Omega Plague: Collapse

by P. R. Principe

  Bruno didn’t reply. They kept walking in silence for a time, then Cristian said, “Anyway, I’ve got leave scheduled next week to go see them.”

  “No doubt they’ll be happy to see you.” Now that the Interior and Defense Ministries had put everyone on alert status, Bruno knew there was no way leave would be permitted anytime soon, but he didn’t have the heart say it.

  The sun had just disappeared into the sea when they arrived at their station, just off the main square. They entered a confined waiting area with four low chairs and a small round table, magazines with ageing celebrities and scenes of Mediterranean islands on their covers strewn about. The area was stark, with off-white walls and a sad potted plant in the corner. Directly in front of them was a thick glass partition with an opening at the bottom, like a teller’s window, and a black steel door to the right of the partition with a small square window. Beyond the glass partition a stout, uniformed, grey-haired man with a white goatee sat on one corner of a low metal desk. There were two other desks. All the desks had monitors on them. Veri was reading, a sheet of paper in one hand and a cigarette in the other.

  As they opened the outer door a chime rang in the back. Veri looked up and waved his cigarette at them in acknowledgement. The steel door buzzed along with the sound of electromagnets unlocking. Bruno and Cristian walked in and the door clanged shut behind them.

  “Ah. Good evening, lads. No problems on your shift?” Veri had a raspy voice from a few too many years of smoking.

  “It’s more crowded than normal at the marina, Maresciallo,” said Bruno. “And a little rowdy. But nothing too bad yet.” Cristian nodded.

  Veri snuffed his cigarette out in the ashtray on his desk. Judging by the pile of butts, he cared not a whit about the “Vietato Fumare” sign just past the inner door. The man moved around his desk and sat down. His eyes were bloodshot as he looked back and forth from Bruno to Cristian. “Well, get ready, gentlemen. I think we’re about to have a real shit-storm come down, and soon.” The stout Veri would never be confused with a movie star. Carved in his face were decades of law enforcement time. But while he could be brusque to the point of rudeness, both men had benefited from his willingness to bend the rules to support them, instead of acting like a rigid martinet. In return, Bruno felt loyal, even devoted, to Veri.

  Veri called them “gentlemen” only when he was about to inform them of some particularly vexing request from their regional command. Bruno braced himself as Veri motioned for the two of them to gather around his desk. “All right,” he began. “I’ve just received message traffic from Regional Command in Naples. First, all transfers and leave have been cancelled. No surprise there. So, it looks like our additional officer, Marco, won’t be arriving here anytime soon.” Veri then picked up another sheet of paper. Bruno smiled to himself; Veri was so old-school, he still liked to print things out. “I also received these orders, maybe an hour ago. Let me read them to you.” Veri looked up. “I think you’ll find them . . .” he paused. “Well, I’ll just read them and be done with it.”

  “‘In light of the emergency conditions commencing as of this date and in order to maintain public order, pursuant to Chapter 5, Article 40 of the Code on Public Security, all civilian permits for firearms possessed by individuals are declared null, void, and are hereby revoked, effective 72 hours from the time of promulgation of this order.’”

  Veri put the sheet of paper down. “There’s more, but the bottom line is that we are supposed to help our friends in the national and local police confiscate all legally owned weapons on the island. And of course any unregistered ones as well. All the regional commands received this order straight from Headquarters. Apparently our government is nervous that things could get bad—and soon. This order will be made public tomorrow.”

  Bruno shook his head. “That’s the stupidest fucking thing I’ve ever heard. This is just like the Ebola shit a few years back. Panic for nothing. And taking peoples’ legal guns? This is the first thing the government worries about? That doesn’t make sense.”

  Cristian scoffed. “Are we supposed to confiscate knives and forks, too?”

  Veri reached for three sheets of paper on his desk and held them up. “Gentlemen, here is the list of individuals on the island with legally registered firearms. It’s got to have around a hundred people on it.” Veri paused, lit another cigarette and took a drag, then held the papers over his cigarette. Within seconds, the corners began to smolder, and flames began to lick the sheets of paper. Veri turned in his chair and dropped them into a metal wastebasket behind his desk, where they continued to burn.

