Plague of the Dead

by Z. A. Recht

  It also left a section of the fence line wide open.

  The infected poured through the gap, running up the slope toward the line of foxholes.

  “The line’s been breached!” Sergeant Major Thomas shouted. “Hold them! Keep them back!”

  General Sherman’s head snapped in the direction of Thomas’s voice.

  “No,” he breathed, drawing his pistol.

  The living carriers and their dead brethren swarmed through the gap in the fence line like a biological hourglass, and they were the sand.

  Sergeant Major Thomas surveyed the situation briefly, then made a judgment call.

  “Fall back!” he yelled. “Fall back to the outer perimeter! Abandon your holes!”

  The call was shouted up and down the line. The soldiers began levering themselves out of their positions, scrambling away from the bank of the canal. The foxholes closest to the breach in the line found themselves directly in the path of the horde of carriers. The soldiers tried to get away, but grasping hands pulled them back into the pulsing horde. Their screams were drowned out by the roars of the rage-filled infected.

  The remaining soldiers booked it to their final line of defense—nothing more than a line of sandbags three feet high on the east side of the Suez base.

  “Get the trucks running!” shouted General Sherman, striding into the midst of the confused soldiers. “Where are my drivers? Drivers, get in those vehicles! Give me a firing line along the wall! If you’re out of ammo, get on a truck!”

  Sherman knew that with the canal breached, their hopes of holding the eastern bank were gone. He didn’t want to sound a full retreat—the soldiers would likely panic and run for it into the desert. They wouldn’t last long once the sun got overhead and they were lost with little water and no food.

  Brewster clambered up the side of the deuce-and-a-half and turned the ignition. He tucked his rifle beside him and hung his head out the driver’s side window.

  “Come on, guys, get on! Get on!”

  There wasn’t much time. The carriers were absolutely relentless. With the line of foxholes abandoned, they had quickly torn through the remainder of the razor-wire fence and made their way up the sandy embankment to the camp proper.

  The soldiers on the firing line took aim. As the carriers ran into view, they opened fire, controlled single shots that knocked carriers back or dropped them permanently with a wound to the head. One of the rounds took a carrier in the temple, spraying blood and gray brain matter back onto one of the camp’s floodlights. The blood coating gave the light an eerie pinkish-red quality, bathing the campground in a dusky hue.

  The deuce-and-a-halfs that were loaded with soldiers began to roll out of the camp with all possible speed, grinding gears.

  “Man, I wish I had a Bradley right about now,” said Brewster, tapping the steering wheel nervously as soldiers clambered into the back of his truck. The passenger side door swung open, and Brewster snapped his rifle up, thinking perhaps a carrier had gotten past the wall and was looking to make a snack of him. But it was only Denton.

  The photographer dropped into the passenger seat with a heavy sigh.

  “Where’s your weapon, man?” Brewster asked.

  “Lost it. One of you jarheads knocked it out of my hands,” Denton said, nursing a bruised wrist.

  “Hey, asshole, we’re Army. Jarheads are Marines. Muscles Are Required, Intelligence Not Essential. Remember that.”

  “Leave it to you to keep your levity in a situation as bleak as this one,” Denton replied.

  “My incessant jocularity comes from an innate talent to rationalize even the most depressing of scenarios,” Brewster said. Denton flashed him a surprised look. Brewster just laughed in reply.

  Outside the truck, most of the first wave of infected to come up the slope to the camp had been wiped out by the careful shots of the infantrymen. Still, General Sherman knew the battle was lost. Out of sight, down in the canal, there were still thousands of carriers making their way across. They had neither the manpower nor the ammunition to win the fight.

  He surveyed the scene one final time.

  Most of the soldiers had climbed onboard the deuce-and-a-half trucks parked around the outskirts of the encampment. Only he, a few riflemen, Commander Barker, and Sergeant Major Thomas remained on the ground.

  It was time to bug out.

  “Alright, men! Retreat! Fall back to the vehicles! Let’s get the hell out of here!” he shouted, taking a shot at one of the carriers with his pistol. The round took the carrier in the shoulder, spinning him and dropping him to the ground.

