by Greig Beck
Several of the figures thrashed in the flames, tormented souls each in their own personal column of hell. Carla wailed. “God, oh God, they’re still alive.”
There was a deep sigh over the loudspeakers. “I warned you, Carla. You made me hurt them. Don’t make me hurt your friends as well.”
“I can’t … let … him …” Carla’s hand went to the door, and Megan wrapped her arms around her, screaming to Matt. “Get us the fuck out of here.”
Matt pulled the truck back, bouncing off a curb and crashing into a parked car. He turned hard, pushing another vehicle out of the way.
“Carla, you need to direct me.”
“This is a nightmare. I’m going to be sick.”
Matt accelerated. The music exploded at them again, and this time Dillon’s calm voice was ripped away, his cultivated and sophisticated mask slipping to reveal a glimpse of the real being that hid beneath the refined exterior.
“Stop! Get out of the car, bitch. I’ll fucking kill you all. I’ll burn you down. I’ll pull you apart and eat your faces. I’ll-III…” The words boiled back together, mushing again into the monstrous roar.
Matt gritted his teeth and crushed his eyes shut for a moment, trying to rid his mind of the insane voice and of the images of burning men and women. Carla was right, this was a nightmare – and they were stuck in it.
“Just drive.” Carla’s voice was devoid of life.
“Just drive, drive, drive.” He repeated the words, using them as a mantra to blot everything else from his mind as he pushed the truck to the max down the debris-strewn street.
Megan let go of Carla and sat back. “I used to like REM.”
*****
A calm voice came over the radio. “We have you in sight now, Dr. Nero. Keep coming – there are no more roadblocks or militias in view.”
“Thank God.” Matt slowed a little as he turned into the Houston Mill Road. He could see the military’s influence on the facility – the whole block had been barricaded off, and was heavily militarized, with gun turret towers and rotating searchlights. Martial law, and then some, he thought.
As they slowly rolled toward the huge walls, guards wearing similar suits to theirs rolled back the ten-foot-high chain-link outer gates. Each of the men had body armor, a semi-automatic weapon over his shoulder, and a sidearm. Just inside the gates, there were more figures with field glasses trained on them.
Houston Mill Road had also been altered – gone were the wide open spaces leading to the large, factory-like building. The road was fenced on each side; a combination of brickwork, metal grating, and chain link forced all approaching vehicles onto a narrow path – one that could be scrutinized and defended, if necessary.
Matt observed that the rolling lawns out the front of the building were covered in row after row of temporary tents – it seemed the staff had taken to spending their nights “in” from now on.
They slowed at the next checkpoint. This one preceded a long, barn-like structure, which they entered. A voice came over the radio, telling them to stay in their vehicle. Another person in a hazmat suit appeared beside them and used a pressure spray to blast the truck with foaming liquid. Once complete, another figure appeared in front of them with two orange aircraft-runway type batons and waved them on, pointing to a large yellow circle in the next section of the building. Matt stopped the truck within it, and a booming voice requested that they step out, hands on their heads.
Matt came first. He waved, indicating that he needed a moment, and then turned to take one of Reed’s arms. Megan slid out holding the other. They could barely tell if he was breathing anymore. Last came Carla, wheezing wetly. The men directed them to different stalls – men on one side, women on the other. Matt handed Reed to some suited soldiers who carefully carried him into the stall. Matt was ordered to strip off. He emptied his pockets of anything he wanted to keep – those items would be separately cleansed. The clothing and his suit were sealed into a bag, which was immediately taken away.
The shower was hot, highly chemical, and had enough pressure behind it to scour the skin. Matt was given a tough-bristled brush and instructed to scrub – hard. He was sure he lost eyebrows and some of the hair on his head. Not that it mattered – his long hair was shaved, along with his eyebrows, underarms and pubic area. He ran a hand up over his head. The smooth scalp felt weird, but … liberating.