  Veri finished his cigarette in silence. Smoke from the wastebasket rose from behind him. When the smoke dissipated, Cristian finally spoke.

  “We’re going to tell the higher-ups we don’t know who has guns now because you burned the list?” Cristian said. “What, it’s not on the computer?”

  “No,” replied Veri, taking him seriously, despite Cristian’s manner. “We’re not going to plead ignorance. Quite the opposite, actually: we’re going to tell Headquarters we’ve followed their order.”

  “You’re just going to lie?” said Cristian. “You’re going tell them we’ve confiscated the weapons?

  “That’s exactly what I’m going to do.”

  “Now, wait a minute. What if an inspector comes to check on the weapons? And what about the Questura, the local police office? They’re the ones who issue firearms permits in the first place. They won’t simply look the other way.”

  Veri leaned back in his chair. “I’ve already spoken to Commissario Esposito in their office here on Capri. He thinks this is a bullshit order too, and is in full agreement.”

  “So, what, that means you can just ignore it? Sir, do you know what they’ll do if they find out? They’ll crucify you.” Cristian gestured towards Bruno. “And probably us to boot!”

  Veri stood up, walked around his desk, and put his hand on Cristian’s shoulder. “Of course, I will take full responsibility for this decision.” Veri’s gazed shifted to Bruno. “I would never hang you lads out to dry. Anyway, trust me, no one is going to check. The chain of command has more urgent things to deal with than watching us. Besides, if this sickness turns out to be nothing, the worst that will happen is a reprimand.” He chuckled. “Don’t know about you young bucks, but at my age, I’m sure I can handle a sternly worded letter. And if the sickness is real . . .” Veri paused for a moment, considering his words. “If it’s real, then the last thing anyone will care about is whether or not we followed this order.”

  “Sir,” said Bruno, “if it ever came to it, the higher-ups aren’t going to believe we didn’t know what was going on. Even if they did, we’d certainly be considered derelict, at least, for not knowing about something this—this—” Bruno struggled for the right words.

  “It’s fucking insane,” said Cristian.

  Veri ran his fingers though his cropped hair. “Look, I understand what you’re saying. But you both know history—think of it like the orders our military got when they were in Croatia back in World War II. The military didn’t obey, because the orders they got—those orders were wrong. They were evil. These orders are wrong, too.”

  Bruno understood Veri’s point, but he doubted orders to round up innocent Jews for slaughter constituted the moral equivalent of this firearms confiscation order, and he was certain their superiors would not think so.

  “Gentlemen,” Veri continued, “our duty is to protect our citizens, not to put their lives in jeopardy. In thirty years as an officer, I have never done anything to put a civilian’s life in danger. But that is exactly what this,” Veri pointed to the smoldering trash can, “preposterous order does. It turns law-abiding citizens into criminals, overnight. It takes away their right to defend themselves. I want no part of it. I can’t stop this order everywhere, but we can at least stop it here, but . . .” Veri paused. “I can’t do anything without your support.”

  Bruno considered the request. I
f he acquiesced, it would, at best, mean the end of his career. He did not want to think about the worst that could happen. Even so, the words were out of Bruno’s mouth before he could stifle them: “All right. Fine. I’m in.”

  Cristian shook his head. “I thought I was the stupid one,” he said, and laughed. “I guess you’ve got this all sorted out, sir.” His tone suggested that he thought the exact opposite. “I hope you’re right, for all our sakes.”

  Veri nodded, but said nothing.

