The Cannibal Virus

by Anthony DeCosmo

  "Sir, yes sir!"

  26

  A transport helicopter flew overhead, a Humvee raced by the main entrance, a soldier removed his cap and wiped sweat from his brow while enjoying a cigarette in the hot sun, and a maintenance man accessed a circuitry panel inside one of the many metal sheds surrounding the surface level of the Darwin Research Facility.

  Two levels below ground, Major Thom Gant and Dr. Annabelle Stacy stood in front of Colonel Thunder's desk while General Friez chewed them out for the fourth time in three days.

  "So there you have it. Campion managed to recover three of the specimens. A multi-million-dollar building built to research, develop, and house the most extravagant biological weapon in history and you made it worthless in two hours."

  Gant no longer felt the need to apologize. Or rather, he no longer felt the need to feign regret. He had suffered through dozens of phone calls, meetings, and memos all pointing to a reprimand in his file, which at his level of operating was akin to a slap on the wrist or being sent to bed without supper.

  Still, he knew enough to suffer the general's anger quietly.

  "We still don't know who this Global Health Protectorate is and who Monroe's sponsors were. You understand, Major, that it's possible this parasite is out there, somewhere, in another bunker, being worked on. If we had captured the complex intact we might know."

  Yes, General, and if you had captured the facility intact the scientists downstairs would be picking up where Waters left off.

  "Sir," Annabelle cut in. Gant held his breath, waiting to hear Friez tear into the girl.

  But to his surprise, the opposite occurred. Friez's voice calmed and he spoke to her in a soft tone.

  "Dr. Stacy, I want you to know I do not hold you responsible for this. You performed admirably on your first mission, and the information you have provided is one of the few bright spots of this entire episode."

  "Thank you, Albert. As I wrote in my report, the organism was extremely unstable. I don't believe it is possible for it to be contained for any length of time. Even the few specimens we have here at Darwin should be considered extremely dangerous."

  Given Stacy's interruption, Colonel Thunder must have believed an opportunity existed to turn this dress-down into a conversation. She said, "I didn't read your report. What is it that you're afraid of?"

  Stacy turned to Thunder and then looked back to General Friez.

  "This was the perfect killing machine, tailor-made for human beings. Notice that we saw no evidence of the fungus infecting other animals. It adapted to the countermeasures used against it, such as the PX gas, and I have to believe that the blocking agent administered to me would not have worked for much longer."

  For Thom Gant, the biggest relief since returning from the mission had been to learn that Dr. Stacy's medical examination checked out clear. Whatever substance they had injected her with to keep the zombies at bay had since faded form her system, apparently leaving no ill effects and no trace.

  She went on, "Maybe something in the environment caused it to become that deadly, but it's also possible that its ability to adapt was coded into the original biomathematical equation Waters pulled from the disc. Maybe even hidden in it."

  While Thom felt a little lost, Colonel Thunder seemed to follow along.

  "You're suggesting that whoever the original source for the formula to make this thing was added this quality to make it extra dangerous, and hid that somehow within the formula."

  "Like hiding a computer virus inside an otherwise legitimate download," Annabelle nodded. "That's how it seemed to me, although it's really just a gut feeling."

  "Gut feelings are a part of this job," Friez told her and tugged his cap a little tighter on his head. "You did well, Doctor. I'm sure Major Gant appreciated having you along."

  Stacy turned to Thom, who smiled — a little — but kept his eyes focused forward in case the general decided to yell some more.

  However, it seemed even Friez had grown tired of berating Major Gant. The man made a sharp turn and exited the office, no doubt on his way to the elevator and a jet destined for Washington, D.C.

  Stacy watched him go and then turned to Thom and said, "So that's why you did it, isn’t it? To keep it out of our hands. Here I thought you were just being a sadistic bastard."

  Oh, I was, he thought. I burnt it down good.

  Liz — sitting at her desk — crossed her hands and with a somewhat delighted grin said, "In the short time I've known Major Gant here, I've come to see that he's got his own sense of justice. I guess that's the best you can hope for in this line of work, isn't it, Thom?"

  He relaxed his posture but still guarded his words.

  "Is there anything else, Colonel? Or am I dismissed?"

  "What, you have a date or something? Why the hurry?"

  "I have something I have to do," he said, then turned to Annabelle Stacy and went on: "I believe I still owe Dr. Stacy a tour."

  She stepped back and tilted her head.

  "That's funny. I had forgotten all about that."

  "Come on then," Gant said and motioned toward the office door and beyond that a corridor leading to an elevator that only went down. "You've earned it. Or at least, I owe it to you."

  * * *

  As usual, Stan Goreman walked with a bounce in his step like a car salesman spotting a little old lady eyeing a luxury sedan. Normally that bounce would be accompanied by a big smile, but not today. There was no reason to smile today, not with a lot of questions coming down from the higher-ups. When the higher-ups at The Tall Company had lots of questions about your account … well, it was best to find some answers.

