by Paul Kirk
“I hear that.” Though the voice was quiet, he knew Marty had spoken. The crew strained to hear more, but the coming dusk held no sounds. Connor had faded into the trees like a smokey apparition. A minute later, the crew stirred and the almost magical spell was broken. Buzzy and several others glanced at Marty to complain about not shooting the guy, but his return glare quelled such conjecture. Eventually, the men stripped Gizmo and Dave of their belongings and talked of tracking Connor, though nobody committed to such a pursuit. Upset, each trudged off to search for their guns and knives Connor had tossed into the woods. Most were recovered before total darkness came.
CHAPTER 1.2-Returning to Base
Several hours later, the unlucky hunting crew reached the abandoned stone farmhouse designated as base for the past week. Each man was angry and in a foul mood. They discussed the unfortunate outcome of today’s hunting and the impact it had had personally. Buzzy, usually quiet, voiced his displeasure at losing four packs of Marlboros he’d just found in Warsaw, Indiana. The entire crew was hungry and several scrounged the kitchen and basement in a futile attempt to find any remaining canned goods, though all such edible items were long gone. As it stood, they’d not eaten anything since the small doe killed that morning. The doe hadn’t gone far in appeasing their hunger and, to exacerbate it, they began to speak of the times before the Sickness, when cow and pig meat was abundant. A few spoke of hunting the huge flock of geese that gathered on the small pond close to the farmhouse, but their hunger was not enough to overcome the superstitious fear of succumbing to the Sickness brought upon them by the worldwide Avian flu.
By unspoken agreement, Marty was the new leader of these demoralized losers. He assigned night watch to three men, promising to replace them in four hours. The rest of the crew, including him, spread out on the ground floor of the farmhouse for sleep. Feeling mildly depressed, Marty wondered how he’d dropped so low as to have to hang out with this sorry bunch. Sleepy, Marty McCullough’s thoughts drifted to Connor and his mysterious friend Snuff.
CHAPTER 1.3-Snuff
“You can’t keep doing that shit, Mac,” said Amanda Abbington. She set her Remington 30.06 and Connor’s M-4 and Mossberg shotgun against the fireplace bricks. Angry, she threw a string of several rabbits in his lap. Caught off guard, he grabbed hold of the rabbits as they nearly flopped into the small fire.
“I know, Snuff. But damn, it sure keeps the boredom away.”
“Quit calling me that! And you’re fucking suicidal man.”
“Aww, c’mon, Snuff! They were just a bunch of low-life assholes. I couldn’t resist setting them up. And, you know that I needed this.”
“Needed it?”
“Yeah. C’mon, I told you before. I need it sometimes. I just can’t handle the mundane routine sometimes, you know?”
“Is that right?”
“Sure. Stealth, intelligence gathering, planning and prep, tactical analysis and execution are the name of the game. It’s how I was trained. It’s who I am. But, I need to live it sometimes, you know? I have too much of that existential risk-taker in me, so my dad used to say.”
“Right, stay delusional for all I care.”
With a dreamy, faraway look, Connor continued. “Yeah, I need to feel like I’m alive. Right in the thick of things...something like that.”
“Yeah, yeah, whatever. You’re bat-shit crazy, Mac. I can’t keep saving your ass if you keep pulling these stunts!”
Connor leapt from his sitting position, anger building. Facing Amanda with the intent to rage, he noticed the raw frustration and concern in her eyes and dialed his anger back several notches. “Aww, c'mon, Snuff! You wouldn’t even be here now if it wasn’t for me! Did you just conveniently forget how I saved your sweet ass in Kansas? Huh?”
“Fuck off,” Amanda said. She was mostly past reliving those assholes pinning her down and ripping at her clothes. The nightmares were almost totally gone. For a few angry seconds, they stared at one another, each unwilling to give ground.
Abruptly, Snuff turned, snatched her rifle, and left the living room. She entered the small kitchen, surveyed her options, and began searching the kitchen drawers and cabinets for useful items. Upset, she banged drawers closed. Connor, who had followed her, noticed that her rifle never left her grip.
