Omega Pathogen: The Beginning

by Hicks Jr, J. G.

  Upon reaching the curtains, the other scientist raises his hand to grab one of them. Kosktov notes the tremble of the man’s hand. “Well, open it, Sergi,” Kosktov says. Now he hears the tension and excitement in his own voice. He’s never seen these men in this state of elation. The curtain seems to move at the pace of hair growing. Finally, Kosktov realizes he’s watching the curtain, and not looking into the room itself. Turning his eyes into the room, he gasps for breath, not realizing he had been holding it.

  In front of him is their latest test subject, lying supine on a thin, stained mattress on a steel bed. The test subject, a man, is in his late fifties, with all four extremities bound by leather straps. “When did the fever break?” Kosktov asks. “It broke about two hours ago, but we didn’t fetch you then because he seemed to lapse into a coma like the others,” answers the scientist beside him. Looking more closely, Kosktov sees that the man is squinting his eyes. His head and extremities are constantly moving in a jerking manner. His mouth opens and closes as if making noise, and he periodically bites at his lips and tongue, drawing blood. There is foaming saliva mixed with the blood flowing down both sides of his face and chin.

  “Turn on the speaker,” orders Kosktov. After the click of the switch for the speaker, Kosktov hears the man’s growls and grunts with intermittent groans. The sounds are like that of a feral animal in pain. “Shall we have a drink, Doctor Kosktov?” asks another of the scientists. “Has it eaten or drunk?” Kosktov asks, ignoring the question to him. “No…we have not attempted to feed it or give it water yet, sir.” “Well, how the fuck do we know if it’s just going to starve to death or die of dehydration then?!” yells Kosktov. “It’s lived longer than the others, but we don’t know if can feed itself long enough to do anything we intend!” Kosktov yells.

  “I’ll get the guards to do it right away, sir,” Levenon says, and hurriedly runs to the phone. “Have them go in with food and water and then release it. They can use the snare pole while they undo the restraints,” Kosktov says, while still staring unblinking at the man lying in the next room.

  Two guards enter the isolation room as instructed. The subject has the restraints removed while they hold him from moving freely with a pole snare device. A bowl of beef stew and one with water is set on the floor; the men exit the room and then release the snare through a small opening in the door.

  The infected man sits up from the bed, and looks around the room. He begins to sniff, and periodically makes the growling and moaning noises at a barely audible level. Although he still has bloody saliva drooling down his chin, he makes no attempt to wipe it, nor does he seem to notice the raw skin around his wrists and ankles from struggling against his restraints.

  The man stands from the bed and sniffs again, looking intently at the food and water on the floor. In a few quick steps, the man approaches the food and water and drops to his knees in front of the bowls. He picks up the bowl of water and, opening his mouth, empties its contents into his mouth, and over his face and chest. He then does the same with the food.

  “He’s keeping it down,” observes Doctor Kosktov. “He’s not suffering from the spasms that normally keep the rabid from eating and drinking,” he says to no one in particular. “Gentlemen, now I think we’ll have that drink,” Kosktov says with a smile as he turns to the others in the room behind him.

  According to protocol, Doctor Kosktov sends the predetermined message. The transmitter at the facility only has a volume dial, a speaker, and a microphone. His message, dictated by protocol when a successful outcome has occurred, is simply, “Site 7 is ready for inspection.” After several anxious moments, a deep male voice penetrates the static airways with the words, “Affirmative, inspectors en route.”

  The Colonel

  Two and a half days pass, with Doctor Kosktov periodically ascending to ground level of the complex to wait for the visitors to arrive. He has only met with one man that has been coordinating the project; he knows him as Colonel Azarov. He dreads meeting with the Colonel again. If his evaluation of him is remotely close, the man is a sociopath. He’s never dared to ask, nor has Colonel Azarov volunteered the information, but he’s certain the man is KGB.

