Plague of the Dead

by Z. A. Recht

  “Goddamn,” Sherman said, standing up quickly. “Morningstar?”

  “Yes, sir—there’s a man down already. Guards want to know if they should go in.”

  “No! Don’t open that door!” Sherman barked, grimacing on the inside as he spoke the order. He hated leaving those men to fend for themselves without so much as a pistol. “The guards are to wait outside until the situation has resolved itself.”

  “Yes, sir,” said the crewman, relaying the order over the phone.

  “I’m going down there,” Sherman said. “Reply to that email, if you will, Captain. Tell her we’re safe and sound, more details later.”

  “You’ve got it, General.”

  Sherman ran at full speed through the bowels of the ship toward the quarantine room—and he was quite fast for a man of his years. When he arrived, the guards were clustered outside the door, holding it shut. Furious pounding on the other side threatened to burst the door into the corridor. Faint voices could be heard through the bulkhead.

  “Open the fucking door, you shits! Goddamn it! Slide in a gun or something!”

  “Hold that door, soldier!” Sherman shouted, pointing a finger at the hatch. “Nothing comes out of that room!”

  “We can’t hold them off much longer!”

  They? thought Sherman. More than one carrier?

  The sounds of combat were also apparent as Sherman closed in on the room. He could hear muffled shouts, threats, the thump of flesh meeting fist or club.

  Sherman blurted, “The soldiers on the other side of the door—They’re the uninfected ones?”

  “Yes sir, but the carriers are right on the other side of them!”

  “Open the panel in the hatch.”

  “Sir?”

  “Open it!”

  There was a small panel in the door which they had been using to serve the soldiers’ meals. The guard Sherman had addressed threw it open, and Sherman reached a hand in the room, holding his own sidearm.

  “Take it!” he shouted, shaking his arm around to get the soldier’s attention. He felt desperate fingers grab the weapon away, and a moment later there were two shots, loud and clear in the metal bowels of the destroyer—and then silence.

  “They’re down,” came a weary report from inside. “And the rest of us are clean, no bites. Can we come out now?”

  The guards looked over at Sherman for approval. He shook his head silently, bending down to look through the panel in the door.

  “How many of you turned?”

  “Two,” came the reply, as a face appeared on the other side. It was Brewster. “Darin and Scott. I got ‘em both. Thanks for the pistol, sir.”

  “My pleasure,” Sherman said. He stood upright. “Open the door.”

  “Sir? They might still be infected . . .”

  “Open the door. They’re clean. They’ve been in there long enough.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Oh, no, you don’t!” came a new voice. Rebecca came jogging up to the group at the door. She had seen the guard reaching for the latch when she’d let fly with her own orders: “Not for another day!”

  A collective groan issued from the surviving quarantined men on the other side of the door.

  “Don’t listen to her, man, don’t listen,” said Brewster, pressing his mouth up to the panel and creating an almost ridiculous picture of talking lips. “Open the door, man. I can taste that fresh air now.”

  The guard started to pull the latch open again, but stopped a second time as Rebecca spoke.

  “We haven’t given it enough time!” Rebecca exclaimed. “You want to open that door and maybe let another carrier out into the ship? Give it some more time.”

  “Now, wait, Rebecca, those guys have been in there over a week. They just had to kill two of their own fellow soldiers. They’ve earned a break.”

  “At the expense of the rest of the ship, possibly?” Rebecca asked, arms akimbo.

  “Open the door, corporal.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I think this is a very bad idea,” Rebecca said, stepping back from the doorway.

  “Noted,” Sherman replied as the door swung open, revealing a gaggle of very weary-looking soldiers. Brewster returned Sherman’s pistol, butt-first. The General nodded in appreciation and holstered the weapon at his side. “Before any of you go anywhere, get checked out by Becky.”

  “First woman I’ve seen in over a week,” Brewster said, snickering. “She can check me out all day long—getting out of this room is just a fringe benefit.”

  Rebecca scowled. “I prescribe a cold shower.”

  “Oh, harsh.”