  “You heard the General! Fall back!” Thomas yelled, letting fly with two rounds from his Colt that tore into the chest of a target. He dropped the empty magazine and slapped in a fresh one before turning to retreat.

  Commander Barker was handling himself well. He held a rifle to his shoulder, popping off round after round, skipping backwards towards the trucks as he fired. Out of the corner of his eye he saw a soldier get tackled by one of the sprinter-type carriers. He spun, firing a three-round burst. Two of the rounds took the target in the neck and the third snapped its head back, impacting just under the nose. It fell to the sand, twitching. Barker ran over to the soldier, who was laying on the ground panting, furiously scanning himself for bites or scratches.

  “You’re fine, soldier!” he shouted, reaching a hand down to help the man up. The soldier looked up at his rescuer. His eyes widened.

  Barker saw the man’s expression, then whirled around. He found himself face-to-face with a carrier.

  Barker swung his rifle up, but the carrier was too fast. It leapt on him, knocking him backwards, and sank its teeth into the commander’s face. Barker screamed, feeling his own blood flow into his mouth. He managed to get the barrel of the rifle up and under the carrier’s chin, and he fired. The top of the carrier’s head exploded outward, sending a shower of brain matter all over the ground behind him.

  “Barker!” yelled General Sherman, hanging on to the back of Brewster’s truck.

  “Go!” Barker retorted, pulling himself to his knees. He reached a hand up to his face. His cheek was terribly lacerated and his nose was not much better. “Get out of here! I’m infected!”

  “We can try to stop it!” Sherman called out, beckoning with his arm for Barker to hurry to the truck.

  “No!” Barker replied, reaching down to his pistol belt. He pulled a grenade free and held it up so Sherman could see it.

  Sherman’s face went blank for a moment. He nodded grimly, then swung himself up into the truck, pulling the flap closed behind him.

  “Godspeed, General,” Barker breathed, watching the truck begin to move off into the desert.

  He was the last soldier standing at Suez base.

  He pulled himself to his feet and turned to face the carriers.

  There were hundreds gathered in the base proper now. They were staring at Barker with undisguised hatred in what was left of their fevered eyes. They issued guttural growls, murmured challenges to the final human combatant.

  “Alright, you bastards,” Barker hissed. “You want me? Then come and take me.”

  The carriers roared, covering the distance between themselves and the commander within seconds. As they pulled him to the ground, Barker yanked the pin on the grenade in his hands.

  Before the white blinding flash took Barker away, he heard himself laughing.

  Washington, D.C.

  January 8, 2007

  1234 hrs_

  “THIS IS CHANNEL Thirteen News, bringing you around-the-clock updates on the crisis situation in the Middle East. Here’s news anchorwoman, Julie Ortiz!”

  Julie smiled into the camera lens.

  “Good afternoon, I’m Julie Ortiz, thanks for joining us. Our top story today—do the dead walk? The information that was leaked to the press anonymously yesterday says that they do; a morbid side-effect of the Morningstar Strain. Government officials have vehemently denied this allegation, calling it
‘blatantly false,’ and that it was likely to ‘cause undue panic and speculation.’ Congress has also called for a bipartisan commission to investigate the leak, which is believed by the FBI to have originated from right here, in Washington.”

  Julie glanced down at her notes before continuing.

  “The public reaction to the news was both swift and widely varied. Religious groups gathered in their respective places of worship, and some said that if the reports were true, that the Apocalypse had arrived. Many families have begun stocking up on various food supplies, and grocery stores nationwide are reporting shortages of necessities such as sugar, flour, and canned products. Still, a vast majority of Americans have expressed disbelief in such a report. Should we be taking this report seriously?”

  Julie glanced off-camera for a moment to get a thumbs-up from her supervisor, then turned back to the camera.

  “Tonight Channel Thirteen hosts Central Intelligence Agency chief Tim Daley, and Dr. Vladimir Peshnikov, a respected virologist best known for his work in the treatment of malaria. Gentlemen, welcome. We hope your insights tonight will be helpful.”

