American Epidemic Omnibus: An Ebola Prepper Survival Tale

by Roger Hayden

  Once he reached the flat desert road leading into Base 42, he carefully coasted to the side, off the pavement, and into a slump in the ground where a small ravine was located. The ground became rough and bumpy, and he gripped the steering wheel tight as the jeep rode down into the dried-up slope about twenty meters wide.

  Greg felt good about the spot, especially because it was near some desert brush where he decided to park. The ravine dipped down low enough from the road that he wouldn’t be visible to anything or anyone from the road. He was a half mile from the base and even closer to the burn pit. For their getaway, they’d have to move fast, but Greg believed they could do it. They had to.

  Sneaking onto the trash truck required that he travel light, so Greg left everything he had in the jeep except for his binoculars, knife, Beretta pistol, and N95 respiratory mask. He carried a small sack with him packed with snacks, his canteen, and extra ammo. The rest had to stay behind.

  Greg hated leaving supplies behind, no matter how well they were concealed. He got what he needed from the jeep, tossed the camo netting over it, and walked up the slope to the road with his mask on. Base 42 was in range. There were supposedly more than two hundred people inside, and Greg hadn’t a clue if any of them were infected. Part of him told himself to turn around and leave, but he had come too far to run away.

  The lights inside the base projected a distinctive white glow into the night sky. Greg looked at his wristwatch. It was 4:32 in the morning. The trash truck had come the day before around nine. He began the walk to the burn pit, still moving with a limp. He didn’t miss the weight of the bug-out bag but still wished that he could have brought it. A prepper never leaves his preps was another rule he had always told himself. Only this time, it would have to be broken.

  The burn pit was much larger than it had looked from far away. The crater-sized hole was full of ash and some burnt, slightly visible trash. Smoke rose from the hole continually, day and night, like some geyser at Yellowstone. He examined the pit with his NVGs and was dismayed to see what looked like charred flesh and bones among the trash.

  His suspicions from seeing the large black bags tumble into the pit the day earlier were confirmed. They were burning the bodies of the dead, and it seemed as though people were still dying at an alarming rate.

  He found a spot on the farthest side of the pit away from the base. A small nearby rock outcropping offered the perfect cover. Greg set up behind the rocks, which were about five feet high. He leaned against the wall, looked up into the sky, and let out a deep breath. Everything had gone according to plan so far, with the significant exception of the men trying to kill him. He’d have to play his cards right once he got inside the base, for there could be an even worse fate awaiting him.

  Morning came and Greg waited patiently for his moment. The sun was out in full force with barely a cloud in the sky. He watched the base attentively and heard the sound of someone’s voice coming over the intercom. It was faint and hard to decipher, but the tone was cold and demanding nonetheless. It had the eerie, echoed tones of a labor camp that sent shivers down his spine.

  He pulled his binoculars from his bag and scanned the walls. The entire base looked to be the size of an airport runway. It was long but still seemed inadequate to contain so many people. Two hundred seemed like a lot, and Greg had his doubts about the numbers.

  The voice on the intercom continued, but the gates remained closed and Greg couldn’t see a thing. He looked at his watch. It was five minutes to nine. His heart began to race. Soon it would be time. He glanced around the rocks with his binos and grew anxious when he saw a guard sliding the entrance gate open.

  He could hear the roar of the engine as it chugged out of the front gate and into view. It was the same truck as before, on its way to the burn pit, or so Greg hoped. He remained kneeling down behind the rocks, carefully following the truck’s movements. The burn pit was roughly fifty feet from him, and once the truck arrived, he’d only have a brief amount of time to act.

  He wasn’t going to ride in the back, and he didn’t want to complicate things by killing the driver and passenger. He assumed that with the short distance back to the base, he could ride underneath the truck. There would be plenty of undercarriage to grip onto, and once inside the gates, it would be easy to roll out from underneath and stealthily search the base. He felt he had little choice.

  The truck backed up to the burn pit, much like it had done the previous day, emitting a high-pitched beeping sound as it moved in reverse. Watching the passenger’s side, Greg waited patiently for the right moment. The door swung open and a man in protective gear hopped out.

  On the other side and out of view from Greg, the driver jumped out as well while his partner went to the back and released the tail gate. If their routine was the same, the driver would press the button and the partner would pour gasoline into the hole and throw in a match. The back of the truck began to rise at an angle, squeaking and rattling all the way. The truck looked and sounded like it was on its last leg. Greg watched as more body bags tumbled into the pit, at least twenty or more.