  Finally, late in the afternoon, Kosktov makes his way to the stairway door leading down from the ground level when he hears the rumble of helicopters. Opening one of the large doors to the exterior only a few inches, so as not to allow too much of the freezing wind inside, he sees the shape of a Mi-24 helicopter gunship and transport approaching. About a mile from the complex, he sees three more of the same helicopters spread out from behind the first and take up positions alongside. As the aircrafts approach, he moves to the side of the large door to avoid the stinging snow-filled hurricane-force air.

  The noise from the engines begins to die down as they touch down and reduce power. Before the engines are silenced, Doctor Kosktov counts nineteen figures approaching. He knows the figure in the front and middle of the formation is Colonel Azarov. All but the Colonel have AK-47 rifles to their shoulders, with the barrels not directly pointing at the large doorway, but held pointed to the ground in the general direction. The brown and black of the weapons contrast against the men’s white snowsuits. Doctor Kosktov presses the button to open the door the rest of the way, and allow room for the soldiers to enter.

  Four soldiers enter, followed by Colonel Azarov. The doctor and the colonel approach each other, but neither offers a hand in greeting. “Lead the way, Doctor Kosktov,” Colonel Azarov says as he gestures with his head to the elevator. “Perhaps the stairs are best, Colonel. The elevator is…temperamental.” The men descend into the facility to the isolation level to look at the result of fourteen years of work.

  “Can it speak?” the colonel asks. “No, he is only able to make grunts, moans, and growling noises.” “It’s been eating and drinking normally, Doctor Kasktov?” “No, Colonel, not normally, the frontal cortex of his brain is damaged, as we knew it would be from the virus, and is altered from the extra proteins to that region of the brain.”

  “Feed it, doctor,” the colonel says, as he continues to stare at the infected man walking around the isolation room. “Doctor Levenon, have the guards bring some leftover lunch down.” “No, Doctor Kasktov, have them bring another prisoner into the room. I want to see what happens. This is not a success if the weapons do not perform correctly. It does us no good if it just wanders around, sniffing and growling like an imbecile.” “I understand, Colonel, you are correct of course.” Looking at Doctor Levenon, he nods his head.

  A few moments later, four guards quickly force a prisoner into the isolation room and lock the door. The prisoner looks around the room, and briefly glances past the infected man in the far corner of the room.The infected prisoner crouches slightly and begins to growl, staring intensely at the newly arrived prisoner. “Mikael, what have they done to you, my friend? You look like shit.”

  The infected prisoner does not answer, only crouches further and growls more deeply, continuing his stare at the new prisoner. Suddenly, the infected man leaps from the corner of the room onto the bed and immediately onto the prisoner. The prisoner brings up his hands near his face in an attempt to protect himself.

  The infected prisoner wraps his arms and legs around the man, causing them to fall back, leaning against the door. “What are you doing, you asshole?! It’s me, Mikael!”

  The infected man begins to strike the other, with alternating fists, and bites the man’s head, hands, arms, and any area within the reach of his mouth. Throughout the attack, the infected man salivates profusely. The prisoner, still trying to defend himself from the onslaught of his old friend, continues to yell his name to no avail. Soon, the prisoner’s face and arms are covered with bites from the infected man. A large piece of his bearded chin hangs on by a small piece of flesh, with part of his mandible visible. Most of the wounds have yellowish frothy saliva mixed with the blood. Both men fall to the floor.

  Finally the prisoner is able to position him
self on top of the infected man, straddling his waist. The prisoner is able to land several punches that would be devastating to most people. However, the infected man seems not to even care that he’s being pummeled. He attempts and succeeds in biting the prisoner’s fists during some of the punches.

  The prisoner on top sees the futility of his effort, his punches having little effect except giving himself more injuries from the man under him, biting and clawing his hands, arms and face. Staggering to his feet, the prisoner rounds the opposite side of the bed in the room, putting it between him and the crazed man that was his friend. Instantly after getting up, the infected man does as well.