  ***

  Later that night, Bruno lay in his bed, staring at the ceiling. He looked at his watch. Only 23:16. The long depths of night still stretched before him. He flung the bedsheet off and sat up. The crescent moon was surprisingly bright, lighting up Bruno’s one-room flat. He stood, opened the glass doors, and walked, naked from the waist up, onto the balcony. The slight chill in the air was refreshing. He looked down towards the village of Capri and beyond it to the dark sea below. Living in Anacapri, the less tourist-saturated village above Capri, was the only way he could afford to live on the island. He had no desire to brave the twice-daily ferry commute to and from Naples like Cristian and Veri. Though it was late, lights twinkled against the velvet dark of the sea. The beauty of it captivated Bruno, distracting him for a moment from thoughts of cover-ups, deception, and disobedience.

  A light on his neighbor’s balcony came on and the glass door slid open. A white-haired man in a robe stepped out, a half-full wine glass in one hand. The man’s face was weathered like the rocks of the island’s Faraglioni. Bruno had always thought he looked more like a sailor than a priest.

  “Buona sera, Father Tommaso,” said Bruno.

  He saluted Bruno with his glass. “Bruno, good to see you.”

  “Haven’t seen you for a week. You’ve been traveling?”

  “I got back from my brother’s place in Salerno last night. Retirement has its perks, travel being one of them. And I only have to say Mass once in a while now.”

  “Right.” Bruno nodded and looked back over the water. He drummed the railing with his fingers as he stared at nothing. They stood there in silence for a while. Then the priest spoke.

  “How are things at work?”

  Bruno continued tapping. He didn’t answer right away. “Good question. Could be better, I guess.”

  “You all right? Something bothering you, Bruno?”

  Bruno stopped tapping. He looked over at Father Tommaso. “You ever do something you think is right, but it breaks the rules?” He enjoyed talking to Father Tommaso about Napoli’s chances of winning the Scudetto this season and the region’s Roman and Greek roots, but Bruno seldom spoke about religion. And he almost never requested advice from the priest, but tonight was an exception.

  Father Tommaso swirled the wine in his glass. “Don’t we all do that sometimes?”

  “So how do you know what’s the right thing to do?”

  “You’ve got to have faith, Bruno. Faith that your heart will guide you.”

  “Faith?” said Bruno. “What if you don’t have it?”

  “We all have it. But sometimes we forget it’s there.”

  Bruno didn’t respond. He looked back over the water into the night and started tapping the railing again.

  Father Tommaso stood there for a moment and then spoke again.

  “I’ll leave you to your thoughts.”

  “I’m sorry, Father, I just—”

  “No worries, Bruno,” said the priest as he went back into his flat. “If you want to talk, please, just knock anytime. Buona notte.”

  As he stood there alone in the cool evening, Bruno’s thoughts returned to cover-ups, deception, and disobedience. This is how a republic ends, Bruno realized. Even though he agreed with Veri, he sensed their insubordination might represent the beginning of something insidious. Local needs might override decrees written by some distant, unseen official. Expediency might replace principles. The rules that kept nations intact might fray, and eventually snap. Yet as he thought about the possible unraveling to come, he realized that he was wrong: this wasn’t the beginning of collapse—in truth, it had already started. The useless politicians in Brussels had already begun their blathering about coordination of efforts, sharing information, and “solidarity,” but from what Bruno understood about human nature, things could very quickly become every country, every city, even every man, for himself.

  Bruno did not sleep well that night.

  Chapter 3

  October 9

  Bruno could see the lights dotting the coastline through the mist even before they were halfway across the bay, but the rest of the world around him floated in inky darkness. The choppy sea that night made Bruno acutely aware of every handhold on the patrol vessel. He stood in the glass-enclosed cabin, Veri in front and Cristian across from him. The cabin was small enough that there was only an arm’s length between Bruno and Cristian. In front of the cabin, the patrol boat captain peered intently at the control panel and listened with headphones to radio traffic, oblivious to his passengers.

  The blue light from the instrument panel provided the only illumination. Bruno glanced at Cristian, whose face looked sickly in the pale light.

  “Hey,” said Cristian as loudly as he dared, not wanting the boat captain to hear. “How the hell can he drive this damn thing without lights? I know we’re trying for stealth, but it’s pitch-black!”