  A pair of dour faces appeared over Julie’s shoulders on the inset. Daley was middle-aged, and had a hard look about him, like the kind of man who was used to giving orders rather than taking them. Peshnikov was a bit less intimidating behind his glasses and thick black moustache.

  “Thanks for having me, Julie,” growled Daley.

  “Good afternoon,” said Peshnikov.

  “Gentlemen, let me first ask you what your initial reactions are to the allegation that the dead are reawakening in Africa and the Middle East,” Julie began, shuffling her notes.

  “Well, I can answer that one,” Daley said. “It’s manure. Crap. This is not the kind of stuff you expect to hear your fellow Americans saying in the middle of a crisis. We have no delusions about this disease—it’s dangerous. But it’s not bringing the dead back to life! Why, that’s blasphemy at its worst. God-fearing American citizens know in their hearts that there is no way in this universe the dead can somehow magically wake up—”

  “Perhaps you are being too hasty, Mr. Daley,” interrupted Peshnikov. “I was cynical as well, but my research has shown—”

  “Oh, you scientists are always touting this research or that research and it never gets anyone anywhere. The dead are dead. It’s not that hard of a concept to figure out,” Daley responded with more than a hint of disdain in his voice.

  “As I was saying,” went on Peshnikov, “My research has shown that an organism can die, whereas parts of it continue to live. It is entirely possible that the creatures described in the leaked information are not reanimated humans at all, merely their bodies.”

  “Oh, that’s helpful,” snorted Daley.

  “The allegation states that those infected by the Morningstar Strain are driven or compelled to spread the disease,” Julie said quickly, before her guests erupted into a full-scale argument. “Do either of you believe that these reports of undead bodies may be directly related to the virus?”

  “Of course,” Peshnikov said before Daley could respond. “I see no other discernable connection between the two factors. Information such as this had never been reported before the outbreak of the Morningstar Strain. It is difficult not to see that the two are connected.”

  “Now wait a second,” Daley said. “We haven’t even established that this dead-bodies-rising thing is true or false yet, and you’re already talking as if it is.”

  “Considering the new and vicious nature of our foe, Mr. Daley, I would be hesitant to deny new data offhand as it arrives simply because it conflicts with my religious views.”

  “The dead don’t rise from the grave!” Daley shouted. “It’s fiction.”

  “So you do not believe there is a connection between the virus and these allegations, Mr. Daley?” Julie asked.

  “No. Well, it’s possible,” Daley said. “I don’t know for sure either way.”

  “That’s very scientific of you, Mr. Daley,” sniped Peshnikov.

  “What we need now more than ever is a sense of who we are, and what we stand for,” Daley said. “We don’t need to have mumbo-jumbo shoved down our throats at this time. We don’t need to be talking about these godforsaken ideas of zombies and undead bodies walking around. What we do need is to come together as a nation and combat this threat through proper education and preparedness, so if this disease does hit America, we’ll be ready in plenty of time.”

  “We may no longer have the luxury of time, Mr. Daley. Epidemics on this scale are rarely predictable,” Peshnikov said. “What needs to be done is to understand the virus rather than running around making preparations we may, in the end, not even need to make. What if we issue protective garments to the citizens of this nation only to find that the disease is airborne?”

  “But it’s not airborne,” Mr. Daley said.

  “Yes, I know. It was merely an example.”

  “So, Mr. Daley,” Julie said, “You believe that preparedness should be number one on America’s list of priorities?”

  “Yes. We have to be ready to stand and deliver if that virus finds its way across our borders.”

  “You have no understanding of the virus. How can you claim to be able to properly prepare anything, much less an entire nation?” asked Peshnikov.

  “All I know is that we must take steps to preserve our lives and the lives of our children, not spread panic with blasphemous stories!”

  “How trite a response—”

  “Listen, you commie bastard!”

  The insets of the two men vanished and Julie composed her expression. She said, “We’ll be returning to the debate momentarily. Afterwards, Trent Dennison will take a look at the district’s falling crime rate. We’ll take a break, and return in a moment.”

  A moment later Jim the cameraman flashed her the all-clear signal. She relaxed, leaning back in her chair.

