Turning Point (Book 1): A Time To Die

by Wandrey, Mark

  Everyone in the project, including those in the self-appointed Zombie Squad, was numb with shock, stunned to silence. Few had believed it would come to this. Japan, one of the most advanced nations in the world, with a population of 125 million, was gone.

  They’d isolated the virus in several forms. She had identified four distinct vectors in Strain Delta. The omnipresent version was, as far as she could tell, in every living thing on the planet. At her behest, researchers around the world ran more than five hundred tests on everything from flies to cats, and they found the virus in all of them. It appeared to be airborne and inert until it entered a living host, where it quietly set up production. It was invisible to terrestrial immune systems, and it appeared to do no harm…until it met up with one of the other two forms.

  The second form showed up in living animals, usually complicated lifeforms, although it sometimes appeared in simpler ones. Rarely was it found in insects, and never in plants. She was trying to understand this version. It was similar to the first version, but somehow established itself differently, and she didn’t understand how. There was no vector for its spread. It was just there.

  The third form was in the planet’s water supply. It was in all the oceans and some of the fresh water bodies on the planet, but not all, and that was confusing.

  Mixing either of the last two strains with the first one resulted in a controlled mutation they’d named Strain Delta. The truly confusing part was that it didn’t happen in all animals, just some. She didn’t have a substantial stock of test animals, only a few rats, guinea pigs, and rabbits. She’d tried it on all of them, and the transformation to Strain Delta only occurred in the guinea pigs. The animals didn’t become insane like humans, although they did act differently. They watched their human handlers intently, almost like they were thinking, and when she’d reached in for one, it tried to bite her. Happily, her leather gloves proved resistant to small rodent bites, even energetic ones.

  They’d dissected the guinea pig and examined it carefully. There wasn’t much brain tissue to work with, but the microscope revealed exactly what she’d expected, a restructuring similar to that seen in the human victims of the virus. She sampled the other animals and found no sign of the final mutation to Strain Delta; absolutely none.

  She continued trying to create the mutation under lab conditions and failed—it wouldn’t replicate without a living host.

  Things went from bad to worse on the mainland. Fewer and fewer people returned her phone calls, and more of the Web became inaccessible every hour. More emails bounced back than went through.

  She’d taken her analysis of the virus in its various stages as far as possible. She’d hoped to use the CDC’s facilities to further her research. No one would ever again answer those phone calls and emails. One of the mechanics, now on the Zombie Squad, got a failing webcam in Atlanta to work, and it showed millions of zombies roaming the streets. Lisha turned her efforts toward defeating the virus. She quickly wished she had never tried.

  Thanks to her involuntary volunteers, she now had very detailed records of how the virus progressed in a human host, and somewhat less so in guinea pigs. You could kill the virus with heat. There was some variation, but the minimum was 300 degrees for the precursor strains and 200 degrees for Strain Delta. When she boiled a pot of water full of the virus, collected the steam, condensed it, and found living virus in it, she’d gasped.

  She’d carried out the test a dozen times, always with the same results. There were a few organisms on Earth that could survive boiling, so she probably shouldn’t have been that surprised, but Strain Delta hadn’t appeared to be particularly durable. It had to be some of the unidentifiable proteins in its sequence, proteins the damned beasties manufactured as they reproduced using human biological material. “It’s like a doomsday machine,” she remarked. One of her assistants was of the opinion it might not really be alive, in the sense humans understood living. It might, in fact, be a machine. Since Lisha had no way of testing that hypothesis, she left it alone, unsolved and unverified.

  A day earlier, they’d cobbled together a pressure cooker with a steam takeoff. The steam reached a temperature of almost 200 degrees Fahrenheit, and it destroyed Strain Delta.

  “So, we must boil all the victims at 200 degrees,” Edith joked, darkly. Lisha didn’t laugh, but she admitted the woman had a point.

