The buses the sergeant had mentioned were parked off to the other side, three commercial Greyhound buses. One had the engine compartment open, but another had also been shot to shit by small arms fire. More patches of dark mud. The civilians were all clustered near the buses, being served MREs and given aid. Several were sitting or lying on cots with medics attending to them.
The center of the park was dominated by the guard vehicles, mostly M1078s and M1079s with a few ancient deuce-and-a-halfs mixed in. There were maybe a dozen Humvees as well. They were in a pretty sad shape, with more than a few hoods up and mechanics working underneath. A 12-foot chain-link fence surrounded the compound, with a dozen or more guardsmen standing security.
As their Stryker rolled in, a corporal ran over and gave the standard motor pool double-arm gesture toward one side, away from the fuel truck. Cobb leaned forward and yelled.
“We’re bingo fuel,” he said, explaining that they were out of fuel.
“I know, sir. But we’re using the local fuel first. There’s a diesel tanker over there the major wants you to draw from. He sends his respects and said he’ll be with you presently.” The young man threw a casual salute and ran off without waiting for the answering salute. Cobb looked in the indicated direction and saw what looked like an old 18-wheeler, mounted on stilts with a gas pump next to it.
“Okay,” Cobb said, tapping Colbert on the shoulder. “Over there, PFC,” he said, pointing with a knife hand.
The Stryker slowly crept over to the fuel tank, where a civilian in dungarees stood waiting for them.
“Fill ‘er up, General?” he asked, pushing back a worn Texas Ranger’s cap.
“Please,” Cobb said without bothering to correct him on the rank. The guy gave a thumbs-up and Cobb showed him where the refueling port was. A few seconds later, diesel was flowing into the tanks.
“Colonel?” Cobb turned to see an officer standing with his arms crossed.
“Colonel Cobb Pendleton,” he said. The other man gave a rather casual salute which Cobb returned.
“Major Benjamin Johnson, 36th Texas. I understand you aren’t formally attached to any unit?” Cobb slid down to the gravel and gave a quick explanation of the situation that had led him to be there. “I’m glad you and this Stryker are here,” the major said when Cobb was done. “We need help corralling these survivors toward the evac center south of Dallas.”
“Did you say Dallas?” The major nodded. “Major, General Rose said Dallas was a loss. One of his platoons came from a guard headquarters in Ft. Worth. They knew about your evacuation center and were trying to reinforce it when everything went to shit.” The major looked confused for a second, then squinted in consternation.
“My commanding officer, Colonel Robert, ordered me to get the remainder of our unit to that evacuation center and to go with as many civilians as we can save.” Cobb noticed that at least a squad of the major’s men were close at hand. He also heard a series of shots. Bennet up in the hatch turned at the sound. “Perimeter security,” the major explained, “we keep getting leakers.”
“Major,” Cobb said, “maybe we should speak in private.” The other man considered for a moment, then nodded and led Cobb over to a M1079 with the command and control module. A private saluted and held the door for them as they climbed in. Cobb was expecting an immediate tirade.
“Coffee, Colonel?” The space was like an office, with two desks with computers set up and communications gear on the wall. It was also full of the smell of coffee, and he was suddenly very aware that it had been days since he’d had any, and almost 29 hours since he’d last slept.
“Sure,” he said. “Thanks.” The major took a Styrofoam cup and filled it with the dark liquid. He pointed at a container full of cream and sugar packets. Cobb shook his head.
“Career soldier,” the major said and handed him the cup. “I figured when I saw you. Let me guess, Special Forces?”
“Yes,” Cobb said and blew on the drink before sipping it. Sumatra blend. Very smooth. “I did 27 years before retiring. Figured I’d enjoy my farm and wife while I was still young enough.”
“Zombies get her?”
“No,” Cobb said and sipped again. “Cancer.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
Cobb nodded. He didn’t add that he had a girlfriend out there, somewhere. Did it really matter?
“Look,” the major said. “I know you’re just trying to help, but I don’t see that your intel is any better than mine.”
“It’s newer,” Cobb said, “and you know that much.” The major sighed and nodded. “I can’t roll in here and pull rank on you,” Cobb started.
“Damned right you can’t,” Johnson growled, then added, “Sir.”
“But the more of us stick together, the better chance we have of getting to my objective.”
“What’s your objective?” Cobb took a deep breath.
“Near Los Angeles.” Johnson’s eyes bugged. “General Rose took a flight of Globemasters, Chinooks, and other support and headed toward a rally point there. My team stayed behind to provide security.”
“You gave me that story already,” Johnson said. “It’s sad but doesn’t change the fact that you think you’re going to fucking California. And you think going to Dallas is crazy?”
“No, staying near the center of the outbreak is crazy. At least heading toward California, we’ll get out of the population center and more into the open.” Johnson was shaking his head already; Cobb knew he wasn’t going to convince the soldier, and it wasn’t going to go way he’d hoped. He’d planned to get him alone for one of those CO to XO talks. Cobb had been on the receiving end of them when he was a major himself, before moving up to Lt. Colonel and taking over his own battalion.
