Plague of the Dead

by Z. A. Recht

  “Collateral damage,” Anna echoed, lowering her eyes.

  “We estimated one-hundred and ten thousand carriers destroyed and close to ten thousand innocents killed in the process across the nation.”

  “In all this time?” Anna asked, hope brightening her face for a moment. As callous as it sounded, the numbers were much smaller than she expected. Maybe the USA would hold out after all. Then, as quickly as it arrived, hope vanished.

  “No,” Mason said. “That’s yesterday’s estimate. Just yesterday.”

  “And back there? Today’s attack?”

  “Our stand. They’ll make it through today, I think. We have enough firepower to hold off the infected, and headquarters is a fortress. The strain will have a hard time driving us from our home ground. I figured the confusion was enough to cover our escape—I don’t know when or how they realized what was going on, but they’re good at what they do. Which means we’ll have to be extremely careful if we’re going to make it very far from here. Like I said, they’ll be after us.”

  “How far are we going to get with two weapons and no food or water?” Anna asked.

  Mason smirked. “We’re heading to a safe house in the suburbs, remember? We’ll find whatever we need there.”

  “Will there be any medical supplies for Julie? I’d like to get her taken care of as soon as possible.”

  “Doc,” Mason said with a grin, “When I say whatever we need, I mean it. Another five minutes and we’ll be there.”

  Washington, D.C.

  1830 hrs_

  Agent Mason had not been lying. The safe house was a wonder of modern espionage. There were several at any given time in and around every major city in the world, Mason had explained. They had been built and stocked for one purpose: to equip an agent on the run. Naturally, they weren’t meant to be used by agents who’d gone rogue on the company, which was why each safe house had an operator stationed inside. The operator was meant to keep the gear secure and maintained, and also to keep up a semblance of normalcy to the neighbors and keep suspicion at a minimum. Luckily for the three escapees, the operator of the safe house in the suburbs was long gone to answer the call at headquarters. Once Agent Mason had picked the lock on the door that led into the house from the catacombs, they were home free.

  The door opened into the basement of the house. Anna thought for a moment they had stumbled into an office building—the basement was fully finished, with sterile white walls and a carpeted floor. Heavy lockers lined the walls. An expansive computer terminal sat in one corner, screens scrolling information faster than the human eye could read. One wall had a number of hooks screwed into it from which dangled suits of riot gear that looked like they’d been collecting dust for a year or more. Another wall held maps of the area—topographical maps, street maps, utilities, every possible variant seemed arranged neatly next to one another for reference.

  Mason made a beeline for the computer terminal, quickly punching keys and bringing up a set of windows that showed scenes of suburban normalcy: a deserted street outside, a frost-covered back yard, an empty front porch. The house had its own security system and Mason was arming it piece by piece.

  “I’m locking us down,” Mason explained. “Don’t even touch any of the outside windows or doors. The knobs are electrified and we have a video-assisted targeting program running on a turret ‘bot in the foyer. Make a wrong move and this computer will think you’re an intruder. It’ll light you up.”

  “Is there food here? Water? Medical supplies?” Anna asked, looking over Mason’s shoulder at the screens. Julie leaned heavily against the map-covered wall behind them, coughing into her arm.

  “Right there,” Mason said, jerking a finger over his shoulder at the nearest locker.

  Anna went over and pulled the bulky double doors open, revealing stacks upon stacks of neatly-packed MREs and pre-packaged first aid kits. There were heavier surgical kits strapped to the doors of the locker, boxes of latex gloves and sterile hypodermics, gauze pads, splints, suture silk, iodine and other necessities.

  “Good God,” Anna said. “There’s enough here to run a MASH outfit for a month.”

  “One stop shopping,” Mason replied, eyes still glued to the screens. “Everything you need right at your fingertips.”

  “How about clothes?” Anna asked. She and Julie were still clad in the thin prison clothes they had been issued.

  “Locker next to the riot gear should have shirts and pants.”

