircraft carrier are on standby, waiting for an order to destroy contaminated areas. Joining us now via satellite link to explain the threat of the strain in greater detail is Lieutenant Colonel Anna Demilio from the US Army Medical Research Institute of Infectious Disease. Colonel, welcome.”
The studio supervisor split the screen into halves. Julie’s smiling face occupied one half, and the other half showed the grainy image of Anna Demilio. She was in her early forties, still attractive, wearing BDUs. She, unlike Julie, was not smiling.
“Thanks, Julie.”
“Colonel, the spread of the disease has reached epidemic proportions. Is the speed of contamination something that could have been predicted, or prevented?” Julie asked, shuffling sheets of notes o
n the desk in front of her.
“Well, Morningstar is one sick puppy, if you’ll excuse the expression. It has the potential to transmit itself in an amazingly short period of time, under certain conditions. It is likely, however, that we’ve seen the fastest period of the epidemic already. In nature, the disease would take over a week to incubate within a host before symptoms first appear. The zero case, or the person who originally contracted the disease at the beginning of the outbreak, probably walked around for that entire period of time, spreading the virus to people he or she encountered, before he or she took ill. Then, a week after that, all the carriers that were infected by the zero fell ill. The second generation is probably responsible for the minor outbreaks in Kinshasa and Mombasa we saw earlier this month, but they had already infected numerous others before they developed symptoms, and so on. Now that Morningstar has dominance on most of the African continent, contamination should slow somewhat, as most if not all infected people are still on the continent, and the threat of hidden contamination is reduced significantly. So, to answer your original question—yes, we could and did predict the spread of a virus like Morningstar, but there is no real way to prevent such outbreaks from occurring.”
“Could the CDC or USAMRIID have sent teams in to contain the disease in its early phases?” Julie asked.
“We could, and we should have,” Anna said, folding her hands. “We didn’t, simply because the disease was too new and mysterious to accurately judge the threat it presented. If we had sent a team in without a full bank of knowledge, a team member could have become infected and brought the disease home with him or her. Now that we know how it’s transmitted, we can better deal with it.”
“And how does Morningstar spread from host to host, Colonel?” Julie asked.
“Well, it’s not airborne. Viruses like influenza tend to be airborne—that is, you can spread them by coughing or breathing on someone. We should thank God or luck or whatever we believe in for that. Morningstar is transmitted through bodily fluids. We have examined cadavers and found that there is a high concentration of virus in the saliva of carriers, as well as in seminal and vaginal fluids. Then, of course, there’s blood.”
“So you’re saying a person could contract the disease through any contact with infected fluid?” Julie asked.
“Not through any contact. Theoretically, you could put your hand in infected blood, and providing you have no cuts or breaks in your skin, you could wash it off and be fine. But most people who come into contact with contaminated material don’t take the threat seriously enough and either fail to sterilize their skin thoroughly or assume water will do the trick. Then they might rub their eyes, or even pick their nose, and contract the disease.”
“One final question,” Julie said, pulling a fresh sheet of notes.
“Okay,” replied Anna, leaning forward slightly.
“Do you believe there is a significant risk of Morningstar outbreaks in the United States?”
At this, Anna halted. She opened her mouth as if to speak, but held back. Her eyes flicked to the side and hovered there a moment before darting back to the camera.
“No, Julie,” Anna said. Her voice was heavy and subdued. “I don’t think we have any reason to worry.”
“Well, thanks for joining us, Colonel.”
“My pleasure.”
“That was Lieutenant Colonel Anna Demilio from the US Army’s Medical Research Division. After a word from our sponsors, we’ll return with more breaking news from the front lines of the war on Morningstar. This is Julie Ortiz. Thanks for watching Channel Thirteen news!”
The cameraman held up a finger, signaling Julie to wait. She sat patiently, a smile on her face, until he dropped the finger.
“ . . . And we’re off the air!” he said, letting the camera sag on its base. He pulled the headset from his ear and grinned. “Nice broadcast, Julie!”
But Julie Ortiz wasn’t listening. She glared up at the control booth over the studio floor.
“What the hell was that bullshit, Jim?!” she demanded, standing up from behind her desk.
“That bullshit was exactly what the people needed to hear, Julie,” said the station supervisor through the intercom.
“And that last question—the one about outbreaks in the US—that doctor’s answer was so blatantly false I don’t know how I can find the guts to even call myself a journalist after airing it!”
“That’s enough, Julie! We air what the Feds tell us to air! We’re in a crisis here! The last thing we need is rebelling anchorwomen messing with the flow of information!”
“You know what, Jim?” said Julie. “Air this.”
She flipped him off.
“You’re on thin ice, Julie,” the supervisor replied. “Sit down, smile, look pretty, or go find yourself another job.”
Grumbling to herself, Julie sank slowly back into her chair.