  “Knock it off, soldiers, and get in—”

  “Get down!” came a cry from one of the guards, fumbling for his weapon. A feral-looking figure had risen up behind the group of soldiers at the door, bile dripping from its mouth as it hissed a battle cry. The strap of the guard’s rifle had caught on his webgear, snagging it up. The figure managed to plant both hands on Brewster’s shoulders and was inches from closing its jaws around his neck when its head snapped backwards, an empty hole where its eye had been. It flopped backwards onto the deck, twitching randomly.

  “Holy shit!” Brewster yelped, jumping into the corridor and grabbing his neck where the carrier had touched him. “That was close!”

  Rebecca stood shock-still, holding the pistol that had dropped the carrier in front of her, a blank look on her face. She had snatched the weapon from Sherman’s loose holster and fired it in one smooth, instinctive movement. She didn’t even know she was capable of such a thing, especially when one considered just who the carrier had been.

  “Fuck me, I knew Decker was one of ‘em,” Brewster said with an impassive expression, leaning over the corpse of the sergeant. He absentmindedly rubbed his shoulder where the carrier had grabbed at him. “Bastards.”

  “See?” Rebecca said, still staring at the body. “I told you more could turn.”

  “Damn,” Sherman breathed, grimacing and pulling Brewster away from the corpse of the sergeant. His eyes scanned over the rest of the room, from the overturned bunks and strewn mattresses to the other two corpses—one lying face down in the middle of the room and the other slumped in the corner, a splatter of blood on the wall behind the hanging head. Darin, Decker, Scott. Three more had bought the farm. “I want the full story, soldiers. But tell it to me from your new room—I’m convinced you should be watched a little while yet.”

  If the newly-freed soldiers were disgruntled, they hid it well, and allowed themselves to be slowly led away from the room by the guards, casting the odd glance back at the room they’d just spent a full week in, the bodies of their fellow soldiers lying unmoving in the wreckage inside.

  Sherman turned his attention to Rebecca, who still grasped the pistol with white-knuckled hands. He reached out to retrieve the weapon from her and said, “I think I’ll have that back now.”

  Rebecca drew away.

  “No,” she murmured. “I think I’ll hold on to it.”

  Sherman looked undecided for a moment, then smirked.

  “I don’t blame you,” he admitted. “We’ll get you a pistol belt and some ammunition to go with it.”

  “Thanks,” she said, nodding almost invisibly, eyes still locked on the corpse lying in the quarantine room.

  Sherman followed her gaze.

  “You did the right thing,” he said.

  “I know,” she replied.

  1730 hrs_

  Sherman was seated on one side of a doorway in the bowels of the destroyer and Ewan Brewster was seated on the other, relating the events of the day’s violence to the general.

  “Darin turned first,” Brewster said, speaking loudly but hesitantly through the door. “We didn’t even notice. He could be a real quiet guy sometimes and we weren’t paying any attention to him. Scott went a couple minutes later while we were trying to hold back Darin—that was a trick, trying to fend off two of those sprinters with just clubs made out of bus
ted furniture. We ended up backing up against that door and staying tight. I don’t know if we could have won if you hadn’t passed that pistol through, sir. It’s like they didn’t feel pain, or at least didn’t mind it. Poor Darin—last week I was playing cards with that guy. This week, he’s a carrier. It’s fucked up, sir.”

  “I understand,” said Sherman. “But he wasn’t your ally anymore. You did what you had to do. We’ll have you out of there within a day or so, I guarantee.”

  “Thanks, sir.”

  Sherman sat silently in the corridor a moment longer, thinking over the events of the past hour. Though he wouldn’t have used such a crude summation as the enlisted man, Sherman had to agree they were fucked up. And he felt terribly about overriding Rebecca only to discover that she had been right. To add insult to injury, he’d had to re-confine the soldiers he’d just freed to make up for it. Soldiers killing their friends, a general who is successfully second-guessed by a medic in her early twenties—and on top of all that, a very uncharacteristic thought kept creeping into his mind. It involved holing up once they made ground fall—going AWOL.