  Anna pulled a couple of medical kits from the locker and tucked them under her arm, then yanked a couple hypodermics as well. She set her bounty on one of the folding tables that occupied the middle of the room. She opened the other locker and found herself staring at piles of neatly-folded uniform clothing. Black BDU pants, white, gray, and black t-shirts, boots, and even a few pairs of dress shoes and button-down shirts that dangled from hangers. The clothing on the hangers looked like the rejected props from a bad costume drawer. There was a vest with a few shotgun shells in loops on the chest, a faded Hawaiian shirt, a cowboy hat—all seemingly at random. Anna realized they were probably items left here by agents stopping in to change into uniform gear. She pulled two pairs of BDU pants free as well as a pair of the gray shirts, and then, as an afterthought, yanked down the vest as well. She figured the pockets might come in handy.

  “Alright, Julie,” Anna said, piling all of her goodies together and scooping them up. “Let’s go upstairs, get changed into more suitable clothes, and see if we can get you fixed up.”

  “Sounds good,” Julie managed, choking back a cough. “Too bad there weren’t any Ludens in that locker.”

  “Don’t wander far,” Mason advised. “And for God’s sake, stay away from the outside doors and windows. And don’t turn on any lights. And don’t touch anything you don’t recognize.”

  “Yeah, yeah.”

  The safe house underwent a magnificent transformation as Anna and Julie stepped through the door at the top of the stairs and entered the main floor. It was, to all appearances, a completely and benignly average home: A few family pictures lined the walls, change had been left lying out on a table, a coat was tossed across a chair. It looked as if the family had just stepped out for a few minutes.

  “Creepy,” Julie commented, standing in the doorway.

  “Tell me about it,” Anna agreed. “Come on, let’s hurry so we can go back downstairs. I don’t like it up here much.”

  “Seconded.”

  1902 hrs_

  It was mostly official: Julie had pneumonia. Anna guessed it wasn’t that bad of a case though, and gave the reporter some antibiotics from the medical kit as well as a small dose of morphine in her arm to distract her. It wouldn’t take too long for the medicine to start working, but for a little while Julie would be second string.

  They had retreated back down to the clean room in the basement and locked the door at the top of the stairs with its heavy deadbolt. The shutters had been closed in the catacombs below and the door had been barricaded with a locker, giving them two steps of protection either way an enemy could get at them. There were a small number of CDs scattered around the computer, and Mason had found that one of them was a collection of Beethoven. The three were lounging around the room as his Moonlight Sonata filled the air.

  Mason sat in the chair by the computer terminal, feet propped up on the desk, cleaning an Uzi he had taken from the armory’s worth of weapons the room held. He swabbed the barrel and peered down it with a practiced eye, nodding slightly and swabbing again.

  Julie sat on the floor, head leaned up against a locker, using her prison uniform as a pillow. She dozed in and out of sleep. The morphine had stopped the cough for a while.

  Anna stood in front of the maps on the wall, looking at what lay outside their safe little room. Any way one cut it, they were going to have one hell of a time getting the rest of the way out of the city. She saw there were three different ways via the catacombs—but all three led to installations that w
ere likely still staffed with people who would ask all the wrong questions when they came popping out. Too many troubles, not enough breaks.

  They were safe for a while, though. They had food, water, and protection. They were doing much better than most folks outside the four white walls of the room. However, Anna knew they would have to leave and join the war soon enough. But first it was time to rest and regroup—and wait for a break.

  USS Ramage

  January 19, 2007

  1545 hrs_

  PRIVATE FIRST CLASS Ewan Brewster was beginning to worry about his health prospects. He wasn’t ill with the strain now, but that was no guarantee he’d even be in one piece in a few hours. The situation in the quarantine zone was reaching a boiling point. Brewster had kicked a folding chair to shreds hours before and pulled a wickedly-shaped club of bent metal free from the wreckage. He’d backed himself into a corner of the room and kept a close eye on the other occupants, waiting for one to make a move.

