Battle

by Tom Abrahams

  The people living south of the wall, from everything she’d heard, were savages. Every last one of them.

  They lived on canyon floors, battled like gladiators in a football stadium, and killed each other for sport. They ran drugs and women, sought vengeance with impunity. Only some had electricity, and fewer had access to the working fuel refineries just outside the wall in Louisiana. Their food was what they caught in traps or with bows and arrows. They were lawless and uncivilized.

  “They don’t deserve what they have,” she muttered. “They’re better off dead.”

  She was doing them a favor, she rationalized. Her new hybridized virus was their salvation. It was putting them out of their misery. Who would want to live south of the wall? That wasn’t living. It was Hell. She was sure of it.

  Sheets of rain were blowing diagonally in the wind in a streetlight almost directly below her. They strummed against the glass at her face.

  Sharp envisioned her husband overseeing the construction of the wall. She imagined him directing the digging and trenching and stacking. She could hear his deep, resonant voice in her head.

  “Texas is overrun by gangs,” he’d told her when she’d protested his leaving. “They’re going to come north and destabilize what little control we’ve got. Troops are spread thin. Supplies are scarce. People need work; they need security. We’ve reached a deal,” he’d said. “We keep them inside and they stop people from coming north, taking what few opportunities we’ve got. Texas is full of desperados, pure and simple.”

  He’d died six months later when he’d offered his evening rations to a seemingly needy family looking for help. They’d taken his food, thanked him, and then shot him dead. They stole his clothes, his boots, his sidearm, and his watch. Sharp had given him that watch.

  Savages. Every last one of them.

  Her husband vanished as a phone on the conference table warbled its electronic tone. An accompanying red light flashed in the darkness. The AI voice announced the caller. It was a superior. He wanted an update.

  “Hello, sir,” she said, clearing her throat.

  The responding voice was hollow, as if in a tunnel. “Sharp,” said the man, “I’ve got the senior team here. You’re on speaker. Everyone has clearance. The line is secure. Answer my questions freely. Understood?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Where are we? I need a sitrep.”

  “We’ve deployed the first subject,” she said, stepping closer to the table at the center of the room.

  “Without success, I understand,” said the superior. “Is that correct?”

  “That’s correct,” she admitted, “but we expected setbacks. That’s why we are set to deploy another ten within the next forty-eight hours.”

  Another voice from the call, one farther from the phone, chimed in. “We’ve seen the video of those fully infected. Impressive. These are people who were immune to the Scourge and yet succumbed rapidly to your YPH5N1. Are there any subjects who are not susceptible?”

  “Yes,” Sharp replied. “We hypothesized the mortality rate at seventy-nine percent, which is some thirteen percent greater than the Scourge. We’ve seen two who are currently asymptomatic. We’ve also had some who deteriorate very quickly, faster than expected.”

  “It’s a work in progress, then?” asked the superior.

  “Yes.”

  “How much of the hybrid virus do you have? That is to say, is there any redundancy?”

  Sharp paused. There wasn’t any redundancy. There was the one lab, the one freezer full of viral samples, and there were those infected. Until they were released into the wild and the disease spread, their years of work were housed in a single secure location.

  “All of the samples are in-house, sir,” she said. “That was the protocol. You wanted to contain the threat. No need to risk infecting innocents.”

  “Yes,” he said. “Very good. We’ll check back in twenty-four hours once you’ve deployed the additional subjects. We’re anxious to learn about the field tests. We need Texas back. We need the land, the oil, the gas. We can’t do it without significantly depleting their population.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The phone chirped and the call ended.

  Sharp walked back to the window and touched it with her fingers. The rain was inaudible now, the strain of the wind against the window gone. Faraway clouds strobed. The storm was moving away.

  “Dr. Sharp?”

  She looked into the glass at Morel’s reflection. He was standing in the doorway, his hands folded in front of him. He was wet.

  “What?” she asked over her shoulder.