  The facility’s salt water condensers, which she’d ordered shut down as soon as she realized the boilers likely weren’t purging the virus, were almost empty. They modified the boilers, increasing the temperature to 350°F, which was as high as they could safely operate. After emptying the tanks and cleaning them with acid (which, thankfully, killed the bug), they filled them with verified, safe water. Lisha had a tech test the tanks every two hours, just to be sure.

  She couldn’t do anything about the virus floating in the air. The facility had some watertight doors, but it wasn’t a submarine. There was no way to filter the air sufficiently. Thankfully, inhaling the virus alone wasn’t enough to cause the mutation.

  Her number one priority was to find something that killed the bug, or at least stopped it from replicating and mutating. Like much of the rest of her endeavors, she felt like she’d wasted her time. The virus was happy to exist in any environment humans could, and more than a few man could not. It practically loved several types of antiseptic fluids.

  She’d stopped to get some breakfast. Food supplies were dwindling. Unable to fish to stretch their supplies, and forced to dump case after case of fresh food over the side of the platform, they were subsisting on canned and frozen foods more than 30 days old. Her supply chief estimated they had eight weeks’ worth; Lisha ordered a reduction of 25 percent of all rations, pushing their survival out to ten weeks.

  In the cafeteria, there was a selection of oatmeal, pop tarts, and scrambled eggs. The supply chief was sure the eggs were well over a month old, although she’d tested a few, just to be sure. Lisha got a bowl of oatmeal, sweetened it with honey, and added some eggs. Everyone was eating the eggs while they held out. Aside from some ground round, it was the only protein left in the cooler.

  Her breakfast finished, she was about to return to her lab when someone ran up. Even with the facility’s reduced staff, she didn’t recognize the young man.

  “Dr. Breda!”

  “Yes?”

  “There is a radio call for you.”

  “You mean telephone?”

  “No, ma’am, radio. It’s the Coast Guard!”

  “Oh!” She got up quickly to follow him.

  They went up three decks to the top level and into the rig’s command center. Many of the previous functions, including generator control, environmental engineering, security cameras, and radios, had remained in the space when they converted it for her team’s use. It was also where they’d sent the ill-advised Mayday that summoned the Coast Guard after the initial zombie outbreak in the lab. When she arrived, she found the head of the Zombie Squad, Robert Boyer, sitting in a chair listening and watching. He came across as a flake, but he took his job seriously.

  Boyer looked up and waved her over, flipping a switch so she could hear a woman’s voice.

  “…I say again, this is USS Boutwell, WHEC 71, United States Coast Guard. HAARP facility, how do you read, over?” Lisha held out her hand, and the radio operator handed her a microphone. He pointed at a button, and she nodded.

  “Boutwell, this is HAARP Director Dr. Lisha Breda, we hear you.”

  “Good to hear your voice, Doctor.”

  “And yours,” Lisha replied. “Is this Lieutenant Grange?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Lieutenant Grange, acting commander of the Boutwell.”

  Uh oh. “What can we do for you, Lieutenant?”

  “We are going to be alongside in a few minutes. We have 119 other ships and boats with us and we want to use the rig as a staging area.”

  Lisha considered for a second, chewing her bottom lip.

  “Why’s a juni
or officer in charge of a cutter?” Robert asked, giving voice to her concern.

  “That’s a good question,” Lisha said, keying the mic. “Lieutenant, where is your commanding officer? Wasn’t there a captain?”

  “There was,” the officer replied. “We were involved in relief operations for a Panamax container ship. The captain was meeting with the senior surviving officer when the man went insane and bit him. He then succumbed to the virus. In all, we lost 29 crewmen and nine officers. I’m operating with a skeleton crew.”

  “I have to ask,” Lisha said. “Have you eaten any fresh food?”

  “Negative. We received information from command in time to avoid secondary infections. We’ve been subsisting on canned goods and MREs. Luckily, we have a lot of both.”

  “Very good. You have permission to come alongside. However, no one is allowed in the facility without a blood screening. We’re researching the virus here.”