  How were they dying? What the hell kind of base is this? he thought.

  “That’s good!” the gasoline man shouted as the last of the contents fell into the hole. The cargo bed suddenly reversed its position and slowly dropped back down. The gasoline man walked to the front of the truck and grabbed a five-gallon fuel can. Greg’s fingers dug into the rocks as he peered from behind. His chance was coming. Suddenly, the man tripped on a hole in the sand and dropped the gas can, spilling it everywhere.

  “Shit!” the man said. He scrambled to get up and retrieve the can, and in doing so, managed to spill even more.

  “Damn klutz,” Greg said quietly under his breath. “Go to the hole.”

  The driver came around the other side of the truck and noticed the gasoline spill.

  “Oh come on! You know our resources are limited! What the hell’s wrong with you?

  “I’m fuckin’ sorry, OK?”

  The driver walked closer to him and pointed in his face.

  “You better hope there’s enough in there to burn them bodies, or there’s going to be hell to pay for you, my friend.”

  Irritated, Greg rubbed his face with both of his hands. The two men bickered back and forth while he looked on, waiting.

  “I don’t give a damn,” the clumsy man protested. “They can take me off this shit trash detail for all I care.”

  “Oh, they’ll do more than that, you dumbass. You just wait.”

  “I’m not afraid of anyone here at this camp. Not you. Not Hodder. No one. You fuckin’ hear me? You have any idea who I used to roll with? Second largest biker gang in the nation.”

  Greg listened closely, looking for any clues in the man’s rant. Great, he thought, a base full of criminals. But was it still a military base or was it a prison? The two men started to push each other when the driver pushed back the hardest, sending the gasoline man back onto the ground.

  “Just do your fucking job!” the driver said, walking away.

  Gasoline man got up, took what was left of the fuel can, and walked toward the pit. With the driver farther away and his back turned, Greg sprinted from the rocks, running low and trying not to limp. As soon as he made it to the truck, he slid underneath on his stomach—right into the dirt—and then rolled over onto his back.

  There were several pipes, railings, and axles for him to grab onto. He saw the legs of the gasoline man walk by and get into the truck just as the flames rose from the pit. Greg pulled himself up, lifted his legs, and wedged them above a pipe railing. The truck immediately jerked forward and started moving. He had just made it. He held tightly onto the pipes as sand and dust flew up into his face, making it hard to breathe. He closed his eyes and kept his mouth shut as the truck rattled and picked up speed, shaking him violently. He wasn’t going to allow himself to let go. After a brief and tasking ride, the truck slowed to a halt.

  Greg hung down lower
and looked to the front of the truck. He could see the gate being opened. As they moved forward, the ground below changed from sand and rocks to concrete pavement. His arms wrapped tightly around the exhaust pipe and he pulled himself up even closer to the innards of the truck in order to remain concealed. The gate closed behind them and Greg found himself finally inside the base.

  Intruder

  Bill Hodder stood in the Tactical Operations Center convening with his right-hand men, Marcus and Alex. Their meeting was urgent as tensions on the base were high. Residents had already endured abuse and forced labor at the hands of Hodder’s men, and pockets of resistance had begun to form. Hodder had his men capture such “agitators,” splitting them apart from their families and locking them up in the underground prison as they awaited trial. The prison itself was one of the base’s most tightly held secrets.

  But public trials had grown redundant. Most people had been broken, no matter their age or gender, and Hodder had them convinced that things were far worse outside the base. He delivered phony news reports to the people about how Ebola had wiped out half the state and how it was spreading at an unstoppable rate. Little did he know, he was half-right. Their only refuge, he explained, was the base itself.

  Fear was his prime motivating force, but it couldn’t last forever, no matter how destitute, scared, and vulnerable the people were. What he offered them was a system of rules and routines to follow, enforced by strict measures. He presented himself as more of a reluctant and benevolent prophet of doom than anything else.

  He used the same rhetoric he had used to seize the base and expel the military. And for a while, it seemed to be working. Now, protecting his power was even more important. Lately, however, his fragile control of the camp and its inhabitants felt like a powder keg waiting to go off.