  “Three transport drivers have arrived,” he said. “And I have teams loading the patien—er, subjects into their vehicles.”

  “Good,” she said. “They have fuel?”

  “Yes.”

  “Suits?”

  “Getting them fitted now.”

  “Any of them having second thoughts?”

  “No,” he said. “They’re excited about the opportunity to deliver weapons of mass destruction.”

  She looked at Morel. “You were outside?”

  He looked at his soaked lab coat. “I was. I helped with intake for the drivers. Each of them is assigned an armed guard, by the way. The vehicles, one of which is a hearse, are located in the sally port.”

  “What are their destinations?”

  Morel counted them out with his fingers. “One of them is going to Houston, actually an enclave north of Houston called The Woodlands. They have some high-density housing we think will spread the disease quickly. Plano, that’s near Dallas. The last one is going to San Antonio. A lot of the former Cartel members are there. It’s also a population center, relatively speaking.”

  Sharp nodded. “Houston, Dallas, and San Antonio,” she said. “Exactly what I would have done.”

  “Thank you,” said Morel.

  “What about the subjects who aren’t sick?”

  “What about them?”

  “Did you do as I asked?”

  Morel used one hand to brace himself against the door frame. He looked down and nodded almost imperceptibly. “They’re with Bolnoy. He’s doing as you asked. He complained about the added work, but he’s doing it.”

  “Good,” she said. “When are the drivers leaving?”

  “Before midnight. The front should be moving out and the skies should clear soon. They’ll get something to eat and then head out.”

  “Thank you, Charles,” Sharp said. “I’ll see you downstairs.”

  Morel started to back away from the doorway.

  “Charles?” she called.

  “Yes, Dr. Sharp?”

  “How is your wife? Your children? How are they? Do they need anything extra? Toilet paper? Soap? Toaster pastries? I know your children like toaster pastries.”

  Morel stuffed his hands into his lab coat pockets and drew them together, closing the jacket at his waist. The look on his face, his skeptical scowl, told Sharp he didn’t believe she was sincere.

  “I mean it,” she added. “Anything they need.”

  He shook his head. “We’re fine, Dr. Sharp,” he said flatly, without a hint of gratitude. “We have everything we need.”

  She smiled. “Fine then. I’ll see you downstairs. Let me know when the teams are ready to depart. Don’t hesitate to involve me if we have issues, as we did with the one who drove the hearse.”

  “Of course,” he said. “I won’t hesitate.”

  CHAPTER 22

  FEBRUARY 12, 2044, 9:00 PM

  SCOURGE + 11 YEARS, 4 MONTHS

  ATLANTA, GEORGIA

  Marcus took a swig of water and wiped his mouth with the back of his arm. Although the rain had lessened to a drizzle, he’d kept the wipers working against the windshield. There was something about the rhythm of the rubber blades swiping on the glass that kept him focused, though in the back of his mind, he kept trying to place where he’d seen Taskar before. He knew the man was somehow familiar, he jus
t couldn’t place it. It was like a word on the tip of his tongue. He was even sure he’d seen the hearse before too.

  He’d driven the majority of the trip. Taskar had handled the tricky part crossing the wall. The rest of it was easy. Marcus was surprised by the condition of the roads north of the wall. They weren’t racetrack smooth, but they were light years better than the rutted crumble of highways that crisscrossed Texas. Still, a trip that shouldn’t have taken much longer than sixteen or seventeen hours had taken more than twenty-four.

  They’d stopped three times to refuel. Each time Marcus restarted the truck, he held his breath until the engine stopped coughing and purred. Taskar didn’t talk much. Marcus couldn’t tell if he was the quiet type or if he’d been through something he didn’t want to relive. He figured it might be a little bit of both, so he didn’t push.

  The first sign of real civilization, with electricity and traffic, was Birmingham, Alabama. Military convoys had passed them, some SUVs too. A couple on a motorcycle had whirred past along the shoulder. It wasn’t rush-hour in pre-Scourge Los Angeles by any means, but given the horse-and-buggy life south of the wall, this was gridlock.

