by Addison Gunn
“My name’s Miller and that’s all you’re getting.”
“American, then,” he said, pursing his lips. “Uninfected?”
Miller saw no harm in admitting that much, and nodded. “What are your intentions with that cruise ship?”
“We mean to marry her,” the officer said, before puffing out his cheeks and breaking into what Miller supposed was some sort of laugh. Once the officer noticed no one else was joining him, his toothy smile fell and he cleared his throat. Then, with hand extended, he added, “Weapons, please.”
There was little point in resisting, so Miller unholstered his Gallican and handed it over as another sailor reached for the strap of his M27.
“Knives, too,” the commander said.
Morland grumbled and du Trieux muttered something in French, but their weapons were taken by three seamen, who disappeared across the deck and down a stairwell.
Gesturing to his left, the commander said, “This way.”
Urged forward by the armed sailors, Miller and the others followed him across the deck and up a ladder, stopping on the main deck. Down a long corridor lined with confused-looking seamen in various states of dress, they stopped in front of a doorway. Inside was an empty bunk room, cots stacked atop metal rails like bunk beds. A stack of fresh linens rested on the end of each cot, and a weighted bucket sat in the corner.
“And if we refuse?” Miller asked, pausing.
“It’s either here or the brig,” the commander said. “Your choice. But it’s a lot more comfortable here, I assure you.”
Miller stepped inside, followed by Hsiung, Morland, and then du Trieux. “And my other man?”
“Perfectly well tended to,” the commander said. “That’s a promise. We are not your enemy.”
“We appreciate the... hospitality,” Miller said carefully, “but I’d like to send word to my ship. Let them know we’re alright?”
“That’s already in hand. In the meantime, there’s fresh bedding and a privy. Enjoy!” With that, the commander closed the door. There was a loud metallic clank from the door as it was locked from the outside.
The moment the bolt was in place, Morland balled his hands into fists. “Tossers. We should have taken our chances in the water.”
“Would you rather be wrestling that tusk-fiend?” Miller snapped. He turned to the rest of his team.
Du Trieux sat on one of the cots and tucked her knees to her chest. Wrapping herself in a woollen blanket on top of the silver emergency wrap, she shivered, but nodded.
Hsiung, standing beside Morland, merely shrugged and moved to the bunk next to du Trieux.
“We’re going to just sit here?” Morland ranted. “We’re prisoners! Who knows what they’re planning for us, for the Tevatnoa?”
“There’s nothing more we can do,” Miller said. “Our mission failed.”
Morland spun on his heel and cursed. “This gets better and better.”
“We should not have gone to the lab,” du Trieux said, surprising Miller. “At the very least, we should have waited out the storm.”
Miller grabbed a sheet from one of the bunks and wiped his face and hair dry.
“And for what?” Morland said. “Four dead and a glob of mold that got washed away with the rest of the sodding kit.”
Miller peeled off his inflated combat vest and hung it on a bunk to dry. It was crusted over with salt and sand, heavy and dripping.
Morland glared at Miller. “They could be back at any moment.”
“There’s no sense of dying from pneumonia before that, then.”
Hsiung and du Trieux followed suit, hanging up their vests on empty bunks, kicking off their boots and wringing out their socks to dry. Finally, when an hour passed and no one had come back, Morland—blue-lipped and shivering—peeled off his gear and did the same.
Just as Miller had lain down and prepared himself to get a few minutes of shut eye, the door cranked open and the commander stood in the doorway.
“Miller,” he said sharply. “With me.”
Miller got to his feet and slid into his damp gear. “What about my team?”
“They’ll wait here.”
He froze. “Can you guarantee their safety?”
The commander raised an eyebrow. “I couldn’t make that promise from the moment the Archaean parasite was discovered.” He laughed loudly, slapping his knee a few times before resting his hand on the sidearm at his hip.
Miller stared.
“Mon dieu,” du Trieux said.