  The problem wasn’t that they didn’t trust each other—Trust was pretty well established in a group that had already been through as much as they had. The problem was that they didn’t know who was going to turn, and it had become damn near impossible to even tell who was beginning to feel ill—because everyone in the room had contracted a nasty stomach flu around the same time, two days earlier. Rebecca had said it might have been food poisoning, which was possible, considering the men all ate the same rations. It was as if God himself had decided to pull a fast one on the soldiers.

  Normally it would have been easy to spot someone beginning to slip under the influence of the strain. They would cough, shake, run a fever, maybe vomit, and eventually turn in the midst of their sickness. Now, with the introduction of the flu, everyone was coughing, running fevers, and vomiting into whatever receptacle lay nearby. And since cabin fever was also rampant—the occupants had been in the same room together for a week—hostility was noticeably higher. In the end, after a particularly nasty shouting match, they had decided to back off and simply watch one another.

  Brewster didn’t rank his chances of survival very high, being unarmed and possibly in the same room with a carrier. He had his money on Decker; the sergeant had been even more irritable than the others today. Brewster ran the back of his hand across his brow, and shook his head to ward off drowsiness. He hadn’t slept in over a day, going on two. It was too dangerous to sleep.

  “Feeling fatigued, Brewster?” Decker asked, laying back on a bunk, arms folded across a sweat-stained t-shirt, breathing heavy. “Feeling like you can’t go on?”

  “Fuck you, ass-hat,” Brewster growled from his corner across the room, brandishing the club and hunkering down once more.

  “Little hostile for someone who’s uninfected,” commented Decker.

  “Lay off him, Sarge, he’s tired. We’re all tired,” said Scott, laying near the door with his back against the wall.

  Decker grunted a barely audible response, and shrugged.

  Tension was high. Scott was less worried about the strain than he was about the other soldiers tearing each other apart out of stress. If any of them had the strain, they’d be turning sometime soon, within . . .

  “ . . . Within zero to twelve hours,” said Rebecca Hall, at her makeshift work area halfway across the ship from the men in the quarantine zone. She was checking up on a soldier’s broken arm as General Sherman listened from across the room.

  “So if after twelve hours has passed . . .” Sherman started.

  “Better make it a full twenty-four to be sure,” said Rebecca. She hated keeping the men under quarantine any longer than was necessary, but in this case, safe was much better than sorry.

  “Okay, have it your way. After twenty four hours has passed, if none of them have turned, they’re all safe?” Sherman finished.

  “I’d say so, aside from any recent trauma they may suffer at each other’s hands before they get out of there,” the medic added, dismissing the soldier and swiveling on her stool to face Sherman. “They’re getting ready to kill each other out of sheer paranoia.”

  “I don’t blame them,” Sherman said. Seeing the look on the medic’s face, he quickly added, “What with the flu hitting them like it did. No way to tell now.”

  “How far are we out?”

  “Not far at all. We’ll know how it’s going to turn out in there before we make landfall, but just barely,” Sherman said, fishing around in a chest pocket for a cigarillo. He must have remembered he was in a sickbay, and let the cigarillo go.

  “What’s the Captain doing? Calling ahead to let them know we’re coming?”

  “He’s been trying. I’m worried about what we’re going to find when we get there,” Sherman admitted. “He’s been getting lots of radio traffic, so there’s plenty of souls alive and kicking in San Fran—but they’re spooked. Panicked. The Strain’s definitely there.”

  Rebecca felt as if the wind had been knocked out of her for a moment. If the virus was in California, it was probably elsewhere, just like the rest of the world. There was no running from it. It was the alpha and the omega, borderless, primal, and pure.

  She carefully asked, “How are they doing?”

  “On the whole,” Sherman began, picking his words, “We’re holding on. Just the same, I’ve asked Captain Franklin if he wouldn’t mind moving our arrival point a bit north so we can avoid the major cities.”