  Each of those bouncing steps took him further along a narrow, empty corridor lined with metal doors that had started with "Archives 001" and now counted all the way up to "Archives 025." While all of the preceding doors were shut tight and — with the exception of a pounding coming from behind one — quiet, the door he approached was wide open, and sounds of activity came from within.

  A big, burly Tall Sciences security guard with an unnaturally thick neck stood outside the open chamber. While Mr. Goreman was well known for both his perfectly tailored suits and his undying enthusiasm, the guard still demanded to see identification, which the young man produced.

  At that moment Goreman's cell phone played a catchy ring tone version of Blue Oyster Cult's “Don't Fear the Reaper.” He held the small phone aloft and eyed it as if it might be a snake coiling to strike. Most phones would not operate on the grounds of The Tall Company's Sciences facility in upstate New York, but Goreman's phone was specially designed so that the people on the other end could always call him, no matter where he might be.

  "Hello, yes, good morning … that's correct, but our data on their Tioga Island mission is incomplete; we're only getting fragments. After the Red Rock incident information is a little more difficult to come by … yes, that's the name. The “Global Health Protectorate.” There’s nothing in our database. Our best guess is that they are a progression from some of the more radical ecoterrorist organizations … no, I did not know that. Financial support from China or North Korea is the most likely explanation for the Tioga incident, but our analysts do not believe that either of those entities are likely to be long-term funding sources for something like that."

  Goreman drifted away from the guard to the open door and glanced inside.

  "My understanding is that — um, yes, I agree. The director made it perfectly clear that an organization such as that would be diametrically opposed to our interests … no, none of the source materials appeared to have survived the military strikes, although we understand they salvaged at least some of the infected units from the laboratory. What's that? Yes, I'm checking on that now. One moment."

  Goreman poked his head into the open archives chamber, a room about twenty feet deep and half that distance wide lined with shelves and counters displaying dozens of fired clay discs, each a little larger than a CD, each stamped with its own
unique set of symbols.

  A woman wearing a white lab coat walked among the artifacts, studying each through glasses while making notes on a small pad. She was an older woman, although she appeared rather physically fit. Her blond and gray hair was pulled back in a professional bun.

  "What did you find?" Goreman called to her, but she did not hear.

  He waited a moment and then in a slightly louder voice said, "Dr. McCaul, I need an answer."

  That got her attention, although she did not appreciate the tone. She turned to him with sharp, nasty eyes but quickly controlled her temper so that when she replied her voice sounded as pleasant as grandma offering a fresh-baked cookie.

  "All of our stock is accounted for. If it was a Cypro-Minoan disc, it did not come from our inventory."

  As Goreman picked up his phone conversation again, he backed out of the room and stood a step in front of the security guard, eyeing him like a tourist taunting a guard at Buckingham Palace.

  "Everything in our inventory is accounted for. If I may ask, is there any reason to believe this could be one of the three? After all, the other two are accounted for, and given the nature of the — okay, yes sir, I understand. I will. Thank you. Goodbye."

  He turned off his phone and held it in his hand, examining it for a moment before tucking it into a pocket. Goreman then stared at the guard, studying his face as if searching for imperfections or maybe scars.

  The guard, for his part, stood stock still, his unblinking eyes facing forward.

  Goreman patted the man on the cheek and told him, "Keep up the good work," and then walked off down the hall, whistling a tune.

  * * *

  The primary containment facilities on sublevel six were arranged like spokes on a half-wheel, all leading out from a dome-shaped room where soldiers in green BDUs stood watch. The walls were steel gray while lighting came from hooded round bulbs mounted high on the walls.

  A variety of aromas floated in the air, ranging from a burning electrical smell to a stinky damp rot certainly rooted in biological waste.

  Major Gant led Dr. Stacy to the far end of one such spoke. They then worked their way back, stopping along the way at each of the three doors lining that particular hall.

  He reached for a small viewing slot, paused, and looked to her.

  Stacy's eyes were wide and he spotted a tremble in her lips. That did not surprise Thom. The environment down there tended to make him shake, too. Low ceilings, the constant rumble of the environmental systems, the occasional grumble or scream (a few very human-like), and guards armed with shotguns, riot truncheons, and electronic prods combined to make the place feel like some sort of prison for the supernaturally insane.

  Nonetheless, she nodded approval for the freak show to begin.

  He slid back the viewport and was greeted by a low moan. Stacy stood on her toes to see inside.

  Gant explained what lurked in the dimly lit chamber: "Some sort of accident with an experiment that had something to do with molecular reconstruction. I am not sure. He … I mean, they … have been down here for a long time."

  She raised a hand to her mouth. For a moment her response seemed to be one of fear. But then he realized that she viewed the unfortunate, fused men inside the room with pity.

  "You should, I mean, the people here should, they should put him — I mean them — down."

  "I tend to agree with you, Doctor, but that is not my call. Admittedly, I would think they would have learned everything they could have learned by now. I am not sure why they keep it around."

  The horrific but sad sight held her attention until he gently pulled her away.

  "I have been told that it is essentially insane. Like everything else down here, it is very dangerous."

  She swallowed hard and then moved around him en route to the next door.