Irritably, the commander waved him into the corridor. “No sense of humor, you lot. This way.”
With a last look to his team, Miller followed the commander into the hall and watched as the door was locked from the outside.
“I can understand your hesitation,” the commander said. “But like I said, we are not your enemy.”
“We’ll see about that.”
Miller followed the commander back through the corridor and up another ladder. Men and women worked at various stations about the vessel, scrubbing the hull and railings clear of fungal growths. The crew, perhaps a hundred by his estimation, looked well-fed and clean—which was more than he could say for the occupants of his own ship. Given their condition, he had to wonder—how was a crew of this size sustaining themselves? Food rations and fresh water had to be in limited supply. Surely they couldn’t have been at sea for long.
“Is this for the proof-of-life call?” Miller asked, causing the commander to stop mid-step.
“If that’s what you wish to call it. I would prefer to think you’ll be the voice of reason.”
“I’ve never been called that before.”
The commander cracked a smile and continued down the corridor. “If this war has taught me anything, it’s that there’s a first time for everything.”
He led Miller to an office where a tall man in full formal dress, with a grizzled beard, dark skin and dark eyes, stood beside a woman as pale and young as he was black and aged.
The captain held a radio microphone in a tight fist and glared at Miller and the commander as they entered. Puffing out his cheeks, he let out a slow, deliberate breath. “This Miller?”
“Yes, sir,” answered the commander.
“Captain,” Miller said, not bothering to salute. “Are you in communication with my ship?”
The pale woman raised an eyebrow, but said nothing.
“Tell me the truth, soldier,” said the captain, tugging on the hem of his jacket. “How many humans are aboard that cruise liner?” He dropped the mic beside the receiver, which sat on a long table behind an ornate desk, then sat in a large leathery chair, crossing one long leg over the other and resting a hand on his knee.
Miller stood, tight lipped. “With all due respect, sir, why do you need to know?”
“How long has your ship been at sea? How are you maintaining two cruise liners full of people? Who are all those other, smaller ships across the island? Are they with you? What is your current course and destination?”
Miller fought to keep his expression neutral. “I don’t intend to share this information with you until I know what you plan to do.”
“I don’t have time for a contest of wills, Miller. Either tell me what I need to know, or watch as I blow the Tevatnoa from the water. It’s that simple.”
Miller gritted his teeth. The captain had a point; Miller had no leverage. “The Tevatnoa is privately owned by Schaeffer-Yeager International, and sails with the permission of the United States government. An attack on that ship or any of the S-Y fleet would be a direct attack upon the United States of America.”
The captain hardly blinked. “Are you saying the fleet is currently following orders directly from President Fredericks?”
“No, sir,” Miller said, the hairs on the back of his neck rising. “With all due respect, why are you asking me? Why don’t you ask them?”
“I’ve tried,” the captain admitted, dropping his leg and sitting forward in his chair. “Why do
you think I’m talking to you?” He waved at the microphone. “They’re not answering.”
Miller’s stomach rolled. Why wouldn’t Lewis answer? If anything, he should be initiating communication with an armed warship within range of attack.
Possibilities swirled through Miller’s head. Unless they didn’t know he and his team had been picked up? Perhaps the communications dish had been damaged in the sand storm? Worse, maybe the flu had breached Lewis’s forced isolation, and the entirety of the ship was riddled with pneumonia?
He must have gone pale. The woman standing beside the captain uncrossed her arms and squinted at him with an air of concern. “Do you need to sit down?”
“Save the melodramatics,” the captain scoffed. “You saw what we did to those bridges. Unless you can verify that ship and all its fleet are uninfected, and don’t intend to become infected, I cannot allow any of them to pass. Am I making myself clear?”
“Sir,” Miller answered. “We are a privately owned fleet. I’m not infected. The ships inhabitants aren’t infected. I don’t understand...”
“When was the last time you were in contact with your ship?” the woman asked.
“Clark...” warned the captain.