  Rebecca nodded silently. It was a prudent move, but there was another question that begged asking.

  “And where are we going once we’re on land?”

  Sherman grimaced. “I’m not quite sure. One part of me wants to rush to the nearest town and reinforce the efforts they’ve got going. Another part of me . . .”

  “What?”

  “Another part of me wants to find a nice, quiet spot, and sit back for a little while and see how this plays out. Maybe the cities will hold on. Or maybe not. Either way, there’s no infrastructure for a while, I’m guessing. There’ll be rioting. Looting. We might be doing our world the best service by staying alive and keeping as many others alive as we can.”

  “What about the military? Won’t they come looking for you?”

  “Maybe someday,” Sherman said. “They have bigger problems at the moment.”

  A radio clipped on Sherman’s belt chirped. He clicked the talk button.

  “Sherman here.”

  “General, it’s Franklin. We just received an e-mail, sir, from someone who says she knows you.”

  “An e-mail?” Sherman barked into the radio. “What happened to the radio?”

  “Nothing, we’re still trying to raise someone. This just . . . arrived for you when we got back in range.”

  “I’ll be right up,” Sherman said, straightening up from his relaxed lean. “We’ll finish our conversation later, Rebecca.”

  “Sure, Frank.”

  Sherman had an idea about who may have been behind the e-mail. He made his way directly to the bridge of the ship where Franklin was waiting for him.

  The Captain had pulled up the message and had it on the screen when Sherman came onto the bridge.

  “Just received it a few minutes ago when we came in range,” Franklin said. “Makes me wish we had more satellites flying—we’d have been able to get this when it was first sent. Looks like it’s been waiting a couple of days.”

  “Let me see,” Sherman said, eyes scanning the text on the screen.

  Frank,

  It’s Anna. Been a while since I’ve written. That’s because I’ve been a political prisoner up until a few days ago. It’s a long story. I’ll get into it when I see you next, but for now, let’s talk business. Last report has you bugging out of Suez. I don’t know where you are or if you’ll even get this message, but here’s hoping you do. I’ve been set free by an NSA agent named Mason, along with a reporter named Julie Ortiz. We’re holed up in a safe house just outside the beltway in DC. It’s secure enough (that’s an understatement!).

  Okay. SitR
ep.

  Washington is fucked. At least, that’s my professional analysis. The city center fell yesterday as far as we can tell. A general retreat was sent out and there’s a call to fortify around the outskirts of the city to fend off the carriers. Needless to say, I don’t put much stock in their efforts. Besides, I’ve got reports right here in front of me detailing the state of the major cities here—every single one has reported outbreaks. There are several smaller cities with outbreaks as well. Currently rural areas of the States are unaffected, but civil unrest is everywhere.

  Like I said, we’re safe here, but we’re alone and aimless. Where are you? What are your plans? We’ll have to move eventually and when we do, I want it to be with a purpose. We have access to the Internet here, as well as all kinds of government resources from food to fuel to intel. Get back to me.

  Lt. Col. Anna Demilio,

  of no particular institution at the moment

  “Hot damn, she’s alive,” Sherman said. “I had a feeling she’d make it through this.”

  “What?” Franklin asked.

  “It’s from Colonel Demilio of USAMRIID. She’s the world’s leading Morningstar expert. She’s holed up in a safe house outside of DC with a couple other people. Situation’s grim on the home front, it seems.”

  “Figured as much,” said Franklin. “Should we scrap our plans to make landfall at San Fran?”

  “Not yet,” Sherman replied. “Let’s get a little closer and see what we can learn. Don’t go too far in—I don’t want to be committed to any course of action unless we’re sure it’s the one that’ll keep us alive and kicking.”

  “We’ll step up monitoring of—”

  “Sir?” said one of the crewmen, holding a red phone to his shoulder. “It’s belowdecks calling up. There’s a situation in the quarantine room.”