  He was distracted, and he knew that could be dangerous.

  Best to make a decision and be done with it, he figured.

  But what to do? If he committed himself and his men to the government’s containment efforts and they faltered like the defenses at Suez, more would die. There was always the chance they’d be successful, however slim that chance might be.

  Or . . .

  Or he could lead his men away from the fighting, away from the cities—find some small town on the coast and ride out the storm. And maybe be hunted as a deserter.

  Decisions, decisions. There wasn’t much time left to make up his mind. Soon they would be close enough to the coast that they would have to commit to one course of action.

  Due east to aid the cause . . . or north to freedom?

  Brewster leaned on the opposite side of the wall, equally caught up in thought, but of a more dreary nature. The violence in the quarantine room had happened in what felt like an indistinct blur to him. Days with little to no sleep, the adrenaline of the moment—it was all beginning to sink in. Relating what he could remember to General Sherman had brought back some unpleasant images.

  Brewster couldn’t believe he had shot two men he’d grown to know very well over the past week—Darin especially. He’d known the corporal since before Suez. The worst part was that he knew Darin had been fearing he was infected more than anyone else in the quarantine room. He’d complained frequently of symptoms before he’d even shown any, certain that it was his fate to become a carrier.

  He turned out to be right in the end, it seemed.

  And the medic—what was her name, Brewster wondered. Hall.

  Rebecca Hall. She’d shot Decker. For all his bluster in front of the young woman before, Brewster knew she had to be hurting a lot. He didn’t know how far Decker had gotten with her—he suspected not that far—but having to shoot him like that was enough to disturb anybody.

  Brewster shook his head. Focusing on the girl had taken his mind off Darin and Scott for a while. He rubbed his temples wearily, leaning forward and trying to keep his train of thought off the bloodshed.

  They would be getting close to land now. Brewster wondered what he’d be doing once they arrived. Maybe rounding up civilians and keeping order at an aid station somewhere, or patrolling the suburbs. The last word they’d had before the violence had erupted was that the strain had hit the home front, but was being held at arm’s length. For how long, though, no one knew, and few would even venture guesses.

  Ewan Brewster wasn’t much of a praying man, but he prayed that he wouldn’t be forced to stand in another battle line against a flood of carriers like he had at Suez and Sharm El-Sheikh. The infected were completely fearless and utterly relentless. They just kept coming and coming until there wasn’t a round left for the defenders to fire, or until all the carriers were destroyed. And there were always more carriers to fill in the ranks.

  Brewster knew he could always run. Once they hit ground and he was carrying a full pack—weapons and ammunition—he could hit the trail; find a nice valley in the pacific northwest somewhere and wait out the pandemic.

  And leave behind all of his comrades?

  “Fuck, what comrades are left?” Brewster muttered under his breath. “The General? I respect him but I’m not dying for him or some lost cause in an infected city center. Denton? Maybe he’d run, too. Nah—that Canuck’ll want his pictures. Fuck me. Looks like it’s Brewster looking out for Brewster.”

  What would he have to do?

  It would be easy enough to slip away once they were on land, but he’d better go properly prepared. He’d snag a few MREs for his pack and button pants pockets. Some nine-millimeter ammo for the pistol—a couple boxes at least, whatever he could get his hands on. A rifle would be nice, but unless they came across an armory on land all he had was the Beretta. It would have to do.

  A few clean t-shirts and skivvies from the quartermaster, maybe a knife, some assorted sundries—he’d be good to go in the wilderness for a while. Maybe he could even scrounge enough to get by comfortably. He almost regretted not going to Ranger school when the Army had offered it to him.

  Brewster hid a faint smile behind a week’s worth of stubble. He felt like he had a plan now. Something to hold on to and hope for. It felt good—better than he’d felt in over a week.

  Despite his assessment of what comrades he had left, he’d see who he could get to come with him. Maybe one of the other fellows in the new quarantine room would want to come along. God knew they were all sick and tired of being controlled by their leaders, and maybe it was time to take their fates into their own hands.