  “I never completely bought your story of pirates,” the ship’s commander said with a chuckle. “Your moorings and docks will be sufficient. We will have some much more powerful friends here soon, and this is an ideal area of operation.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Hard to explain, Doctor. But, on the civilian side, there are hundreds of ships out here with many uninfected, so we want to hand off the ones we have and go help more.”

  “Understood. See you soon,” Lisha said, handing back the transmitter.

  “Hundreds of ships,” Robert repeated. “None of them are going to the mainland.” Lisha stared at him and rubbed her chin. They both knew what that meant. America was not secure anymore; perhaps nowhere was.

  An hour later the cutter appeared with its flotilla of private vessels, everything from mega yachts to fishing ships, cruise ships to cargo ships, tankers, and sail boats. Many needed towing or barely made headway. She stood upon the open, top deck and watched them approach, along with other senior staff and her Zombie Squad.

  “There must be ten thousand people on those ships,” Joseph, the zombie hunter, said. He worked in stores and had a realistic view of the situation. “What are they all going to eat?”

  “Reminds me of Battlestar Galactica,” someone said. A few people snorted, but others nodded.

  “Only we don’t have spaceships that will enable us to escape this enemy,” Lisha said, ending the humor.

  A short time later, they saw what the lieutenant meant by powerful friends. The huge shape of a Marine amphibious assault carrier steamed toward them.

  “Here comes the Pegasus,” Joseph chuckled.

  * * *

  The CH-47 swept in on a long arc around the east side of the base, just past the primary perimeter fence. Kathy and Cobb rode next to an Army gunner who grimly manned an M240 machine gun. Cobb wasn’t sure why the soldier looked so depressed until they got a few miles from the base, and he could see the crazies surrounding it.

  They’d divided the base into three parts, with the military airfield one of them. Cobb could see the infected had overrun most of the base. He’d thought thousands of personnel were still on the base…until they got close enough to see them.

  “You aren’t engaging them?” Cobb asked the gunner, a corporal.

  “No sir,” the man replied. “We’ve been ordered to conserve ammo for perimeter security.”

  As they approached and circled the airfield, he could see the survivors crowded into the airbase perimeter. The outer fence was double strength, but the inner fence was only tall chain link. They’d reinforced it with hundreds of concrete traffic barriers, and topped it with miles of razor wire. All along the perimeter, soldiers with weapons stood in 25-foot-high guard towers or roved in Stryker armored cars. Even over the pounding of the double rotors, the sound of weapons fire was a constant roar.

  The other survivors from the farmhouse huddled in the cavernous rear of the Chinook. A squad of soldiers arrayed itself along the back ramp, which was open about halfway. The chopper flared and settled. The pilot was good, and they hardly felt the helo touch down. The ramp motors whined, and it quickly fell open the rest of the way as the rotors began to spin down.

  Cobb cut ahead of the civilians, and Kathy followed closely behind as an older soldier came walking up. He smiled as Cobb came into view.

  “Been a long time,” he said as he walked up the ramp.

  “General Rose,” Cobb said and saluted.

  “Drop the shit, Major,” the general said and held out a hand. Cobb shook it warmly. “Who’s this with you?” He looked at Kathy and seemed about to say something, but Cobb cut him off.

  “You remember my wife passed away?”

  “I do; I’m sorry.”

  “It was a while ago,” Cobb explained. “This is Kathy Clifford.”

  “The reporter,” General Rose said, taking her hand in a warm, yet gentle, shake.

  “Thank you. Yes, I’m a reporter.”

  “And a fairly famous one. Did you know there is a warrant out for your arrest?”

  “I figured there was,” she admitted as they followed the general down the ramp. They had to shout to hear one another over the sounds of constant gunfire. “Considering what’s going on, are you going to turn me in?”

  “Probably not,” the general replied with a smile. He gestured to a waiting desert tan Humvee, with a small flag bearing two gold stars stuck to the fender. “Ms. Clifford, would you mind waiting in the Humvee?” She looked from the general to Cobb and nodded reluctantly before heading off.