He couldn’t help himself. “Yeah, that’s it, make yourself useful.”
“Fuck you. You’re such an asshole.”
Stubbornly, Connor ignored the watery tears welling up in her eyes. He retrieved the string of rabbits and re-entered the kitchen, casually tossing the fresh kill into the sink. With little ceremony, he expertly skinned each rabbit with his mainstay, a six-inch Kershaw combat knife. Amanda stormed out of the kitchen and into the back rooms.
“We’ll have Cajun spiced rabbit for a late dinner!” yelled Connor. His outburst made him feel immature, but he continued skinning the rabbits. When finished, he removed some spices from his backpack and dry-rubbed them into the meat. Arranging several makeshift skewers over the living room fire, he began to slow-cook the rabbits. He expected they would be ready in a few hours. As they cooked, he reentered the kitchen and searched through the backpacks he'd taken from Dave’s crew. Inspection of a can of peaches revealed no apparent oxidation, no denting, no expanding or anything else that would hint of spoiling.
“I got sliced peaches in heavy syrup!” Despite his excitement, his revelation was met with silence. Yet, Amanda couldn’t resist the thought of canned peaches. Connor heard her return to the living room. When he peered through the doorway, she was sitting in front of the fire, sullenly staring into the yellow flames. Connor studied the slump to her slim shoulders and a protective urge crept into his thoughts. Strange, he thought, how this beautiful young woman had such an impact on him. Amanda Abbington endured much on her own since the Sickness. She was twenty-four years old and living in a world filled with pain. The thought made him feel exceptionally old at thirty-seven.
“Hey,” he said quietly as he approached. Amanda ignored him and Connor felt her weariness, deciding that maybe she had a point, maybe he was suicidal. He settled next to her, gently brushing her silky black bangs from her eyes. She didn’t pull away from his touch, an overall good sign, but she was lost in thought. “You okay?”
Amanda remained silent while Connor reached into his jacket pocket and removed a newly opened pack of cigarettes. Slipping one from the pack, he took his time and slowly leaned toward a small burning ember in the fire to light it. Inhaling deeply, he blew the smoke toward the ceiling.
“Give me one, you lucky bastard.”
Connor knew she was on the way to getting over the day’s events.
“Huh? Oh, this? For a small kiss, you can have a whole pack. I have four—didn't I mention that?” Connor began pulling other items from his backpack. “I secured a bunch of canned food and two D batteries that might work. And, we now have nine twelve-gauge shells, too. Guess those bastards didn’t like to share ammo, being as one of the guys had a piece of shit shotgun. Don’t know if the shells work, but maybe.”
“Really? You found four packs?” Snuff’s eyes lit up in excitement.
“Yeah,” Connor stared amazed at the transformation. “As you might imagine, they’re a wee bit stale.” The brightness of her crystal blue eyes beneath straight black bangs nearly decimated him.
“And you can have all four packs, if you dance for me again tonight.”
“C’mon, Mac, I’d dance for you anyways, if you asked. You know that, you sonofabitch.” Her voice had softened considerably and she shifted to face him. He smiled.
“Yeah, and somehow, I think you might even outdo yourself tonight. But, you know that smoking...it's a bad habit.”
“Tell me about it.” Snuff rose, standing before him. The fire highlighted the fine curves of her hips and the long, lithe muscles of her tall, slim body. She unbuttoned her light summer jacket, tossing it aside, before pulling the tan colored tank top over her head.
“Wow,
” said Connor.
“Shhh…”
In awe, Connor watched. Undressing, Amanda had a natural animal grace that emphasized her flat stomach and the smooth curves of her buttocks and breasts. Hand faintly shaking, he lit another cigarette and offered it to her. He knew he was lucky to have this young woman, for whatever brief moment of time.
CHAPTER 1.4-Nicole
Nicole and Colonel Starkes sat on five-gallon buckets near the helicopter while the men formed a ring around them on guard.
“Where is he?”
“Who?”
“The father of your child.”
“He left.”
“Where?”
“Said he was going to Pittsburgh, south of it, a place he had in the mountains.”