  It would be easy living in the wilderness. There would be plentiful sources of food, water, and shelter. Most importantly they would be away from any sources of the Morningstar Strain. None of the violence and bloodshed would be haunting his dreams for a while, just the open sky above and nature all around. A pleasant change from the dreary interior of the Navy vessel.

  On the other side of the wall, General Sherman was still lost in thought as well, and didn’t notice the pair of men who came sauntering up, sober expressions on their faces. The guard at Sherman’s side stepped forward, but General Sherman, finally noticing the newcomers, waved him off.

  “Heard there was a bit of a to-do down here, Frank,” Denton said, keeping his expression neutral.

  “Anything we can do to help?” added Mbutu Ngasy, at Denton’s side.

  “No, thanks for coming down, though,” Sherman said. “It’s all over and done with. We’re having a funeral service later this afternoon.”

  “Are you doing alright?” Mbutu asked. The air traffic controller was proving very adept at reading moods. “You seem stretched thin.”

  “I’m fine, I’m fine. Just got a lot on my mind, you know?” said Sherman, sighing and folding his arms. “We’re going to be busy soon.”

  “Yes,” Mbutu said. “We’ll all have our hands full onshore. We’ve been wondering about that too, General.”

  “That so?”

  “Yeah, that’s so,” chimed Denton. “Now, we know you and the other soldiers have your responsibilities to deal with, but the refugees and I wouldn’t mind being let off somewhere safer than a downtown harbor, if you know what I mean.”

  “I know how you feel, more than you might think,” Sherman said.

  “Then you wouldn’t mind dropping us off somewhere along the coast a bit more out of the way before you head in, Frank?” Denton asked.

  “I don’t see why it should be a problem. I’ll assign you a few riflemen as guards.”

  “That won’t be necessary. We can handle ourselves,” Denton said. “Just issue us a few sidearms and we’ll look after ourselves.”

  Sherman nodded, a wistful smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, and said, “Seems like our little group is all set to break up. All this time spent
together since Suez . . . Seems strange to be planning on parting ways.”

  Denton cast a glance at Mbutu, who shrugged. Denton grimaced, turning to face the General. He didn’t want to insinuate anything the old officer might have to take official notice of, but it was worth a shot.

  “We were wondering if you might be cajoled into coming with us, Frank. Not just you, I mean. All of you. The sailors and soldiers.”

  Sherman barked out a rough laugh, earning him a surprised look from the others.

  “Frank?” Denton asked.

  “I was wondering if you’d get around to asking that,” Sherman said. “I think I’ve about made my decision, too. I’ve got a friend on the east coast I’m going to need help to get a hold of, and you all could use a good escort on land. So yes—let’s join up when we hit land. See what we can do to make our own difference.”

  “No repeats of Suez.”

  “No goddamn repeats of Suez, that’s right,” said Sherman, chuckling. “We’ve got work to do if we’re going to ride this out our own way.”

  Denton grinned. “I’ll get the interested parties on deck.”

  USS Ramage

  January 20, 2007

  1021 hrs_

  Mbutu Ngasy stood on the deck of the destroyer, clipboard in hand, going over a checklist of supplies. He, Denton, and a couple of other refugees with initiative had dragged up all the goodies that Franklin had decided he could part with. The captain of the destroyer had unequivocally denied any interest in their plan to make a run for it once they hit land. He said that he and his sailors would stay at sea aboard their vessel, safe and secure in their own way.

  “Two rifles, M-16A2,” Denton said from across the folding table they had set up, placing the weapons on the tabletop as Mbutu marked them off. “Rifle ammunition, two magazines, sixty rounds.”

  “That’s all?” Mbutu asked, frowning at the meager amount of ammunition Denton placed by the rifles.

  “It’s all Franklin could spare,” Denton explained. “We’ll give them to our best marksmen and hope they can make ‘em count.” He then began listing off the smaller arms. “Twelve pistols, Beretta 92FS. “We’ve got ammo for these puppies—nine-millimeter, five boxes of a hundred rounds, five hundred rounds total, with twenty-six magazines.”