  The prisoner notices the infected man holding something with both hands to his mouth, and chewing on it. He feels warmth running down his neck and chest and reaches for his painful chin. He feels the bone and warm blood, and realizes his friend is chewing on a piece of his face. Seeing his now obviously insane friend holding, chewing and eating a large portion of his bearded chin causes an immediate reaction of nausea and a forceful expulsion of his previous meal onto the bed and floor.

  “Restrain the crazy one, Doctor Kasktov,” orders Colonel Azarov. “If you please,Doctor Levenon, inform the guards, and make sure they wear their protective clothing.”

  Worse Than We Hoped

  Colonel Azarov stands at the observation window, staring at the infected prisoner lying restrained on the floor, and at the prisoner sitting on the floor, holding his mangled and bleeding chin and jaw.

  “How long until the second man succumbs to infection?” asks the colonel, not taking his eyes from the isolation room. “It’s difficult to say. This is our first test using a human as the vector for delivery,” replies Kasktov, with his own gaze fixed into the room as well. “The zero patient, the infected man tied on the floor, took fourteen hours before the fever broke and he became aggressive and reverted to his current primitive state.”

  The scientist and military alike settle in around the observation window and watch. The only sounds in the room are that of the video recorder being started and the occasional cough, lighting of a cigarette and sips of coffee. All eyes are fixed on the two prisoners on the other side of the observation window.

  Approximately four hours and thirty-seven minutes after the initial attack by the infected prisoner, the prisoner with the mauled hands and arms and mutilated chin begins to tremor with the appearance of having a fever. Doctor Kasktov orders the guards inside to secure the man to the bed. He then has the injured prisoner’s vital signs checked and documented.

  The injured prisoner’s body temperature rises until it reaches 103.4 degrees Fahrenheit, until it stabilizes there and then begins to slowly lower to more normal ranges. The blood pressure has remained within normal limits, and his pulse rate, having been elevated like his temperature, begins to lower to normal ranges as well.

  Six hours after the initial attack by the infected prisoner, the newest test subject begins to produce excessive amounts of frothy saliva, which drools down his face as he lies restrained to the bed. He also begins the similar low growling and groaning as the original infected man. He periodically chews on his tongue, upper lip, and what little remains of his lower lip.

  He now only responds to verbal and tactile stimuli by looking at the source with eyes like those of a predator ready to attack. “Doctor Kasktov, how many test subjects are in the holding area, and what are the levels of fitness and ages?” Colonel Azarov asks, still looking into the isolation room through the window.

  “We have nine, Colonel. They are all in relatively good shape. Six could be considered very fit.” “Good. Set up video recorders overlooking the holding area, and have all the prisoners locked out of their cells.” Confused by the order, he still obeys. “Yes, Colonel,” Doctor Kasktov replies, and picks up the phone receiver to notify the guard supervisor to carry out the Colonel’s orders.

  After several minutes, a phone call informs him the orders have been carried out. Colonel Azarov calls over his lieutenant and whispers into his ear. With a slight nod, the lieutenant quickly exits the room, with his footsteps, and that of two other soldiers, echoing from the stairwell outside the room.

  “Doctor, have the two infected taken to the prisoner holding area and release them,” the Colonel says, with a hint of a grin on his lips. “But Colonel, we haven’t observed the first test subject long enough to have an idea of the long-term effects of the virus,” replies Doctor Kosktov. “Doctor, I have seen enough. The effects are more rapid than we had all hoped. The infected behavior and rate of transmission of the infection to others is worse than we could have hoped for. Be proud of what you’ve done, this will change warfare forever.”

  Again, having no choice, the Colonel’s orders are relayed to the guards and carried out. The two infected are secured by the neck using the snare poles, and released from their bonds. They are led awkwardly down to the lowest level of the bunker complex by the obviously nervous guards. The infected, the guards, and the scientists are followed below by the soldiers and Colonel Azarov.

  The prisoner area is a rectangular room with single cells constructed inside. The room is open, except for individual cages that normally house the prisoners. The prisoners, rarely released, are happy for the simple pleasure of being able to walk around the larger area.