“I need to find him.”
“Good luck on that. Oh, and if you do, tell him he has a son.”
“What’s the man’s name?”
“His name? Why the hell would I tell you that?”
“Because I’m here to help you outta this shithole.”
“Is that right?”
“Yeah, that’s right.”
“Huh. All right, okay then, he goes by Connor Mac. Don’t know his full name.”
“Sounds Irish. He’s Irish? That’s good—”
“Why’s that good?”
“Cause our latest viral studies suggest Irish genetics were the most successful subgroup at surviving the Sickness. They're the most robust of any and all humans worldwide. Well, as far as we know.”
“Huh?”
“We've determined that the presence of gene marker K-64S1 provides optimal resistance to the H5N1 Avian plague. Or, the Sickness or Cuckoo Flu as everyone likes to call it. This gene marker’s rare and only evident in individuals of strong Irish descent.”
“Huh? Whatever that means...but hell, I’m Irish. Full blood my Dad’s side.”
Colonel Hannah Starkes studied the young women before responding. She certainly was striking in her natural Irish beauty. The large almond-shaped eyes, blue-gray, were accentuated nicely by the straggly, red-blonde hair. Her cheeks were lightly peppered with freckles around her thin nose. Her teeth were perfect.
“I can tell. You have the look. Based on your genetics and your smarts, it’s probably why you’re alive. By the way, you seem quite healthy and, I must admit, rather striking, even dirty and wearing scraps. Huh...it does seem that all survivors seem to have an inherent 'attractive' quality, particularly as defined by western standards of beauty.”
“Uh, thanks, I guess. You have any real food?”
“Sure. As much as you want.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, are you breast feeding?”
“When there’s milk to give, yeah. Haven’t eaten real well in three days. So…there’s not much.”
Colonel Starkes stared at the small baby swathed beneath a dirty pink blanket in the woman’s arms. With a gentle tremble to her hand, she lifted the coarse cloth to take a better look, exhaling in relief.
“The kid looks healthy though.”
“I know, right? Doesn’t seem to bother him, not eating real good for a few days. Seems like he almost expects it…probably has some ‘tough’ gene crap in him, like his daddy." Nicole hesitated before further speaking her mind. “Umm, you know …I’m still scared shitless. Why all the men and that big black helicopter?”
Colonel Starkes gave Nicole what she hoped was a gentle, reassuring smile. Calmly, she answered. “Well, what you’re staring at is the only known ‘copter operating in the States. That’s an H-92 Superhawk. And, flying here to San Fran from Mt. Storm was a logistical nightmare, let me tell you. The men are mostly active military, except GT, Scott and Shamus. That’s those three refusing to wear army issue. We found that trio in Baltimore, on a boat in the inner harbor, if you can imagine. They were doing some fishing. We had to convince them we were for real…after they captured four of our ops trying to board their boat.”
“Ops?”
“Hell, it took a full week’s supply of fresh food and four bottles of Glenlivet to let them know we were serious in recruiting them.”
“Recruiting?”
“Yeah, see, Shamus, the big one there with the pointed goatee? He knows how to fly that Superhawk. And GT, the guy with the thick glasses and tribal tattoos next to him can fix anything on it given time. Scott, well, he’s kind’ve got a knack for ‘finding things’ when they’re needed. See him? He’s the black-haired one with green eyes thinking he’s Mr. GQ.”
“I see—”
“If you can keep a secret, I’ll let you know that they’re a seasoned team of heavy hitters from back in the day. Retired. Retired early from Uncle Sam's covey of covert specialists.”
“Oh.”
“Look at them three standing there next to that big monster of a man, Major O’Malley. He’s my right hand man. Major’s smart as hell.”
Colonel Starkes nodded toward her second. By unspoken signal, the huge man with the green eyes, bright shock of red hair and bushy red mustache started toward the helicopter to grab a go packet containing a few hunks of cheese, crackers and a can of soda. With keen interest, Nicole followed his movements.
“You know, I haven’t seen anything in the air for five years. I mean nothing. Kinda scared the crap out of me seeing you land last night and track me down into my hidey-hole—it was unreal.”
