by Tom Abrahams
Under the microscope, it was indistinguishable from YPH5N1, intended to induce seventy percent mortality. Neither Sharp nor her superiors would know the difference unless they knew exactly where to look. And they wouldn’t.
The flu virus attached to the vaccine, as it would the plague. Since the body developed antibodies to fight the plague, it could also have enough strength to beat back the flu. It could take days or weeks, and it hadn’t always worked. But in two cases, CV-18 and CV-19, it had. This was true science fiction. And Morel had made it happen.
Bolnoy’s team might discover it in their postmortem analysis of CV-18 and CV-19. They’d likely find the antibodies and wonder how the pair developed them so quickly instead of succumbing to the lethality of the Swine Scourge. It wouldn’t matter. Bolnoy didn’t like the mission either. He didn’t like Sharp. He wouldn’t tell her.
Morel regretted what he’d done to CV-18 and CV-19. He regretted what he’d injected into rats and dogs and other humans. They were the sacrifice he’d made for his family, for the countless thousands of lives he’d ultimately save by murdering a few.
There would be more sacrifices. When the trio of subjects failed to produce the expected infections, they’d be euthanized. There would be more tests, more subjects, more transports. People would die from the virus. It would spread. But not like Sharp and her superiors had planned. A Texas takeover wouldn’t be as easy as they’d like to think. The military was still a shadow of its pre-Scourge self. From what he’d heard, they weren’t as proficiently violent as the amoral cowboys south of the wall.
Ultimately, Morel believed he would lose his own life. Sharp wouldn’t put up with the failures.
By then, he hoped to have moved his family somewhere safe, somewhere with all the trappings of a government job but without the Faustian contract. He didn’t know where it might be, but he would do it. He’d talked with Bolnoy about it. The Russian had connections everywhere.
The vapor of his breath plumed and dissipated in front of his face. The transporters were ready. One of Bolnoy’s men tapped a square display on his wrist and the electronic doors that led from the sally port into the building buzzed and clicked.
The twin doors opened mechanically outward and Sharp appeared alongside three gurneys and their escorts. She and the escorts were in biohazard suits. She looked at Morel and pointed to her head.
Morel nodded and, from a rolling cart next to him, picked up his hooded mask. He affixed it to his modified hazmat suit by twisting it until it locked and sealed in place. He reached around to the back of the hood and fixed a quarter-inch flexible tube to the oxygenator at his chest. He sucked in his first breath of filtered air and tasted the charcoal and plastic mixture on his tongue and in the back of his throat.
“Let’s load them up,” Sharp said. “I want them on the road within the hour.”
The hazmat-suited aides guided the gurneys from the large double doors to the sally port floor. They rolled them down a ramp and then maneuvered each to its assigned SUV.
One of the subjects—an older, feeble-looking, white-bearded man—groaned as they lifted the gurney into the back of the vehicle. His mouth was swollen and cracked, his nose draining snot. His eyes were bloodshot and swollen underneath thinning brows. His cheekbones were exposed like ridges on his sunken face, and his sinewy arms strained against the leather straps holding them in place. “You’ll all rot,” he moaned. “Every last one of you will spend eternity in Hell for this.”
Coughing, he disappeared into the SUV’s bed. The aides shut the door behind him. His groaning curses and promises of damnation were muffled but still audible as the aides loaded the other two subjects.
Once the doors were shut, Sharp placed a gloved hand onto an iron railing and marched down the steps from the landing at the double doors to the bay floor below. She watched her booted feet as she walked.
Morel suppressed a smile. It was the first time he’d ever seen her unsure of herself. He moved toward her. He watched her, uneasy in her suit. She’d been in a suit countless times. Though, Morel reasoned, she’d always been in a lab, in a controlled environment. This was different. As soon as the bay doors opened, she was exposed to the outside world.
He knew she didn’t care for anything beyond the walls of the headquarters. She worked there, she lived there. It had taken an act of what remained of Congress to get her to meet with Taskar offsite. A team of guards had accompanied her on the journey and stood by, ready to act if needed. Maybe her dislike of those south of the wall wasn’t entirely wrapped in her husband’s death. Maybe, Morel thought as he stood next to her, watching the massive bay doors open on the back of the sally port, she disliked them because they were comfortable with the freedom and the risk that came with being in a wild, lawless wilderness. She was envious more than angry, frightened more than vindictive.