  Birmingham was nothing compared to Atlanta. The city, its blacktop highways glistening from the rain, and its pockets of yellow and white lights dotting the high-rises that rose above the invisible parks below, was magnificent.

  Marcus gripped the wheel with both hands, his eyes scanning the spires of the tallest of the buildings. He hadn’t seen anything like it in a long time. He couldn’t actually remember how long it had been.

  “Wow,” he said under his breath, his eyes skittering from one side of the highway to the other and back.

  “It’s not as impressive as it seems,” said Taskar. He yawned, stretched his body like a cat, and pulled up his seat back.

  Marcus shifted lanes. “How so?”

  “There’s every bit as much poverty and crime here as there is south of the wall,” Taskar said. “It’s just disguised by all the nice shiny things that still work.”

  “Maybe,” Marcus said, “but they have power. They have an infrastructure. There are jobs.”

  “Only if you’re connected,” said Taskar. “The government is a monopoly. If you’re in with them, you can live decent. I had no connections for the longest time. Being a former Dweller, it wasn’t easy. I might as well have been a farmer in…where are you from?”

  “I’m from outside Rising Star,” said Marcus. “But you’re talking about Baird. The town is called Baird.”

  “Baird,” Taskar repeated.

  Then it hit Marcus. Taskar. A Dweller. He had met him.

  “You were a Dweller?”

  “Yeah, but I left. I didn’t agree with the politics of where they wanted to take things.”

  “You’ve been a transporter for how long?”

  “Seven, maybe eight years,” he said. “Could be nine. I’ve lost count.”

  “Where’d you live?”

  “North of the wall. Different places. I’d make trips back and forth. That’s how I made money, you know, smuggling people from one side to the other.”

  “Did you ever transport a woman named Ana? She had a baby named Penny.”

  Taskar shrugged. “Could be. I moved a lot of people. A lot of babies.”

  “We’ve met,” said Marcus. “Wichita Falls. You were in that hearse. You’d moved Ana and Penny to the wall. There was a backlog. They made us cross together, but you stayed behind.”

  Taskar moved his body to more directly face Marcus. His face contorted such that Marcus could almost see the sparks in his memory trying to fire.

  “I remember you,” said Marcus. “It was after the Cartel fell to the Dwellers.”

  Taskar shook his head. “It sounds familiar,” he said. “And I recognize you, but I don’t remember that woman and her kid. Sorry. I’m guessing you didn’t make it, since you’re here with me now?”

  Marcus gripped the wheel with both hands. A vision of Penny’s lifeless body flashed in his head. He shook his head. “We made it,” he said. “But Ana drowned. My friend Lola and I adopted her kid. We went back to Rising Star. We raised her.”

  “Whoa,” said Taskar. “That’s crazy. How is she now? How old is she?”

  “She’s dead,” Marcus said flatly.

  Taskar stared out the window, his hands flat on his lap.

  They traveled another few minutes in silence, the wipers squeaking against the glass, until Taskar pointed. “You’re going to exit here. That’s the best option. We’re not going to be able to drive all the way up to the front door.”

  Marcus eased toward the exit. “Why not?”

  “They’ve got snipers on the roof and cameras everywhere. I know we’ve come a long way, but this is beginning to feel like a bad idea.”

  “I’ve survived every bad idea I’ve ever had,” said Marcus.

  “It only takes once.”

  “People keep telling me that. I tend not to listen to them.”

  Marcus slowed the truck, but kept driving. The compass on the dash told him they were heading southeast.

  “Keep going this way,” said Taskar. “You’ll come to an intersection up here. Turn right. Go a little farther to another major intersection. It’s probably a good place to stop. If I remember correctly, there’s a parking lot, and we’ll be a little more than a mile from the CDC.”

