by Mark Rounds
“You wouldn’t mind if we tested you and your troops for infection would you, sergeant?” asked Chad innocently.
“Well, no ...” began the sergeant, but he was cut off.
“How do we know this isn’t just some attempt to get inconvenient people out of the way or worse, infect us?” said a dark haired man in civilian clothes.
“Sergeant, I want you to send a runner back to headquarters,” continued the civilian, “and inform the Mayor.”
“Mr. Williams, as per the rules of engagement, in the face of a significant threat, I cannot divide my forces,” said the sergeant as if he were quoting a regulation that had been used many times before. “I suggest that you take the bike and inform him yourself. I will maintain the roadblock.”
Williams looked uncertain for a minute.
“Perhaps I should take the MRAP,” said Williams, “you know, to get there faster.”
“Sir, with all due respect,” said the sergeant, “fuel is extremely limited. You said so yourself. That’s why we have the bikes. I can control this situation but, if, in your view as ‘monitor’ the Mayor needs to be informed, it is your duty, sir.”
Williams looked around uncertainly and then went to the backside of the MRAP, took out a road bike and began peddling west towards Pullman.
“Remember, they can’t enter Washington,” said Williams over his shoulder. “Your orders are to shoot to kill!”
Chad waited until Williams was around the corner and out of sight.
“Sergeant, as a former enlisted guy, I have never seen a better job of getting your CO to do what you want him to do,” said Chad extending his hand.
“I suppose it still shows,” said the sergeant as they shook. It was telling that both were wearing gloves and no one was insulted. “I was in the 11th Armored Cav, The Blackhorse.”
“I was an enlisted Air Force Intel specialist out of Hulbert and the First Special Ops wing there. What’s with the monitor?”
“Henderson doesn’t trust the police much,” said the sergeant with a shrug. “We are kind of in limbo as the Attorney General laid off all police forces when they couldn’t pay or support them, so when he said the City would continue to support us, we were pretty happy. Since then, he has gotten a little … eccentric?”
“I’ll go with that,” said Chad.
“He has placed some of his cronies with us when we do anything out of the ordinary. Our chief of police responded with our ‘common sense’ rules of engagement. The mayor signed off on them after only reading the first couple of pages. It gives us some control over what happens. So I gave you something, what do I get in return?”
“There are no hidden agendas,” said Chad. “I am an Air Force Intel Officer. We are here to set up shop as a first step back to normalcy. I have a charge to test everyone who lives inside the city limits for Plague. The local senior military officer is still in charge, though we did find that Captain Nesmith was infected.”
“How good is this test of yours?” asked Williams. “Any false positives? We wouldn’t want to send anyone to quarantine who wasn’t infected.”
“If the test subject is eating a normal diet,” said Chad, “the possibility of a false positive is quite rare. Vegans and those on aggressive vegetarian diets can sometimes generate a false positive. We can double check that with a full up blood test in the hospital now.”
“Look, I personally would love to know for sure that I and my family are not infected,” said Williams, “but when that busybody gets back and hears that we got tested, my name will be mud.”
“I get it,” said Chad wearily.
“But, hypothetically speaking,” said Williams, “if there was a guy who wanted to talk to you, how would we get in touch?”
“We are going to have observation posts to monitor your monitors,” said Chad, who was rewarded with a slight chuckle. “Get to any one of them and they will notify me. Then either I or someone else from the Intel detachment will get in contact. Off hand, do you know who this might be?”
“Nope,” said Williams with a wink, “just idle curiosity.”
June 12th, Wednesday, 11:18 am PDT
Campus of the University of Idaho, Moscow, ID
Chris looked over at Sayla for the tenth time in as many minutes as they cleaned and oiled the group’s firearms. Their weapons had seen a lot of use and maintenance had been sketchy at best. He had been trying to get up the nerve to apologize to him but the taciturn native was hard to engage in conversation. Finally, he just dove in.
“Look, Sayla,” said Chris haltingly, “I am sorry for calling you ‘Chief.’ I have been a little edgy about your relationship with Amber and it spilled out. It was condescending and wrong.”