  “Man,” Jim said, letting the camera fall slack on the tripod, “Those guys sure got heated!”

  “What do you expect?” Julie replied. “The world across the Atlantic is falling apart. They’re getting spooked.”

  “What do you think about this zombie thing?” Jim asked. “I mean, now that we’ve heard the opinions of the experts.”

  He said it with enough veiled sarcasm to bring a smile to Julie’s face.

  “I don’t know,” she said after a moment. “Something tells me there’s a grain of truth to it.”

  “Makes you wonder who had the guts to leak that kind of information—”

  “Miss Julie Ortiz?” came a voice.

  “Yes?” Julie said, blinking back the bright lights of the set. She couldn’t make out her addresser.

  A moment later the men—three of them—stepped forward into the light. Jim cast them a nervous glance. The three were immaculately attired in dark suits. Julie knew what was coming next before it even happened.

  The leader of the group pulled out a badge and flashed it in front of her eyes.

  “I’m Special Agent Sawyer, these are Agents Mason and Derrick, FBI.”

  “And?” Julie asked.

  “You’re under arrest, Ms. Ortiz.”

  “Wait a second,” Jim said, stepping forward. “Why? What for? She’s been right here for hours!”

  “The charge is treason,” said Sawyer. “And if you don’t move back, we’ll arrest you, too—for obstruction.”

  “Let me go, Jim,” Julie said, standing. “I had a feeling these guys would be here sooner or later.”

  1345 hrs_

  Julie was once again in front of the bright lights. This time, however, she was not on a set. She was handcuffed to a chair in a dim interrogation room. Dim was a relative term—it was dark everywhere in the room except for the bright triangle of illumination cast from the spotlight that was tilted directly into Julie’s eyes. She tried to squint, to see around it into the murky darkness, but failed. She knew she wasn’t alone. She could hear murmuring voi
ces behind the light, shuffling papers, and soft footsteps.

  Finally, the light was tilted up sharply and out of her eyes. She found herself face-to-face with Special Agent Sawyer, who was holding a manila envelope. Julie recognized it immediately as the one she had been given by Dr. Demilio, but forced herself to block that thought out of her mind.

  “Well, Miss Ortiz, seems you’ve been a busy little bee lately,” he said, unwinding the string that bound the envelope tab. He slowly upended the envelope onto the floor. Photos and documents spilled out and scattered. “We knew you used to be an investigative reporter, but we never guessed you’d be the kind that would sell out her own country.”

  He rested his foot on the lower rung of the chair Julie was bound to and leaned in very close to her face.

  “You’re in one hell of a shitpile, Miss Ortiz,” he snarled, baring his teeth. “What you do now will help decide how clean you are when you finally get out from under it. Understand?”

  She fixed him with a calm gaze. “I understand that this is the part where I call my lawyer.”

  Sawyer’s snarl faded into a grin and he stepped back, folding his arms and casting a sideways glance at the other men in the room.

  “Did you hear that? She thinks she gets a lawyer,” Sawyer chuckled. Julie could hear muffled laughter from the other agents. Sawyer looked back at her. “I’m not sure you really understand your position, Miss Ortiz. Let me enlighten you—and I’ll be sure to explain it in simple terms so I can be certain you’ll understand.”

  Sawyer walked to the back of the room, behind Julie and out of her field of view. She heard shuffling papers. Sawyer reappeared over her shoulder, thrusting a folder in front of her eyes. It was unassuming and plain, except for a small orange tab in the corner.

  “Do you know what this is, Miss Ortiz? It’s a top secret document. That means it’s classified. That means that your average Joe on the street is to know nothing—nothing—about what is inside this folder.” At this point he pulled a second metal chair away from a table near the wall. It grated harshly along the concrete floors. Sawyer turned it backwards and sat down, looking at the folder in his hands. “When someone tells Joe what’s inside one of these folders, we don’t like it. We don’t like it at all. You told, Miss Ortiz. You told Joe. And that, my dear, is when this—” (Here he held up the folder,) “—turns into something else entirely.”