Morel could feel the door rumbling open in the fabric of his suit. It vibrated against his skin. Sharp glanced at him and offered an awkward smile. He was convinced she didn’t know how to smile, that she’d viewed a demonstrative video from the AI system to explain how to do it.
When the doors finished opening, the drivers started their engines and the SUVs rolled out one after the other. Sharp led Morel to the edge of the sally port and they stood there until the caravan’s red taillights dimmed as they drove away.
“One big step forward,” Sharp said to Morel.
“One step,” he replied.
“Let’s go find Bolnoy,” she said. “I want answers about CV-18 and CV-19.”
Morel drew a deep breath of artificial air and sighed. “After you,” he said, motioning her back toward the double doors.
* * *
Marcus heard the engines before he saw the SUVs. They were loud. There was certainly more than one of them.
“You hear that?” he asked Taskar.
“Yeah. Sounds like a convoy.”
“Coming from the CDC?”
Taskar nodded. “Could be. We’re only three blocks from them. I don’t remember much else being operational in this area.”
Marcus thumbed the sling off his shoulder and gripped the rifle. Taskar did the same. They were positioned on a street corner, multistory buildings on all sides. Marcus crept to the edge of one of the buildings and motioned for Taskar to do the same on the opposite side of the street.
The engines grew louder. The LED headlights’ glare intensified on the road in front of him. They were close now.
He readied himself, bracing his side against the building. He took slow, measured breaths and took note of his pulse. His hands were steady. He wasn’t sure what was coming at him, he wasn’t certain he’d open fire, but he had to be ready.
The first SUV passed him. It wasn’t traveling fast, no more than twenty-five miles an hour, Marcus guessed. Despite the lack of light, he could see two people in the front seat. Both were wearing large angular biohazard suits.
The second vehicle passed close behind the first. It too had two people in the front seat, wearing protective suits.
Above the hum of the engines, Taskar yelled across the street to Marcus, “That’s them!” he called. “They’re taking sick people south.”
Even in the dim ambient light of the SUVs, Marcus saw the panic in Taskar’s eyes and heard the desperation in his voice.
“They’ve left!” he yelled as the third SUV rolled past. “We’re too late!”
Marcus ignored him. He dropped to one knee, found his target, and drilled a round through the front tire of the lead SUV some fifty yards up the street. The tire popped and hissed. The SUV swerved and stopped suddenly, its brakes squealing and the antilock mechanism grumbling loudly.
Taking a cue, Taskar unloaded a pair of shots into both driver’s side tires in the third SUV, while Marcus worked the bolt and plowed a bullet into a rear tire of the middle vehicle.
The third driver didn’t stop in time and skidded at an angle into the rear of the SUV in front of him. Marcus had three rifle shots rem
aining and moved toward the collision, intent on using them. He chambered the next cartridge.
On the opposite side, Taskar mirrored Marcus. “The subjects are in the back!” he called. “They’re innocent. The guys in suits work for the CDC.”
“Got it,” Marcus replied. His finger was on the trigger, ready to fire, when a hazmat-suited passenger climbed out of the third SUV. Marcus caught the glint of a weapon in his hand. He applied pressure to the Springfield’s trigger and zipped a bullet through the man’s mask. The man spun wildly, spasming and grasping at the shattered visor before crumpling to the ground.
Marcus loaded his fourth round and inched forward, scanning the street with the barrel. On the opposite side of the collision he heard a burst of AR-15 pops. Then a second as the door of the middle vehicle opened and a hazmat-wearing passenger dropped out and hit the ground. At the same time, a rifle shot zipped past Marcus’s head. He instinctively crouched low, hurried behind the wreck for cover, and dropped to the ground. Another shot dinged the open SUV door in front of him and a third ricocheted off the street.