“OK,” said Sayla who went back to field stripping the Mini-30.
“Just OK?” said Chris.
“There is much you do not know about the Chosen,” said Sayla ominously. “I feel sorry for you and hurt for the Chosen woman.”
“She said you could call her Amber,” said Chris, “and why do you feel sorry for me?”
“She will age very slowly,” said Sayla. “For the length of your life span, it will seem like she does not age.”
“We’ll work it out,” said Chris though there was some doubt in his voice. “Anyway, you’ll be around to help us sort it out, won’t you?”
“It’s not my place,” said Sayla cryptically.
“I suppose I deserved that,” said Chris.
“I am not trying to hurt you,” said Sayla. “You’ll have enough of that no matter what I do.”
“Shit, I don’t know what to do,” said Chris. “Is there anyone who can talk to me about this?”
“Don’t ask me,” said Sayla, indicating the Hammer who had just walked in the door, “ask him.”
The Hammer was momentarily stunned and looked from Sayla and then back to Chris. Finally he spoke.
“How long have you known?” he asked uncertainly.
“Since you got into the helicopter,” said Sayla. “But you weren’t ‘receptive’ and the Chosen … Amber was.”
“So what does Sayla mean when he says ask him?” said Chris.
“It’s a long story,” said Hammer.
“Hey, if it helps me fit in better with Amber, I have time,” said Chris, as he put down the Glock he was working on.
“Well, it’s like this,” said Hammer as he sat down. “The woman that Ace knew as my mother was really … my wife. She was born in 1928 and met me just after World War II. I was already over one hundred years old. What she saw was a man who looked maybe twenty-five in a Marine Corps corporal’s uniform. She was seventeen and just out of high school and fell in love at first sight. I didn’t tell her how old I was until after we were married. That was selfish of me I suppose, but she was so pretty.”
“Wait one,” said Chris, “you were over a hundred and you went to fight in World War II? Weren’t you afraid of dying or something?”
“I have always been a soldier,” said Hammer. “I was in the first wave of volunteers for the American Civil War. I was just a nineteen year old and soldiering sounded really exciting to a farm boy from Minnesota. Then while we were in our first camp, typhoid fever ripped through our ranks, killing almost a third of the regiment; only it wasn’t just typhoid, the forerunner of the disease you know as ‘The Plague’ was also prevalent. I was unlucky enough to catch both. I wasted away to almost nothing and they thought I was dead. So they tossed what they thought was my dead body in a pile with the other dead until there were enough soldiers who were in good enough health to bury the bodies.
“I am not proud of the fact that when I awoke, I … ate from the corpses of my comrades. I gained strength and crawled away before I was caught. After a time where I … scavenged … from the battlefields, I went into remission and was ashamed of what I had done. I couldn’t stay and I couldn’t go home.
“So I went west to the Montana Territory and rambled around, trying my hand at mining and as a cowb
oy. I wasn’t very good at either, and didn’t prosper until I stumbled upon a blacksmith who needed help. That’s where I learned my trade.
“I always felt guilty about what I had done to my comrades’ bodies in the grave on the battlefields, so when Col Roosevelt was raising the First United States Volunteer Cavalry, a unit that became known as the Rough Riders, I volunteered.
“In truth, I had lived in the same town for almost thirty years by then and people were starting to notice that I wasn’t aging. It was a convenient to move on and change my name. I was also a doughboy in the Great War for the same reason, and I served in World War II like I said.”
“So how did it work out?” asked Chris.
“The marriage?” Hammer said, “very well at first. She truly was my soul mate. She believed me when I told her about my age and worked with me to change identities and change locations before people noticed. She always looked young for her age so it wasn’t until she turned fifty when we couldn’t pass as man and wife. Then she became my mother. Ace thought she was in her sixties when she died but really, she was in her late eighties. It tore my heart out watching her slowly get older while I could do nothing.”