He was given a set of paper coveralls and was ordered to pass down a long, plastic-lined walkway to an ultraviolet room for five minutes, and then into another room for a checkup. The room was long and white, like a sterile hospital room, with little more than sheetless cots and steel benches with portable lights overhead. The men and women working here were without hazmat suits, but still wore all-over disposable suits and facemasks. Guess we’re not quite out of the woods yet, Matt thought.
The door opened and in came Megan and Carla, their heads shaven, and scrubbed pink. Matt smiled and saluted Megan.
“GI Jane, maybe?”
Megan grinned back. “More like Space Oddity … man, you have one weird-shaped head, Kearns.”
Behind her, Carla looked shrunken. Without her mane of hair, her face looked lined, her head way too small. She coughed, the single sound freezing the room.
An attendant backed up. “Don’t move. Dr. Nero, have you had your suit off at any time?”
Miserably, Carla nodded. “And I think I’ve got a rash.”
“Goddamn it.” The three men and two women seemed frozen in indecision. One – Dr. Jackson, according to his nametag – looked to Matt and Megan and pointed. “What about you two?”
Matt shook his head. Megan did the same.
Jackson seemed to decide. “Okay, don’t worry, Dr. Nero. We’re going to have to give you some internal treatments, and keep you isolated for a little longer. Please return to the previous sterilization room.” He watched her head out, and then turned to Matt and Megan. “You two can proceed to the change rooms.”
Megan shook her head. “No, we’d like to stay if that’s okay.” She went to follow Carla, but she turned to her and held up her hand.
“No … Megan, Matt, you stay, I’ll be fine.” She smiled. “Besides, this may take a while.” She waved to them. “I’m a tough old thing. I’m not dead yet, and I don’t intend to be anytime soon.” She looked past them and pointed to the small container that held the two vials of red fluid. “Jackson, get those to Francis Hewson right now, and then have him contact me.”
Jackson nodded. “You got it.”
Carla stepped back into the corridor. Megan turned to the attendants. “What will happen to her? She’ll become a skinner or a bloomer unless you stop it, right?”
The man grunted. “Stop it? We can’t stop it. We can slow it down, but for just a while. It’s always fatal.”
“But if she’s a bloomer, they live longer, don’t they?”
He shrugged, and Megan literally growled at his indifference. She spoke through gritted teeth.
“Hey! That is Dr. Carla Nero. She just goddamn trekked through the Amazon jungle to find a cure for you … us … all of us. The least you could do is answer some goddamn questions!”
There was silence for several seconds.
“Well?” Megan screamed.
Two soldiers appeared. Jackson waved them away. “She’s right; they have a right to know.”
He looked back to Megan. “She’s our friend, too.” There was both sadness and resignation on his face. “What you’ve heard about bloomers is unfortunately all true. When a pregnant alpha female mite infests a body, it sends out a chemical signal that alters the sex of all the other mites – in effect, they all become females. Insects and arthropods have some wonderful adaptive abilities.”
He drew in a breath and seemed to sag. “The mites stop their voracious pursuit of the subcutaneous dermal layers and instead start producing egg pouches. They produce millions and millions of them, swelling the skin and forming an amniotic gas that generates the distinct
ive nursery pockets … blisters. When the skin reaches its maximum tension point, or in response to some unknown prescribed signal, the gas causes the vesicles to explode, throwing the mite larvae into the atmosphere. A normal plume can float for days and cover several miles.”
Matt nodded, looking down at his feet. “Yes, we’ve seen someone with the lumps … recently.”
Jackson kept his eyes on Megan. “Unfortunately, it doesn’t always end there – the mites continue to lay and burst for many days. As more eggs are laid, more of the body becomes infested – inside and out. The human body is a wonderfully elastic vehicle, but eventually it loses its ability to contain the billions of larvae. Eventually the body will explode and collapse. The remains need to be incinerated, as even the exploded host can continue to give off mite clouds for weeks afterward.”
He looked at each of them. “We’ll do what we can. But appreciate what we are dealing with here. This is not just about one doctor, no matter how important. Millions are dead, and millions more will die.”
He turned and continued down the corridor. Matt and Megan followed in silence.