“I don’t know how much longer I can do this,” she said.
The cameraman looked sympathetic. “Don’t worry. The Feds know what they’re doing. They’re probably already getting it under control over there.”
Julie grimaced. “You know, I’d really love to think that.”
Suez
December 31, 2006
2043 hrs_
A steady stream of ferries worked their way across the Suez Canal, bearing loads of terrified refugees and rear-guard soldiers.
The evacuation was taking place as scheduled. General Francis Sherman took a deep pull off his cigar, the coals glowing orange in the darkness. He was almost sixty years old, but was no worse for the wear. General Sherman took pride in passing the same physical fitness tests as eighteen year-old recruits. Now, he was glad for it. He’d been almost two days without sleep and weariness was threatening to overcome him. Before rest, however, came work.
“How long until the last load crosses the Suez?” he asked, breathing a cloud of smoke.
“Another day at most, sir,” said Commander Barker, the Naval officer in charge of the transport barges the task force was using to ferry refugees. “We’re not having any problems.”
“And the bridges?” Sherman asked.
“Planting the demo charges now, sir,” said Colonel Dewen, US Army. “We’ll be green in thirty. Just give the word and we’ll light ’em up.”
“We’re not expecting any more traffic from the railway or roads, are we?”
“Nothing scheduled, sir, but you never know . . .”
“Barker, get a few of these ferries up to the El Ferdan crossing and El Qantara. If any civvies show up after we blow the bridges, get ‘em across by boat.”
“Yes, sir.”
“There’s one snag in the plans, General,” said Sergeant Major Thomas, a scarred veteran of Vietnam, Grenada, and Desert Storm. “These refugees—there are more than we thought. We’re not going to have enough food or shelter for them all.”
“Damn it,” General Sherman said, frowning. “Well, there’s nothing for it, at least for a little while. Distribute what we’ve got, and dispatch a request for more gear.”
“Right, sir.”
“Commander, Colonel, come with me, please,” Sherman said, beckoning the two officers to follow him. He led them to a camouflaged pavilion near one of the makeshift docks the Corps of Engineers had built. The pavilion was well lit. A generator hummed nearby. The sounds of the diesel ferry engines, shouting soldiers, and the whup-whup-whup of helicopter blades in the sky overhead forced the general to raise his voice slightly to be heard.
“Gentlemen,” he began, looking down at a laminated map of the area, “We’re in a tactically sound position.”
He illustrated, pointing down at the thin blue line of the Suez Canal on the map.
“Here, we’re less than five miles from El Ferdan. That’s the most probable crossing point for civvies we missed. If any of them show up, we’ll be ready to get them across the canal. The tunnel to the south and the crossing farther north will be demo’d, and we’ll leave a smal
l contingent of troops to watch for survivors at each point. The canal itself is our most valuable defensive tool.” General Sherman then folded up the laminated map to reveal a second map underneath. This one covered less ground, and features such as the railway bridge—the longest in the world—were plainly visible on the grid-lined satellite image. He continued, “If we learned anything at Cape Town, it was that carriers don’t like to swim. We’ve got eggheads working on a hypothesis for it as we speak. Personally, I think they just don’t like getting wet. In any case, once the bridges are gone, we’ll have successfully cordoned off the Middle East from infected Africa. Commander, are the Seaguards in position?”
“Yes, sir. Battle groups are stationed outside every major port on the continent. The Brits have North Africa covered—there’s a task force controlling the Nile delta, another off Tunisia. Germany sent ships a day ago. They’re still en route, but when they arrive, they’ll take up positions in the Strait of Gibraltar and off Morocco. We’ve got Cape Town, Port Elizabeth, Mombasa, and the Congo delta blockaded. The Reagan’s battle group is steaming toward the Red Sea, with an ETA of thirty hours.”
“Good. Let’s hope you Navy boys can keep those ports closed. God only knows what would happen if one—just one—contaminated person got in a speedboat and made his way past the barricades to another city port.”
“And not just the virus, sir,” added Commander Barker. “Remember Cairo.”
“Yes. There’s a lesson for the historians down the line,” General Sherman said.
Cairo had been a complete disaster. It was thought originally that the Egyptian city would be the best base of operations for the cleansing and containment of the continent, but panic and disorganization had quickly brought that idea crashing down. Half the city had been consumed in a massive conflagration shortly after soldiers and relief workers began to arrive. Rather than being one of the last bastions of humanity on the continent, it had been one of the first to be fully evacuated. Ironically, there hadn’t been a case of Morningstar within five hundred miles. Cairo had torn itself apart. If similar panic was induced in other cities, the destruction could be just as wanton. Sherman shuddered to think of a massively overpopulated city like Shanghai becoming compromised. More people would die at the hands of their fellow panicked humans than at the hands of the virus itself.