“Sir,” she said, stepping forward. “He doesn’t know.”
“I spoke with the Schaeffer-Yeager CEO last night, ma’am,” Miller answered.
“And the commanding officer?” Clark asked.
“Lewis. We spoke this morning,” Miller said.
“Have any of them indicated they’ve been in communication with President Fredericks in the last forty-eight hours?” Clark asked.
“No,” Miller said, growing more confused by the moment. “Or they didn’t inform me, if they had.”
“Why were you in Jacksonville?”
“My mission was to retrieve medical supplies from a research facility.”
“For what purpose?”
“Antibiotics, ma’am. We’ve got an influenza sweeping the lower decks, and many have been stricken with a secondary bacterial infection. Sir,” Miller said, turning his attention back to the captain, “what is going on?”
“You weren’t scouting a potential dock? The fleet isn’t returning to land under Frederick’s orders?” the captain asked.
“No,” Miller said, a bit sharper than he intended. “Why would he—?”
“Show him,” the captain said, waving his hand at the computer on his desk.
Clark stepped forward to the console, typed for a few seconds, then spun the screen around to face Miller. On the monitor was a video of President Fredericks, sitting behind his desk in the Oval Office. The time stamp dated it at less than two days before.
“My fellow Americans,” Fredericks said, sounding calm, although he looked ragged. His customary three-piece suit was wrinkled and loose, and his tie hung slack around an unbuttoned, un-ironed, soiled dress shirt. “For years, we have battled against the Archaean Parasite and those who would use it to usurp the freedom and safety of every American citizen. I thank those who fought and sacrificed so bravely to combat what was once believed to be an evil force of nature.
“But now, I call upon the people of this country to stop fighting. I have been brought into the light of the Archaean. Knowing and understanding more fully the peace and tranquillity of it, I urge all humans, be they on land or sea, to lay down their arms and present themselves to the nearest commune so we may be unified. A nation is more powerful as one mind, one family. Come with me into the light of understanding, and there will be peace.
“God bless you, and God bless the United States of America.”
Miller fought to breathe for a moment. His heart pounded in his chest, deafening him, pressing on his head until he saw stars.
This was beyond rage or fury. He took a step back, distancing himself from the computer monitor, only to bump into the commander, who stood behind him beside the office door.
“Miller?” Clark said.
He stilled, his eyes focusing on the woman’s face, and then the captain’s. “Who else has seen this?” he asked.
Clark answered, “Most global communication satellites have been either disabled or unresponsive for months. It went global, but with the irregularity of internet connections, and the emergency broadcast system permanently damaged, there’s no way to tell how many saw it—or who will comply.”
“And you thought we—?”
“Yes,” snapped the captain. “And now you understand why we must communicate with your commanding officer.”
Miller swallowed. “I do.”
“Great,” the captain said, leaning back into his chair to retrieve the CB microphone. He held it out to Miller. “Now that we understand one another, either contact your ship and convince your commander to surrender to us, or watch as we sink it to the bottom of the river. The choice is yours.”
22
WITH EVERY PASSING day Samantha became more and more ill. Her first lichen growth appeared after a few days: a scaly, gray-green fungus spread up from one of her hips, covered half of her ribcage, and within a week had sprouted out of her sleeve and covered the scarred, burnt wound on her right shoulder.
The itch was unbearable. Underneath the growth, her skin was being eaten away—decomposing. If she tried to peel off the growth or scratched too vigorously, chunks of flesh came away.
And she wasn’t alone; the fungal growths bloomed across the new Infected workers en masse. The lumps covered faces and heads, growing over eyes and nostrils, obstructing ear canals and enveloping scalps. The Infected of the labor camp hardly looked alive anymore; they were like creatures from a cheap horror movie. Sam frequently had to hide her revulsion. She was in no position to judge—she was one of them.