  "What's in here?"

  He actually opened this door, revealing a brightly lit room lined with a half-dozen cages, each holding a monkey. Several of the primates reacted to the visitors with cackles and cries, while others just lay still in their pens.

  She stepped inside but he stopped her from going any further.

  "I don't recognize the species."

  "From what I understand, they have been through a great deal of, well, modification. These test animals were responsible for the death of several researchers. I do not recall the details of their work, but we had to shoot another dozen of them during the mission. One of my men was killed."

  "So why keep something like this around?"

  "Dr. Stacy, I am afraid you are not understanding the function of Task Force Archangel. We do not exist merely to counter these types of threats, but to gather them for future study. There are occasions when it is clear that the safety of our team is secondary to securing test subjects."

  The two approached the third and final door on that particular spoke of the wheel.

  "These came from our previous mission," he explained as he opened the port to reveal a slab of tinted Plexiglas.

  UV light lit the chamber inside, casting the small room and its two occupants in a violet glow.

  He leaned over next to her to look inside. After a moment his eyes made out broken office furniture, a toppled file cabinet, electrical cords hanging from the ceiling, and scattered debris that might have once been part of a physics lab.

  Gant told her, "The science team felt it was important that they feel as if they are still in their original habitat."

  She seemed ready to ask exactly what lived in this containment cell but stopped when the two occupants emerged from hiding spots underneath an upended couch and a pile of old books, respectively.

  They were small, under five feet tall, and resembled children, except that they moved and acted more like primates.

  "It is hard to see in the dark," Gant said. "But they are covered in all sorts of welts and bruises. The team here has done a much better job of keeping them healthy than how things were at Red Rock."

  "These are the feral children?" She asked. "They grew up in an underground research complex?"

  "Yes. There were several. These two are the only survivors."

  She watched them for several seconds, seemingly transfixed by the sight. They were, after all, curious creatures. They were human by birth, but their environment had made them into dangerous monsters.

  Gant shut the port.

  "We can stop now if you would care to take a break," he offered.

  "There are a few more cell blocks, aren't there?"

  "Yes, but I know this is a lot to take in." Gant waved his hand toward the three doors they had just inspected. "Rather horrifying stuff, actually."

  "Horrific? No, Thom, that's not how I'd describe it. Those men, the test animals, and the children … I don't find them horrifying, I find them sad. A couple of men disfigured in an experiment, animals turned rabid by researchers, and innocent children twisted and warped by a madman. They aren't monsters — none of them. They're victims."

  He considered for a moment and conceded, "I see your point." He then smiled and assured, "But the next group of holding cells contain creatures not of our own creation, including bacteria from outer space currently residing in the bodies of some deceased Air Force personnel and a real-live extraterrestrial."

  The two moved from the cell block into the main room. A pair of soldiers sat at a circular workstation with their eyes glued to video feeds and data streams. One of the soldiers looked up from his console and spoke to the visitors: "Hold on for a moment, sir. Specimen transfer."

  Gant and Dr. Stacy stopped and waited as two men in white lab coats led a small procession out of one of the cell blocks and toward a large door marked "TO LABS" in stenciled letters.

  That procession included two soldiers wearing body armor and helmets resembling riot gear. One held a catchpole on one of the animated corpses taken from the rubble of Dr. Waters's hidden research complex. As the group moved across the containment area's central room en route to the labs, the captu
red zombie turned its pasty-white eyes in the direction of the two visitors.

  Stacy gasped. Thom shook his head.

  The specimen on its way to dissection or experimentation or whatever curiosities the science team needed satiated was none other than former Secret Service Agent Frank Costa.

  After a moment the group left the area through a sliding metal door.

  "That doesn't seem right," she said.

  He answered, "There is nothing right about any of this. But it is the reality we must live with." Gant considered and then added, "A friend of mine once told me that it is up to us to change that reality, if we can."

  "Not exactly what I expected. The job, that is. I signed up thinking I would see the world, explore a whole bunch of neat mysteries, and maybe do some good along the way. Between what Waters and Monroe did and what I see down here, well, it looks like we're our own worst enemies. That the monsters I'm going to meet on this job come from us. People, I mean."

  Major Gant turned and looked her straight in the eye.

  "I cannot argue, Doctor. It is true, human beings can be the biggest monsters of them all. But if that is the only thing you learned from this mission, then you were not paying attention."

  "Huh? What do you mean?"

  "Colonel Thunder pulled the strings at PACOM to get assets in theater; Franco and his unit found the freighter, which led them to us; and Campion brought an entire naval task force to pull our butts from the island."

  "Teamwork — is that what you're getting at? The whole if-we-work-together-we-can-do-anything line? Usually you hold the pep rally before the game, Coach."

  He smiled. Not that big, shark-like smile but something far more genuine.

  "Actually, Doctor, we have a lot more games ahead of us. A lot more missions. If we're going to survive them, we will have to work as a team."

  "Tell me something, Major. You talk about a team, but I'm wondering, are Albert Friez, the Pentagon, and all the brass in Washington part of our big happy family?"