  Once the two infected men are brought into the room, followed by the contingent of soldiers, the prisoners move quickly away from the entrance. Already moved to the back of the room, the soldiers warn the prisoners to remain there, and make it clear that noncompliance will be met with a bullet.

  The infected are pushed forward at the ends of the snare poles, and everyone but the prisoners, the two infected, and the guards restraining them remain. The guards back toward the doorway and into the hall. Once the order is given, they release the tension on the snare cables, freeing the infected at the ends, and quickly pull the poles out of the doorway, a fraction of a second before the heavy steel door is slammed the rest of the way shut and locked by the other guards.

  The door has a twelve-inch by twelve-inch observation glass with a layer of steel mesh between the panes. The window is crowded by Colonel Azarov, Doctor Kasktov, and a mix of soldiers, scientists, and guards. Irritated by the shuffling and bumping of the others, Colonel Azarov orders everyone back except for Kasktov. Surprising Doctor Kasktov, some of those gathered don’t move after the order. Colonel Azarov turns to those gathered around and behind him; those in the area immediately retreat from his stare.

  Turning back to the window in the door, the Colonel and Doctor Kasktov watch the events unfold. For a few moments, the two infected look around the holding area as if they haven’t been here before. The movements of their heads are quick; both have crouched and seem ready to flee or attack. In the back of the room, their fellow prisoners quietly call out their names, and take tentative steps towards them before stopping, and then continuing.

  Both of the infected men seem to focus on the prisoners in the back of the room at the same instant, and begin to make a deep growling sound. The infected make a couple of hesitant steps to the prisoners, not appearing afraid, but stalking. With both infected issuing another growl, and with an increase of saliva drooling down their faces, they suddenly break into a sprint toward the prisoners.

  Under Siege

  Houston, Texas, Present Day

  Throughout the four remaining hours of the night, Jim has alternated between flipping to different news channels, and walking around the home to check for faults in the defenses they’ve placed. Although he has amassed what some may consider a large amount of ammunition and other survival gear, he knows he doesn’t have enough. You never have enough.

  Jim goes out to the garage, and digs through the trunks he'd used to ship home the equipment he'd purchased while working in Iraq. He then brings them inside, into the master bedroom, and takes inventory. He fills up the tactical vest magazine pouches, and attaches two of his sheaths holding knives. Then, he fills u
p the medical pouches on the back and left side of the vest with as many Israeli dressings and other bandages as he can.

  Jim locates four combat tourniquets, and attaches two to his vest. Then, he fills the three remaining tactical backpacks, or go-bags, with magazines, ammunition, knives, and first aid material. Jim hears a loud scream from outside. It’s a scream of absolute terror, of fear. He’s heard screams like this before. Moving quickly to the front of the home, where he pinpointed the scream, he’s met by Chris and Jeremy moving quickly down the stairs. He sees Arzu and their younger children, Berk and Kayra, at the top landing, with one wrapped in each of Arzu’s arms.

  Jim puts a finger to his lips, in an obvious hushing sign, as Chris begins to speak. Arzu, Berk and Kayra remain on the upstairs landing while Jim and the boys go to the front of the home. Peering out through small openings in the plywood on the exterior, their eyes dart from side to side looking across the street, and up and down the road in front. “There,” Jeremy says and points across the street to Annette’s house.

  The door to her home is closed, but the front window is smashed out, with the cool November morning air lightly blowing through and causing the curtains to lazily drift in and out of the window frame. The interior is too dark to see clearly inside the home, but some glimpses of movement can be discerned from time to time. “Well, shit. Fuck,” Jim spits out. “Chris, stay here at the front door, lock it as soon as I go out and keep a look out. Be ready for me to come running back in a hurry.” “Jeremy, you get to the back door, and keep a sharp eye out. Remember, your first priority is to keep anyone we don’t want coming in out,” Jim finishes. Both sons nod, and Jeremy moves quickly to the back of the home.