But the growths, however horrific, were less pressing than the blackouts. A wave of narcolepsy swept the workers, striking them at odd moments throughout the day and night. It was not uncommon to have a member of a chain-gang drop unexpectedly and cause the rest of the group to tumble like fleshy dominos. When this happened, the human guards were merciless, beating entire gangs with billy clubs and whipping them with tree branches. The rest of their gang would have no choice but to prop up their limp team-mate and drag them along until they regained consciousness, never knowing when it would be their turn to pass out.
This system proved effective enough until, one day, two members of Samantha’s gang blacked out at the same time.
They stood before a pile of freshly fallen tree trunks in the snowy chill of a wintery afternoon. Pinpricks of light cut through the forest canopy like tiny rays of hope, but did little to warm the air or melt the mounting snow on the forest floor. As other groups trudged off to retrieve more logs, Sam’s slogged forward to pick the mushrooms and growths, their fingers numb and bony.
Working at the rightmost end of the five-person chain, Samantha felt the shackle dig into her ankle as she reached for a mushroom; then the chain sharply yanked her leg out from under her. She smacked her face against the trunk, bounced and caught herself on the ground with her hands, blinking away the darkness and licking the blood from her lips.
“Get up!” someone shouted.
Pushing herself up, Sam got to her feet. The two men next to her on the chain lay on the ground, unmoving, face up and sprawled out. One of them, lichen covering half his face, struggled to breathe through his one nostril and half-sealed mouth, which lay crushed into the snow.
A human wearing brown hunting pants and a tattered sweatshirt approached, raising a wooden switch, and proceeded to thrash the two unconscious Infected with such force Samantha felt a breeze. “Get! Up!” he bellowed.
Sam’s first instinct was to cover her face, but when the switch came down a third, then fourth time, leaving bloody welts across the men’s faces and bodies, Samantha threw herself over them, covering their bodies with her own.
“What the—” the man said, switch held high.
“Leave them alone!” Sam snapped, wrapping her arms around one of the
men. “Can’t you see they’re unconscious?”
The whip struck her hard, cutting through her flimsy shirt and lashing her skin until it tore.
“Get up, all of you!” the human repeated, raising his arm again.
Samantha didn’t move, but bit down on her lower lip.
The next blow came harder, cutting deeper. She felt hot blood trickle down her back. There was nothing to be done but let the whip come, bite back her cries, try not to black out herself. Four, five, ten lashes; she lost count.
Eventually, the men under her arms stirred, opened their eyes, gathered what had happened. Sickened, remorseful, disgusted, they helped Sam to her feet.
The human stood behind her with his blood-stained branch and glowered at them all. Red-faced and puffing, he spat onto the ground and wiped his lips with the back of his hand. “You goin’ to regret that, missy,” he said. “You hear me?”
When she didn’t reply, he walked a few meters and met up with another guard—a woman in black sweats with a hunting rifle. They whispered together for a few moments, and then both sets of eyes turned to meet Samantha’s.
A creeping dread crawled up Sam’s starved belly and settled in the back of her throat.
THE SUN SET like the blink of an eye, and the work day was done. In single file, the chain gangs marched back through the forest, to be unshackled and let loose back into the holding pen. Guards gathered on the overhead walkway, keeping a watchful eye.
As with each night, after the fires were started and the fungi boiled, stories of the day’s horrors trickled through the pen.
One woman named Margaret had been shot after she’d broken her own ankle to slip her chains and tried to run away.
Aside from Samantha, six others had been whipped for blacking out.
A gray-haired man named Howard had broken out into a thick sweat, grabbed his chest and died at the coldest part of the day from a presumed heart attack.
A woman, Sabra, had had her head ripped off by a terror-jaw before the beast was shot by the guards.
Samantha wasn’t certain how much longer any of them could survive in these conditions. Their numbers were diminishing daily and every opportunity she saw for escape was usually tried by someone else—who ended up dead. She saw no options, no way out. If the cuts on her back didn’t become infected and kill her, she would eventually starve or freeze to death, or simply weaken to the point the guards put her down.