*****
Dillon lowered the heavy field glasses, his eyes narrowing as he surveyed the huge, fortified complex.
“We offered them nothing more than our love and the chance to see how much better they can be.”
He turned and handed the heavy binoculars to the wrapped man beside him. “And in turn they erect the Walls of Jericho to keep us out. So be it. Then I will be Joshua and blow them down.” He made a fist. “Bring them in. Bring them all in. It is time.”
*****
Kurt sneezed, not bothering to wipe the red-brown liquid that ran from his nose. Still naked after his shower, he sat on the floor, propped up against a kitchen cupboard. Empty tins of insect spray rolled around next to him, and his skin glistened with their poisons.
The first lumps had appeared on his wrist a few hours ago, and from then, more had appeared along his arm and then over his chest, making him look like a two-legged alligator. He laughed wetly as he spotted the golden idol on the tabletop. “Should have listened to Kearns.” He grinned. “Curse of the Incas, right?”
He ran his fingertips over his cheeks, feeling the pea-sized bumps on his face. “Is it too late to apologize?” He nodded as if listening. “No? Never too late?” He groaned as he pulled himself to his feet. “Okay then.”
Kurt shuffled to a drawer and retrieved a box, some plastic padding, and some tape. He lined the box with the plastic and then placed the gold carefully inside, looking at each item, rubbing it once or twice with his thumb. He closed his eyes for a second or two – or so he thought – and then sealed the box. He wrote carefully on the lid with a thick, felt-tipped pen, simply addressing it to the Brazilian Consulate. He left the grinning idol on the tabletop.
“You get to stay with me. I’m adopting you.”
He looked at his wristwatch. It had taken him over an hour to perform the simple task. Time was losing all meaning. He reached up to feel his face again and quickly recoiled. His nose was misshapen, and his cheekbones were bloated and threatening to close his eyes.
“There go my boyish good looks.”
Kurt went to turn and grunted with the effort. His legs now resembled pipes covered in popcorn and his knees refused to bend. He went to carry the box to the door, and caught sight of his hands. He swallowed the urge to cry out.
Time jumped again, and when he opened his eyes, he found himself back down on the floor. It was dark outside. The idol stared down at him, grinning, always grinning.
“Did you push me?” Kurt nodded, listening again. “You’re goddamn right it’s funny.”
He looked down at his body, wishing he had something to cover himself up with. Worried now about what people would think when they found him. “Disgusting.” He shook his head. “Doesn’t hurt, though.” He lay down, exhausted beyond words. He was thirsty, but doubted he’d be able to get to his feet to drink some water. Kurt Douglas exhaled slowly.
“I had a pretty good life you know,” he said, trying to smile, but unsure if his lips could do that anymore. “Gonna rest now.” He closed his eyes. “See you in the morning.”
*****
The Bell Kiowa scout helicopter looped high over the Atlanta skyline. A military observation chopper with a distinctive mast-mounted sight that resembled a beach ball perched above its single rotor, it had object density scanning and infrared and thermal imaging. With its light, skeletal design, it could scout night and day on very little fuel.
From a distant rooftop there came the flash of a reflection. Corporal Cory Jones, a pilot of four years, would have ignored it, but it came again, this time in a pattern. She opened her mic.
“Atlanta Base, this is Jones in BC447, I’ve got a pattern flasher signaling me from a rooftop downtown. Request permission to take a look-see.”
After a few moments a deep, laconic voice came back. “BC447, permission granted to drop to two hundred feet only.” There was a pause. “No passengers or strays today, Jones. We’ve got work to do.”
Jones grinned. “You got it, Pop. Two hundred feet, confirm. Over.”
The Kiowa sped like a steel mosquito to the line of buildings, dropping to three hundred feet as it came. As an afterthought, Jones switched to density imaging, and then dropped another hundred feet. A warning sounded from the cockpit console, and she frowned – multiple metallic signatures.