Colonel Starke’s expression softened. She felt a compelling need to explain. “Infrared. We have infrared capability. Well, some, anyway. But, you know, you had a good hidey-hole. Three exits and two hidden knives, plus a shotgun. The way I figure it, you’ve probably made good use of them livin’ so close to I-80.”
“Ummm.” Nicole nodded.
“By the way, nice try with Mickey. If he weren’t a hand-to-hand combat expert, you would've gotten the better of him. He said you were a wildcat. That’s high praise from Mickey—he doesn’t talk much.”
Nicole hugged her baby tighter in her arms, getting colder with the late night chill. Colonel Starkes recognized the gesture, removing her army jacket to gently drape it around Nicole and the baby. They sat quietly for a moment while the men surrounding them stole surreptitious glances in their direction.
"Listen, can you tell me more about the Sickness? I mean, is everyone pretty much dead?”
Colonel Starkes took a moment to consider. “No, not everyone. Last known population count was at 45,211 in the States. Though, I’ll need to add two more, counting you both. Some stragglers arrive every so often, so the count’s still rising. And, reports from Europe are a bit higher at around 200,000. Keep in mind most are from Ireland and Scotland. Russia’s officially unaccounted for, but reports confirm some have survived the Sickness. Oh, and China, Japan, and the entire Pacific basin were hit bad. Probably less than 300,000 left from billions from what we can tell.”
“Oh. Ah…”
“India and the Middle East are essentially gone. No real count above 200,000. Mostly speculation at the survival rate. Might be lower. Same deal with Africa, but that only includes radio transmissions from Johannesburg."
"I see..."
"And we don’t have any intel from elsewhere in the world except that Australia might be doing somewhat okay.”
“Australia?”
“Yeah...they’d be hard bastards to kill off totally, I imagine. There's an extensive amount of Irish blood in that Botany Bay gene pool. Oh, and all science stations in Antarctica and the North Pole reported no exposure impact over the ham. I’m told probably because of the extreme cold. But…we did lose contact with all but the Norwegians last month.”
"Oh.”
“On the other hand, problem is, radiation from blown nuke plants right here in the U.S. and around the world definitely took a good number of people that survived those first few years. I know we would have had more survivors of this fiasco without them, that’s for sure. And the dead bodies piling up all around brought diseases, which were once easy to fight—not anymore. Th
ey killed hundreds of thousands more.”
“Oh my.”
Colonel Starkes and Nicole lapsed into silence, each lost in thought. Gently, Colonel Starkes pushed forward. “Umm, your name’s Nicole Townsend, correct?”
“Uh…yeah. Hold up! Now, how in the hell would you know my name?”
“Lemme explain, please! Nicole, look, we don’t know much about what’s going on outside the States. In fact, we don’t know much even in the States. But, we're getting better.”
“But what caused the Sickness? Wait! How’d you know my name? Why didn’t you and I get it?”
“Whoa, slow up.”
“Why’re those big men here still alive and looking so healthy? Are there any other women?”
“Slow down, Nicole. Please. We’ll answer all your questions. And, if you want, we’d like you to come with us. Maybe come back to Camp David where we’ve set up shop. Then, we can head into Mt. Storm where we’ve set up our primary base of operations.”
“Camp David? You mean the president’s vacation home?”
Colonel Starkes stifled a laugh. “Yeah, with all the amenities.”
“Wow. Is he still alive?”
“Uh, no. Not the president you might be thinking of.”
“Oh, well then, is there still a president?”
“Yeah.”
“Who is he?”
“Umm, that would be me.”
“Cool.”
CHAPTER 1.5-H5N1 Devastation
"Major, I'll take one of those go packets as well, please."
"Yes, ma'am."
Major O'Malley handed Colonel Starkes a packet and returned to the perimeter where ten fierce men, heavily armed, faced outward. Sitting near the helicopter, Nicole noticed the menacing automatic weapons, gleaming guns, which she’d not seen in her lifetime. But, she had questions while munching the string cheese. Closing her eyes at the burst of flavor, she sought answers.