In the dark and the glare of the headlights, Marcus had trouble locating the source of the gunfire. He knew it was the passenger in the first vehicle, he just couldn’t see him.
He inched his pack from his shoulders, heaved it to the ground, and laid it in front of him. He rested the Springfield’s barrel on the pack and panned the area, searching for the enemy.
On the opposite side of the wreck, out of his field of view, another volley came from the AR-15. It was at his ten o’clock. Taskar had advanced beyond his position. Another double shot from Taskar at the same time incoming shots ripped through the air overhead. Marcus caught a muzzle flash to the right of the first SUV, beyond the reach of the fan of the headlight. Marcus held his position and waited.
“C’mon,” he muttered. “One more shot.” The muzzle flashed and Marcus adjusted his aim as a round slammed into the dead, hanging body of the passenger in the second SUV. He pulled the trigger, quickly cranked the bolt, and fired again.
In the echo of the gunfire, Taskar called out, “You got him! You got him!”
Marcus pulled back onto his knees, still holding the rifle.
Taskar appeared around the front of the second vehicle. “We’re good,” he said breathlessly. He was clearly amped. “All six. You got three, I got three. That was quick thinking. Shooting the tires. I didn’t think of that. Pretty smart. Good job.”
Marcus stood and popped the five-round internal magazine from the Springfield. He reloaded it one bullet at a time, pulling the cartridges from his pants pocket. Then he wiped the rivulets of sweat from his forehead. His fingers were getting stiff and his back ached. “It’s cold here,” he said. “Colder than Texas.”
Taskar shot Marcus a confused look. “That’s what you’re thinking about?” he asked. “The weather?”
Marcus shrugged. “Yeah. I don’t like the cold. It messes with my joints.”
Taskar stood there dumfounded. He slid a thumb inside the shoulder strap on his pack and shrugged it higher.
Marcus nodded toward the dead men in the street. “You said six are down. What about the patients? Where are they?”
Taskar’s face stretched with recognition. “I forgot about them,” he said, his cadence still spiked with adrenaline. “They should be in the backs of the SUVs, strapped to gurneys.”
Marcus slid the bolt to chamber the first round. He moved slyly toward the back of the third SUV and pressed his face close to the glass to peer inside, but as soon as he saw what was inside, he stumbled backward with shock.
“What?” asked Taskar, who’d taken his place to Marcus’s side. “What is it?”
“I think he’s dead,” said Marcus. “Or she. I can’t tell. Whatever it is, it looks like someone hung skin on a skeleton.”
Taskar tentatively stepped forward, cupped a hand around one eye, and looked into the SUV. He held his gaze there for a moment. “He’s not dead,” said Taskar, “and this is nothing. There’s no blood or anything. Did you ever see anyone die from the Scourge? I did. If you didn’t, this is what it looked like.”
Marcus thought about telling Taskar the image reminded him of his wife, Sylvia, on the day she died, emaciated and pale. She was a ghostly doppelgänger of her healthy self. He decided not to offer an explanation. It wasn’t any of his business.
“What do we do with him?” asked Marcus. “And the others, assuming there are similar people in the other two SUVs?”
“I don’t know,” Taskar said. “We can’t leave them here, but I don’t think we want to be touching them.”
“Do we put them out of their misery?” asked Marcus. “Like you did Lomas?”
Taskar frowned. “I don’t know if I can do that again.”
Marcus chuckled. “You just shot three men in cold blood.”
“That’s different. They had it coming. We killed them to save a lot of other lives. I don’t want to kill these people,” said Taskar. “Not yet. And we’re wasting time by standing here arguing about it.”
“Okay then,” Marcus said and started walking. He stooped to pick up his pack and slung it over his shoulder. His limp was increasingly pronounced as he moved south toward the CDC.
Taskar caught up a half a block later. “You gonna make it?”
“Don’t have a choice now, do we?”
* * *
“Position One, this is Position Two. Did you hear gunfire? Over,” said the sniper at the northwest edge of the CDC’s roof.
He was speaking into a voice-activated microphone pressed to his neck. He’d heard the easily recognizable pops of semiautomatic gunfire, but he’d seen no evidence of it. He couldn’t tell how far away it was or in which direction. The other large buildings made it difficult to isolate the original sound from the echoes.