“I guess this isn’t going to work out,” Cobb said with a shake of his head. “I’m not leaving you my Stryker.”
“We’re not going to follow you to California.”
Cobb shrugged, finished the coffee and got up. “I wish you luck, Major. You’re making a huge mistake,” he said and left the truck.
Back at his Stryker, Colbert had moved it over near the exit, as if he’d known they weren’t going to be staying. The rear ramp was down, and the civilians were all being fed. Major Johnson had followed him at a discreet distance. Cobb turned back to him. “Can I leave the civilians with you?”
“I’d prefer it,” the major said. Colbert and Bennet were standing on the ramp near the bottom, drinking coffee someone had given them. McDaniels was sitting on the side of the ramp, a medic examining the wounds to his face. As he approached, the medic turned to him.
“Sir, how long was this injury?”
“A few hours ago,” Cobb told the medic. “How’s he doing?”
“It’s infected, pretty bad too. I’m going to give him a broad-spectrum antibiotic, but this is a fast acting virus.” The look on her face spoke volumes.
“Well, Sergeant,” he said, “looks like you’re staying here.”
“Negative sir,” the man said, “I’m good to go.”
“He shouldn’t travel,” the medic confirmed, “and he sure isn’t fit for service.”
“They’ll take care of you,” Cobb said and held out a hand. “Good luck, Sarge.”
“Thank you, sir. Sorry I couldn’t make it all the way.”
A minute later the Stryker rolled back out of the vehicle park and headed west. Two hours later, as most of the civilians and military were sleeping with only a few guards on the perimeter, Sergeant McDaniels succumbed to Delta inside the medical truck and began tearing into the other injured. When a guardsman opened the door, the carnage spread.
* * * * *
Chapter Six
Late Evening, Thursday, April 28
The Flotilla, 150 Nautical Miles West of San Diego, CA
General Rose watched the moonrise over the fantail of the USS Ronald Reagan. He thought it was an amazingly beautiful sight, considering it was the end of the world. More than a hun
dred military and civilian ships were nearby, clustered around the carriers. Thanks to the skill of some pilots and the no-holds-barred tenacity of Navy crews on three supercarriers, he’d gotten a lot of soldiers, equipment, and civilians evacuated from Ft. Hood as it was being overrun by ravening hordes of fucking zombies. But he’d lost men getting out, including a newly-reactivated colonel who had led a small team in a Stryker to seal a breach, which had enabled them to get away. He was still out there, and the general wanted him back. The problem was, the colonel was more than 1,200 miles away, and the general had no air assets he could call on. No, he was stuck in squid-land, and he couldn’t even order lunch without some Airedale admiral’s okay.
A three-star general had influence. Well, if it wasn’t for the zombies, they had influence. Rose had spent a very long career making allies and connections. Before everything had gone to complete shit, he could’ve made a call and gotten an air mission to look for the lost men. Of course, part of the reason he’d lost his command was his higher ups.
“Mother fucking president,” he said, shaking his head.
“Sir?” asked Captain Mays standing behind him.
“Nothing,” Rose said. A second later, the deck rumbled as an F-18 was catapulted off, and it climbed into the sky with a roar. “Just lamenting the end of most of our communications infrastructure.”
“The kill switch,” Mays said, and Rose nodded. They’d put it in place during all the cyber-terrorism fears of the early 21st century. It was a way to keep terrorists from destroying the country’s cyber infrastructure and the military’s too, by isolating all the nodes and cutting down communications. The fucking President went and did it—shut it all down. Cut off the fractured military commands from each other with a thousand conflicting orders racing around. He was the general formerly in command of III Corp, with only a battalion total strength left, at most, afloat in a sea of sailors, with the Marines moving in. Fucking Marines.
How to put this all together, he wondered as he stood on the gently-rolling deck. It was a nice night, but still windy with the water being whipped up into low white tops. One of the Reagan’s escorts, a destroyer, he thought, pitched up and down in the waves. He understood why so many liked serving on these supercarriers. The smooth ride. He wished he could go back to his office at Hood, overseeing the day-to-day operations of an Army brigade, with almost 100 men and women in his general staff to handle all the small stuff. Smooth ride. He’d been the carrier. Now he felt like the destroyer. A little further out a fishing boat rode violently up and down in the swells, actively fighting to stay afloat in the waves. Was that his next stop?
For a minute he considered just leaving. Get his surviving people together on a couple willing civilian ships and set out for parts unknown. At some point, his small contingent would be superfluous. Hell, maybe they’d be stood-down and rolled into the Marines, who appeared to have survived in large numbers. Or worse, they could be relegated to grunt work. Security in the rag-tag colonial fleet? He grinned at the private sci-fi joke. He guessed landing on the carriers had ultimately been a mistake. But where else could he have gone?
They needed a home; people needed a home. There had to be somewhere nearby they could hold from the damned infected. At least until Dr. Breda came up with the cure. He looked over at the converted oil platform, roughly at the center of the flotilla. The good doctor was there with her Frankenstein research operation. The little speech she’d given them had scared the shit out of him. Still, he couldn’t help but wonder if his own fucking government had cooked up the goddamned virus. Delta sounded too much like something they’d brewed up during the cold war. Turn the commies into cannibalistic zombies. He chuckled.