“Wait a minute,” said Chris, “Sayla here was infected and then was kept alive by being … I don’t know, supported or blessed or something by that Nergüi guy? Couldn’t you have done the same thing?”
“Maybe I could have,” said Hammer slowly, “if I had known. But there is something else; there are only a few people who can benefit long term like Sayla here. Most get sick and die long before their body changes enough to take the … ‘support’ that I or Amber or Nergüi for that matter could give. So if I infected her, which would have been difficult, as I no longer have the disease in me, the odds were that she would die horribly from the Plague. When we figured that out in the seventies, she just patted my hand and told me not to bother. She would rather have the next twenty or thirty years with me than risk dying soon and leaving me. She was always like that; it was all about others, never herself.”
“There is more,” said the Hammer nervously. “We couldn't have kids. My wife wanted them badly but as the years passed, it became obvious that it wouldn't happen. We tried all kinds of things but Plague survivors are sterile.”
“Is it just guys or ...” began Chris, who trailed off before he could complete the sentence.
“All of us,” said the Hammer. “There is a bit of a network for survivors and we share information, so yeah, no kids with Plague survivors.
“So, are you going to rat me out?”
“No, that’s your story to tell,” said Chris after pondering things for a moment. “I am going to talk to Amber about it but this is all so confusing …”
“For us all,” said Sayla unexpectedly, “for us all.”
June 12th, Tuesday, 8:56 pm PDT
South Hill, Spokane, WA
Nergüi sat in a fashionable, abandoned home on Spokane’s up-scale South Hill. There was a glass of fine twenty-one year old Balvenie Scotch in his hand. The owners had left when the Plague began in spite of the travel ban, and locked the building up tight. That combined with the fire suppression system and the other electronic security measures kept the home intact and relatively unscathed until the power went out.
Since then, it had been the headquarters of one retired Blackwater Security ‘specialist’ named Arthur Wallace. Arthur’s background was ‘obscure.’ He had at some time served in the Marine Corps but the details were sketchy. He claimed that he was a contractor for the CIA at one point but there was no confirmation onfthat little fact. He had worked for Blackwater as a security consultant and some small African countries as a freelance mercenary for the last ten years. It was known that Arthur wasn’t his real name and that he was on the run from the U.S. Government. The Plague was actually a reprieve for him.
“So what I need is a fully equipped infantry battalion,” said Nergüi calmly.
“Do you want to have a company of tanks and a fighter squadron, too?” asked Wallace sarcastically. “Or how about a destroyer, I heard they can be pretty handy, too.”
“Perhaps I should do business elsewhere,” said Nergüi dryly. “They said you were the best, but what I see is a petty drug lord squatting in a rich man's home. How long will you be here, I wonder, if my organization stops your supply of Slash?”
“There are other suppliers,” said Wallace defensively.
“Yes, and they charge twice to three times what we do,” said Nergüi. “And they want things that are harder to get, like firearms, ammunition, gasoline, fine foods, and wines.”
“So why do you still accept money?” asked Wallace. “Everybody else wants stuff they can use. Money doesn't buy much anymore.”
“Isn't it obvious?” said Nergüi. “When you work for the other suppliers, you are managing a bunch of scavengers combing through the wreckage of civilization. We leave you free to do other things. I'll be blunt, we own you. I know you have broken into several banks to get the cash you give us. But you have also been doing our bidding, providing us with intelligence, impeding commerce in the area, and building an organization for us to use.”
“But you want a whole infantry battalion,” said Wallace unbelieving, “I have just a bit over a hundred rifles in my ...”
“Actually,” said Nergüi interrupting, “you have 57 thugs you can call upon; three of who work for other gangs on the side and two who are actively plotting to assassinate you and take over.”
“Who are they?!” bellowed Wallace, now enraged, but with a touch of fear in his eyes. “I'll gut them!”
“If you can't figure out who they are,” said Nergüi quietly, “then we really do have the wrong man. It's up to you to handle your little problems.”
“What if I have you tied to a light pole and we use a car battery to get you to tell me,” growled Wallace as he reached for his radio. “You brought what? Four guys? We can roll over you in a heartbeat!”