“Copy that, Position Two,” said the sentry atop the roof above the plaza at the entrance. “I heard it. You spot a location? Over.”
“Negative,” said Position Two. “Audible confirmation only. Over.”
The sniper moved along the edge of the building’s roof, searching the streets below for any indication of a threat. Gunfire was not uncommon, especially in the nongovernment neighborhoods that surrounded the CDC. They were dark places, many of the buildings abandoned or inhabited by squatters.
“Position Three,” squawked his earpiece, “this is Position One. Do you have confirmation? Over.”
Position Three was above the sally port. He’d watched the SUV’s caravan beyond the tall cluster of buildings nearest the CDC, ensuring nothing happened to them as they left the secure perimeter surrounding the headquarters.
“Affirmative,” he said into his mic. “Copy that. I did hear the shots. AR-15 and something else. A single-shot maybe. Over.”
“Visual? Over,” asked Position One.
“Negative that,” said Position Three. “No flash. Nothing. Over.”
“Stay frosty,” said Position One. “All positions report anomalies. Over. Out.”
Position Two patrolled as close to the edge of the roof as he was comfortable. The soft gravel crunched under his jackboots. The damp wind blew at his back and his face as he made his way back to the corner, retracing his area of responsibility.
The wind was biting and stung his earlobes and the tip of his nose. It dried his eyes and mouth. He sniffed back the chill and edged close to the corner, peering over the edge. He scanned the streets below. Nothing. As he was about to turn, a flash from the border of his peripheral vision caught his eye and he heard a pop. Then the world went black. His body stiffened and slapped onto the gravel.
* * *
“One down,” said Marcus. “How many are there?”
“I don’t know,” said Taskar. “I didn’t get a good look around the perimeter of the roof. I do know there are at least two or three. I saw them by the front entrance when I parked there.”
Marcus lowered his rifle. “Let’s find the next one, then, before they no
tice one isn’t communicating.”
He led Taskar around the corner of the building, staying a block away. A sharp, burning sensation radiated from both knees as he moved. One of his ankles felt weak. The cold sucked.
They reached the next corner and Marcus pointed toward the roof. There was another sentry armed with a rifle. He was dressed in black, but a hint of moonlight glimmered off the man’s bald head.
Marcus dropped to one knee, a sharp jolt of pain firing through his thigh, and he winced. “Spot me.”
He drew the rifle to his body and placed his eye to the scope. He eased his finger onto the trigger and applied steady pressure. Kill shot.
“That’s two,” said Taskar. “Next corner is the front plaza. There will be more than one there.”
Taskar motioned where they should go. Marcus slung his rifle over his shoulder and limped onward.
* * *
“This is Position One to Positions Two and Three,” said the patrol commander. “Radio sitrep ASAP. Over.”
It was the fourth time he’d tried to hail them on his comms. They hadn’t answered, but he’d distinctly heard a single-shot rifle report twice since their group discussion. He scanned the roof as best he could, but it was dark. The roof was expansive, and much of it was obstructed by HVAC equipment. He turned to his subordinate at the plaza position and pressed the mute key on his transmitter.
“We’ve got a problem,” he said. “Head downstairs and communicate my concerns directly to Dr. Sharp. I don’t want this going over the radio.”
“Yes, sir,” said Richter, the sentry. “What do you want me to tell Dr. Sharp, sir?”
“Tell her we have a threat. We’ll contain it before it breaches the building, but she needs to be aware. Understood?”
“Roger that, sir.”
Richter sprinted toward the roof access door. There’d been an armed threat only once in the five years the commander had been assigned to the CDC. It was random. Somebody lost their mind and haphazardly opened fire on everything he saw. This didn’t feel like that. He knew, without having to see their bodies, that two of his men were dead. This was a deliberate attack. It was systematic and executed with precision. He inhaled a deep breath of the moist February air, the icy chill filling his lungs. The smell of tar lingered in his nostrils after he blew it out. He backed away from the ledge, treading as softly as he could on the gravel.