“Heavy seas developing,” the PA barked over the bustle of the deck. “Secure for heavy seas.” All around him, hundreds of multicolored uniforms raced about doing their different jobs. He shook his head in amazement. The squids liked their special jobs with special titles, even gave the swabbies special uniforms to match. The oil platform was more than 100 feet above the water, so the growing white tops weren’t a fraction of the height needed to reach the working deck. He needed backing and people to help think this through.
“Capt. Mays?” the general said.
“Yes sir,” he replied immediately.
“Thomas, how long have you been with me?”
“Nine years sir, except that brief tour at the Pentagon.”
Rose nodded. “I guessed about eight. Thomas, we need to work out a strategy. Get me one of them little boats they use…”
“A RHIB, sir?”
“Yeah, that’s it. I want to talk with Dr. Breda at the drill platform.” The wind blew across the deck, hard enough to make the general shift his stance. Out over the water, a twin propeller-driven plane was lining up with the carrier. Its lights were clear in the night as it approached. A flight control crewman glanced their way to be sure they were still clear of the foul line before it started its approach. “And make it soon; a storm is brewing.”
* * *
“I wish you’d move him to the lower containment.” Dr. Lisha Breda looked over at her assistant, Beth Unger, and gave her a rueful smile. The subject of her assistant’s consternation growled and thumped on the heavy plexiglass. Grant Porter had been one of her best research assistants prior to becoming infected with Delta and turning into a cannibalistic psychopath who’d killed four of her people before being subdued. Way back when Delta was just beginning to go pandemic, there was an early outbreak at the facility. The US Coast Guard had come to the panicked call for help from her staff. Luckily by then, her people had gotten it under control.
She’d had no clue that the virus they’d only just begun to study was global. When Grant was infected, Lisha had realized that the infection was much more complicated than originally thought. That was a lot of research experiments ago. But it had only been, what, a week or so? She shook her head in amazement. Days for a world to end.
“It’s useful to keep it here,” Lisha said, reluctant to address it as a human being. Besides, she’d studied it in great detail. It didn’t act like a human anymore. Even its brain wasn’t organized like a human’s. Delta had rewritten its cerebrum. The CDC had been working on a cure when it all fell apart, but she knew what a waste of time that was. There wasn’t enough left of the human who’d been Grant Porter to bother. “We’ve learned a lot from him.” The younger woman made a face and went back to organizing samples. Besides, Lisha thought, I owe it to who he was to try and make progress using what he’d become.
The intercom buzzed. “Dr. Breda?” a voice asked.
“Go ahead,” she replied.
“There are some Army guys here to see you.”
She walked into the small conference room, its whiteboard still covered with complicated chemical formulae and taped pictures of the different phases of the Delta virus. General Rose was looking at one of the pictures when she walked in.
“General,” she said.
“Doctor,” he said and pointed to the picture. “That thing is our little bug?”
“It is,” she said, “or at least one part of it. Like I explained, Delta is a sort of binary agent. Add a couple parts together and it mutates, or rather metamorphoses, into the active variety.” He grunted and looked at it again.
“You said in the meeting that it can’t live outside of a host. Then how come preserved foods are harboring it?”
“I didn’t exactly speak artfully in that line,” she explained. “It can’t reproduce. It goes into a dormant state. Introduced into a living organism, it both goes into a highly active state as well as causes any latent vectors within that body to metamorphose into the same state.”
“Can you translate that?” the general asked with a chuckle. She smiled and nodded.
“It means that we all have a form of Delta inside us now; we got it from the air. It’s not actively reproducing.” She pointed at one of the images. It looked subtly different from the others, but they al
l reminded him of a snowflake crossed with a bicycle rim. “When the metamorphosed phase contacts these undifferentiated types, it triggers them all to change in an extremely fast transformation.” The general was listening with narrowed eyes. When she was finished he nodded in understanding.
“So that’s why some transform so quickly?”
“Yes,” she said. “Ingesting contaminated food can trigger it, but more slowly. A bite from a person who’s undergone a full transformation results in the rapid changes you’re talking about. It can be quite dramatic.”
“So I’ve seen.”
“While I don’t mind giving the lesson in Delta,” Lisha said, “I doubt you came over here for that.”
“You are correct, Doctor.” The general looked at the images for another moment, then turned his complete attention to Dr. Breda. “Your discussion about learning to live in this new world; do you believe it’s possible?” She looked at him, cocking her head slightly in that sort of deep thinking that scientists did when they were considering something.
“It could be,” she said finally, “but it won’t be easy. We don’t fully understand this thing yet.”
“I thought you had a serious handle on it,” he said and gestured at the whiteboard with all its chemical formulae and photos of the virus. He looked at a photo again. “Hey, that Delta virus is super small, right?” She nodded. “So how’d you get a picture of it?”
“Those?” she asked and pointed to the same pictures. It was his turn to nod. “That’s an image using x-ray crystallography. Viruses are so small you can put about a thousand on the point of a pin.”
Turning Point (Book 2): A Time To Run Page 5