  “The situation looks bad, sir,” Cobb said, once she was out of hearing. The general was watching the Mexican families offloading from the Chinook. Enrico and Manuel waved to Cobb and gave little bows of gratitude. Many of the others waved as well, some with tears of relief pouring down their faces. They knew how close they’d come to a horrible end.

  “Most people don’t know how bad,” General Rose admitted. “We lost all contact with command authority six hours ago. Prior to that, we received conflicting orders to deploy to several different locations on several different missions.” He sighed and shook his head. Cobb could see the weariness in his eyes. The air echoed with several dull thumps from grenades. “I stopped paying attention after I told them we couldn’t deploy without air support, and they just repeated the orders over and over.”

  Crews rushed into the Chinook, refueling it and bringing fresh ammo aboard for the guns. A new flight crew checked the bird out, though to Cobb they looked just as tired as the ones who shuffled off for rest. He noticed several pallets piled high with gear.

  “You’re getting ready to evac?”

  “No,” the general said. “We don’t have the lift capacity. We had to seal off the airfield from the west hangars. There are another twenty-five Chinooks over there, and three Globemasters.”

  “We could move a lot of people and equipment with those C-17s,” Cobb noted.

  “We’re short on pilots,” the general admitted. “All the rotary wing pilots made it, but only two of the heavy transport pilots. I think we could make a run at the hangars, maybe run and gun it to cut a corridor…”

  “But without pilots, no joy,” Cobb finished. General Rose nodded. “What about the guy flying that gunship?”

  “It crashed. We checked out the crash site about 15 minutes after he went down. Did a low and slow with a couple of Cobras. All we saw were those infected lunatics and some piles of chewed meat. Damned shame, too. I’d heard of him; he was a fighter jock. Came out of Mexico with that gunship and a load of survivors from a crashed plane.”

  “Guy that resourceful might have survived,” Cobb suggested.

  “Maybe,” the general said with a shrug.

  “Mind if I pick up a squad, take a Blackhawk, and go look for him?”

  “Can’t give a bird to a civilian, son. You know that.”

  Cobb nodded, and after a second, he stood straight and came to attention. “Sir, Major Cobb Pendleton reporting for duty. I’m formally requesting to be reactivated
.”

  The general looked at him for a long moment, then came to a somewhat-less-than-straight attention and saluted. “I kind of figured you might. Captain Drake?”

  “Sir,” an Army captain said, coming from the Humvee where Kathy watched. The man handed something to the general who, in turn, put it in Cobb’s hand. Cobb opened the box and found two silver oak leaf emblems.

  “Wrong rank, sir,” Cobb said.

  “No, Colonel, correct rank.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Thanks for coming back; we need you. Now get with the captain here and draw a uniform. He’ll get a squad of operators for you. See if you can find that damned pilot.”

  Kathy watched the proceedings; understanding and a sense of dread came over her. She didn’t know if she loved him, but she did know she cared for Cobb. He’d saved her life a couple of times, and they’d been lovers since that first night. She’d never imagined she’d fall for a soldier.

  Some of the women from the farmhouse came over and thanked her in their halting English—some had their words of gratitude translated by their children—before they were led to the huge tents and hangars where hundreds of civilian dependents waited. All the while, the sound of gunfire never stopped as the enfermo waged a nonstop assault against the airfield.

  A few minutes later, a soldier strode toward her. He wore full combat gear, his web harness bulging with magazines and equipment. The uniform looked brand new, including the silver oak leaves on the shoulders. It wasn’t until she noticed the rifle slung over his shoulder was an HK91, that she realized the soldier was Cobb.

  “You clean up nice,” she said as she ran into his arms. He was a little stiff at first, but then he put an arm around her as she angled her head up and kissed him. “I thought silver was a colonel,” she said.

  “Lieutenant Colonel,” he corrected, “I was promoted upon reactivation, I guess. I doubt it’s strictly legal…”