  Marcus followed the instructions onto Briarcliff. Unlike in Texas, the street signs were upright and accurate. In a few blocks he came to a parking lot in front of a large single-story building. It looked like a grocery store, but it was obvious nobody had used it for anything in a while. The lot was speckled with weeds and littered with trash. The truck’s headlamps were the only illumination.

  “This it?” Marcus asked, applying the brake and stopping.

  “I think so,” said Taskar. “This is good. I know we’re not far.”

  “Let’s load up, then.”

  Marcus elbowed his door open and planted his boots on the ground. His legs were stiff and his old wounds ached. He stretched his neck and back and squatted on his heels to ease the pain in his thighs. It didn’t help much. He limped, more noticeably, to the back of the truck and lowered the covered tailgate.

  “You’re hurt?” asked Taskar.

  “Soreness from an old injury,” he said. “Got it from a bad idea.”

  Taskar grimaced, apparently unamused. He reached into the back of the truck and pulled out a backpack loaded with bricks of C-4 and detonators. Marcus removed a pair of rifles. He took his Springfield and an AR-15, which he offered to Taskar.

  “It’s only got one extra mag,” he said, handing over a curved, fully loaded magazine. “So be judicious with the trigger.”

  Taskar took the rifle and checked the attached magazine. He pulled the weapon to his shoulder and eyed the sights, aiming the barrel at the ground.

  Marcus slung his Springfield over his shoulder. He then pulled another pack from the truck’s bed and withdrew his handgun. He checked to make sure it was full of cartridges, which it was, and then he slid it into a holster he wore at his hip.

  While Taskar readied himself, Marcus walked back to the driver’s side. He drew Lou’s knife from the center console and tucked it into his waistband at the small of his back. He pulled up his pants and limped back to Taskar, who was still playing with his new weapon.

  “You comfortable with that rifle?” Marcus asked.

  “Yeah,” said Taskar. “I’ve been in tight spots before.”

  “Bad ideas?”

  Taskar smirked. “Maybe.”

  CHAPTER 23

  FEBRUARY 12, 2044, 11:00 PM

  SCOURGE + 11 YEARS, 4 MONTHS

  ATLANTA, GEORGIA

  The rain had stopped. The air was damp and colder than before the storm. Standing in a sally port on the back side of the facility, Dr. Morel’s breath bloomed in small puffs of vapor. He was standing amongst the trio of drivers who’d volunteered for the transport jobs
. They were suited up in matching hazmat suits. He was wearing a less-restrictive version of the suit and hadn’t yet affixed a locking hood and mask at his neck.

  A technician from Bolnoy’s team was checking the oxygenators affixed to their chests. None of them looked worried or anxious, in sharp contrast to Timothy Taskar.

  They’d made a mistake with that one. Morel was sure of it, and he was glad.

  They were awaiting the arrival of the subjects. All of them were exhibiting the early signs of the disease. When Morel had last checked, they suffered from high fevers, lung infections of varying degrees, and visibly swollen submandibular lymph glands.

  Morel had assured Sharp that they were sick enough to infect others but not far enough along to die in transport. He hoped he was wrong. He was counting on it.

  For months, he and his team had done just enough to advance the program. They’d conducted accelerated rat and dog trials. They’d completed their early human tests. They’d even sent the first subject into the wild. All of it was made to appear as though he’d done as he was told and had achieved what Sharp liked to call the endgame.

  But there was something about the illness he hadn’t told her. Half the samples contained what he’d termed a “suicidal component.” That was what he’d injected into the three subjects about to go to Dallas, Houston, and San Antonio.

  When Sharp had changed the directive and then threatened his family, Morel had secretly undertaken an ancillary project that he developed in parallel to the new YPH5N1. It was a virus that, after producing signs of infection, would fight itself until the virus was eradicated and the body’s lymphocytes healed the infected cells.

  He’d done it by taking the Scourge vaccine they’d come so close to completing and binding it to the H1N1 component of the disease. The live attenuated Scourge vaccine was essentially a significantly weakened version of the deadly YP strain. It might produce some symptoms, but wasn’t fatal.