  “This is a Model 800 motovetta. It’s got enough radar and IR sensors to see a match flame five klicks away.” Bruno gestured toward the captain. “He probably drives better in the dark than he does during the day.”

  Bruno returned to his own thoughts. There must be more to what they were doing tonight

  Veri turned facing outward so he could talk to both of them. The rough sea made him keep both hands on the railing running along the cabin. With the glow of the light and his goatee, he looked menacing.

  “All right, gents, you know what’s going on. The confiscation order is a week old, and we’ve all seen what it’s done.”

  Bruno reflected over the last week. When enforced, the resistance to the confiscation order had turned violent in a few of the major cities, catching the government flat-footed and serving as a costly distraction from disease monitoring and containment, as more cases began to pop out in Rome. Why resistance had been a surprise to the morons running the Ministry of the Interior was unfathomable to Bruno. And with seven million registered firearms, Bruno was certain that the government’s efforts would ultimately be futile.

  There had been little reported violence in the rural areas, particularly in the South, leaving Bruno to wonder if they weren’t the only ones who had disregarded the order. When Bruno had asked Veri what he thought, Veri had just smiled, saying cryptically that he had many friends in the service who thought being far from the provincial commands makes many things easier.

  “Still,” said Veri, “I think the Interior Ministry is using what’s going on as an excuse for something bigger. Not that I have a problem going after this particular bunch of thugs. But we’ll see if I’m right when we get the expanded mission brief.”

  Veri shifted position, leaning forward. “Keep your ears open. The rest of the squad will meet us on the dock.”

  The boat slowed noticeably now; they had begun to maneuver up to a long, concrete pier with no illumination save for the lights of the city. Two people moored the boat and returned to the pier. Once the boat was secure, the captain indicated it was safe to disembark.

  As they left the boat behind, Veri, Cristian, and Bruno secured their facemasks. They had already started to ration their surgical masks, stretching their life over more than the recommended one day. The masks were becoming grimier by the hour. Bruno hoped that, no matter the shade of grey, they would still provide some kind of protection.

  The revelation that the doctors were not in quarantine in London, but were actually dead, had caused a firestorm. Even the notoriously lurid British media refused at first to show pictures of what the doct
ors looked like after death. But then the pictures leaked out, circulating first on people’s phones, then throughout the commercial media. Diseases like flesh-eating staph, Kaposi’s sarcoma, and necrotizing pneumonia had consumed the doctors. In the media, some medical professionals theorized that whatever it was must have ravaged the victims’ immune systems, leaving them vulnerable to opportunistic infections. Like they all had “hyper-AIDS,” one said. British, French, and Italian authorities tried to quarantine everyone who had come in contact with the doctors. The media said it would be too late—quarantine hadn’t worked during the swine flu pandemic that broke out in Latin America a number of years back, and it had barely stopped Ebola in Europe. The doctors had come into contact with hundreds of people during their European travels, including, of course, high-level government officials. While there were no reports of the disease outside of London, Paris, or Rome, Bruno knew it was only a matter of time before it spread.

  The two who had moored the boat joined the three figures standing on the pier. In the semi-dark, Bruno couldn’t make out their faces, other than to see they, too, wore masks. There was enough light to see their uniforms, which were the same as worn by the trio from Capri. The Carabinieri had abandoned their cheerful blue attire for dark navy tactical uniforms. They were thick and practical, complete with helmets and body armor, and black boots heavy on the feet. All of them carried 9mm submachine guns slung across their chests.

  As the two groups of officers approached, they all held their hands out with palms down, as if showing their nails to each other. No one shook hands.

  “Good,” grunted Veri. “Everyone’s clear.” Given that no one was exactly sure of the disease’s incubation period, a hand check wasn’t perfect, but it was a quick method to see if anyone had tremors, the initial symptoms of infection. Yet Bruno wondered whether they should even bother, since no one was sure if people were contagious even before the tremors began. Maybe the real purpose of the check was to give people a false hope that let them continue to function. Otherwise, no one would set foot outside their home, and then things would really go to shit, and fast.