“You could try that,” said Nergüi nodding to Ælfheah, a blond giant with the body of a powerlifter who stood behind him. Ælfheah drew his seax, an ancient Germanic throwing blade, and threw it at Wallace before Nergüi was finished nodding. The blade hit the radio in Wallace's hand, shattering the radio into a dozen pieces, leaving a nasty gash across his palm. Ælfheah crossed the room in two strides and grabbed Wallace's injured hand and throat and slammed him against the wall, effectively silencing him.
“But let me save you the trouble,” said Nergüi to Wallace, who now watched his actions with wide eyed terror. Nergüi walked over to the door and opened it. A smaller man, named Sven, as well muscled as Ælfheah but several inches shorter, came in holding Wallace's bloody second in command, Bill Thompson, in a hammerlock. At a nod from Nergüi, Sven dumped his burden unceremoniously on to the floor. Thompson had clearly been beaten into submission and did not resist.
“If this is the best you can do,” said Nergüi with contempt, “it's clear you need our 'help'. This man and his recently departed confederate were planning to kill you, perhaps tonight while you slept with the three drugged sex slaves you keep in this house. You certainly wouldn't have lasted out the week.”
“Release him, Ælfheah,” said Nergüi as Wallace slithered down the wall clutching his damaged hand. “Now, let me make myself perfectly clear. You will raise the troops we discussed. They will begin training this week. They will be ready for combat at the end of the month. This is not up for negotiation. If it isn't clear to you by now, let me spell it out for you. You don't 'work' for us. You are not a 'contractor.' We own you and if you wish to keep living, you will do as you are told.”
“But a whole battalion?” whined Wallace. “I am going to have to comb every nook and cranny of Spokane to find that many with any kind of training, and I'll need more Slash.”
“Don't worry,” said Nergüi. “All you will have to handle is the training and the recruiting. I will be sending a specialist to manage your logistics and drug-related pay scheme b
ecause you clearly can't do it yourself. He will have his own support staff who will be every bit as capable as mine is. Should you try to take over like that poor unfortunate who is in a heap on the floor; you will end up like him. Sven, show him.”
Sven tossed Thompson's severed tongue on the floor next to Wallace.
“If he crosses you again, it will be his penis,” said Nergüi. “If you cross my agent in place, Macklin, you will be just like him, is that very clear?”
Chapter 15
June 13th, Wednesday, 5:56 am PDT
A compound north of Winifred, MT
“Get up, Fresh Meat,” said Ngengi as he flicked the light on in Macklin's room.
Macklin rolled over, pointing his .40 caliber Sig Sauer at Ngengi's chest.
“Better,” said Ngengi with a hint of a smile. “Soon we will have you awake as soon as the door latch opens. But this time, no games. Get your kit. Nergüi desires your presence in Spokane.”
Macklin's bug-out bag was already packed, something that had been impressed upon him almost from the beginning of this nightmare they called training.
“Any idea why I am going?” asked Macklin in what he hoped was a casual voice.
“Not just you, we,” said Ngengi. “You, me, Carlos, and Ölnirsen will be getting on a plane today, don't ask why, they tell us the minimum we need to know to get the job done. The plane is on the runway warming up and we just got the word from the pilot. Asking too many questions gets you noticed and sometimes dead.”
Macklin threw on his tactical utilities, vest, personal weapon, and twenty-four hour fanny pack. Within thirty seconds he shouldered his bug-out bag with better clothes, toiletries, ammo, more food and water, and an IPad. The last was a new addition, added to his kit at the direction of Nergüi. In his very limited free time, Macklin had checked out the tool. There were spreadsheets, database apps, and such but no internet or comm apps. They had been removed and the wireless circuitry disabled.
“But the rules have changed,” said Ngengi. “For the duration of this 'business trip', training is suspended. Whatever your little mind trick is, Nergüi wants it. We will be your security detail and your arms and legs. You need us to do something related to the mission, tell us, we will make it happen. You'll also need this.”