Jones looped around the building and then sucked in a breath. The street behind was filled with people, all streaming in the direction of the Atlanta CDC compound. Most were on foot, but there were some small trucks in amongst the group. Many of the people appeared to be armed. At their center was a huge vehicle with a long, drab, metal crate structure on its back. Jones started the onboard cameras. Photographs were taken and sent home automatically.
What is that? she wondered, as she dropped down another fifty feet. Then the details became clear.
“Holy shit.” She pulled up hard.
“Base, emergency, come in, emergency …”
There was another flash from the rooftop. This one made the cockpit sensors go berserk. Jones’ heart pounded hard in her chest as she saw the display – incoming heat signature.
She pulled away, willing the small chopper to outpace the approaching dot of heat. “Please, please, please …” Cory Jones looked over her shoulder. The flaring dot straightened as it found her and locked on. She recognized it now, a rocket-propelled grenade, and knew it was coming at her at nearly six hundred feet per second.
“Come back, Jones. Say again …” The voice had lost its laid-back tone.
“Noooo …” The Kiowa jinked and then dove. The RPG followed.
The small helicopter exploded, raining debris and fire down upon the streets.
*****
Major Bennings thrust open the door and strode into the command center.
“Cohen, give me what you’ve got.”
The assembled soldiers at their makeshift communication and surveillance desks looked up briefly, then went back to their multiple screens. An officer raced over, pointing at a large wall display.
“Sir, one of our surveillance birds was just shot out of the sky. They managed to send back some images.” He pointed at the screen. “They’ve got an army, and it’s coming in on the western side of the city.”
“Organized?”
“Doesn’t look like it. But certainly armed – they’ve got automatic assault rifles and RPGs.”
Bennings cursed under his breath. “Where the hell did they get an army, or all their kit?” He shook his head, standing close to the screen. “Probably us. Doesn’t matter. Can we get another bird up?”
“We can’t risk it – they’ve got M72 anti-tank RPGs, and after our chopper was hit, we assume they got the heat-seeking upgrade. We need higher altitude, and for that we’d need one of Bragg’s birds – it’ll take hours to get here. They’ll be in our front yard by then.”
; Bennings looked at the younger officer and nodded. “Show me what we do have.”
Cohen advanced the images. Several more were displayed, many taken from bad angles as the helicopter dove or banked. But the picture was clear enough – thousands of troops with weapons held high, the smaller vehicles in amongst all the bandaged bodies, and then, partially obscured, the huge truck.
“Hold it. Enlarge that one.” Bennings stepped forward. The image was grainy, but showed an enormous truck with a long mounting on its back, in four distinct sections.
Cohen slumped. “For fuck’s sake. Is that what I think it is?”
Bennings exhaled slowly. “Yep. Patriot Launcher – looks to have four in the pipes.” He rubbed a hand up over his face, and then through his cropped hair. “The technicians that were taken the other day. Were there any launch specialists in amongst them?”
Cohen sat down. “Yes, sir … several.”
CHAPTER 25
“So, how’s your day been?” Francis Hewson came into the room in a bulky suit with a massive lump at the back, indicating it had its own air supply. He smiled at her from behind the Perspex visor.
Carla stood. “Hey, I leave you in charge of the country and you break it – what gives?” Her words were slurred and she grinned, the blood on her teeth causing him to wince. “I’d give you a hug, but well, you know …”
He nodded. “I’ve got our best people running tests on your solution – magnificent stuff, and nothing we’ve ever seen before. From a vine, you say?”
She nodded and coughed, turning away. “From a flowered vine that probably came from the dawn of time – maybe it’s representative of the very first vine … along with everything else in that crazy place.” She looked up at him. “I hope it works.”
“So do I,” he said. “And I hope its toxicity is minimal. We need to get it … inside you as well.”
“Doesn’t matter to me – if it’s toxic, I mean. I’d rather die from poison in a few minutes than end up slowly turning into …” She shook her head and sighed. “I can feel them inside … or rather, I can’t anymore. My lips, gums, throat; they’re all numb. Now I know what Sergeant Reed meant when he tried to warn us.” She looked up and grinned sheepishly. “But I never listen.”