  Often times, anyone suspected of a conspiracy to overthrow Hodder or join any kind of rebellion were privately executed and disposed of in the trash truck. They hadn’t had an official Ebola-related death in over a month. The more recent deaths that followed had all come through the direct orders of Hodder himself. But they were always classified as Ebola-related by the two resident researchers of the base. Like all who did his bidding, the former CDC reps were aligned with Hodder. And for their loyalty, they were given unlimited rein in conducting medical experiments on prisoners in their attempts to crack the Ebola code—and hopefully get rich in the process.

  Families began to dwindle. Children were without parents. Mothers went without their husbands. And sisters went without brothers. The true horrors of the camp, and what Hodder and his men were doing, were known only by a few. Conspirators, radicals, and anyone who wised up to his lies soon found themselves taken from their quarters in the dead of night and locked in an underground holding area.

  Everything was starting to come to light among the people, but they were still afraid. Hodder’s enforcers were armed, whereas they were not. Throughout the one hundred and fifty-four people left on Base 42, few had any spirit or hope left in them as they clung onto survival the best way they could. They did as they were told. Young women were passed around among Hodder’s team and given extra supplies and privileges for their services, and men often toiled on pointless labor projects, such as building platforms and pavilions and more gates and security. It was never enough. Twenty-five men, including Hodder, held power over the others, simply because they had weapons. But there were rumors of a military armory filled with hundreds more.

  It was the key to any kind of revolution, and it was also one of the closely monitored supplies. The only kind of meaningful change that would lead to the disposal of Hodder was the arrival of outsiders. Hodder knew this and focused squarely on ensuring that no one could get in or out of the base. He was going to hold onto his power, no matter the cost.

  In the operations room, Hodder kicked a chair and threw a small table across the room. Marcus and Alex remained seated, not saying a word. His tirades were fast becoming a daily event.

  “This supply count is all off,” Hodder said. “We can’t possibly be this low.” At this point, wearing tan, nameless military fatigues had become his daily uniform. Often times he even wore a beret. Dressing like the very military men he loathed gave him an even greater sense of power.

  “The numbers are what they are,” Marcus said. “Jacob’s supply run did little to change that.”

  Hodder paced the room, mumbling under his breath. He then stopped and turned toward his men. “We need to get a handle on this thing and fast. What’s the status on the search team?”

  Marcus and Alex looked at each other before Marcus spoke. “They haven’t been seen since yesterday.”

  Hodder cupped his chin with his palm and nodded with a slight smile. “Jacob is stalling. That’s what he’s doing. He knows there’ll be consequences if he doesn’t find this lone wolf, and he’s waiting it out.”

  Alex interjected. “Or maybe they’re still trying to find this guy.”

  Marcus shook his head. “I think we’d have heard something by now. It doesn’t make any sense.”

  Hodder walked to a nearby table and leaned into it, biting his lip. “Or maybe that vigilante bastard took them out.”

  Alex laughed. “Five men against one? I don’t think so.”

  Hodder slammed the table with his palm, startling the men. “Don’t underestimate anyone! How many times have I said that? We’re not in any position to make casual assumptions. Every single day, it’s a new challenge maintaining some sense of order around here. Every day, someone wants to step up and test us. They whine and complain about the conditions. Some threaten to leave. Some even have the nerve to fight back. We have to eliminate these threats before they consume us. If I’ve seen it in politics, I’ve seen it a dozen times.”

  Hodder stared at the men, almost as if studying them. “You men come from criminal backgrounds. That’s no judgement, it’s just an observation. You’ve been to prison, you’ve seen the power struggles that exist in correctional facilities. I’m offering you all something that you’ve never had before: complete power over your fellow man. And if you lack the means or comprehension to hold onto power, we’re going to fucking lose it—just like that.” Hodder snapped his fingers.

  “I want an end to this talk of infighting among the people here. Whatever we’re doing to keep them in line, it’s growing stale. I want agitators locked up. I want an increase in public trials. And I want this stupid son of a bitch who’s out there now standing on stage with a bag over his head so we can show the people what happens when an outsider tries to attack us. Do I make myself clear?”

  Marcus and Alex nodded. “We’ll get an update on the progress of the search team,” Marcus said.

  “And you mean to tell me that those idiots didn’t take radios or anything with them?”

  “They assembled very quickly yesterday. It was overlooked,” Marcus said.

  Hodder held out his hands. “And that’s why we can’t overlook things anymore.”

  Alex leaned forward. “I think this vigilante thing could help us in the long run.”

  Marcus folded his arms and tilted his head, waiting for Alex to continue.

  “We spread the word about this terrorist trying to attack the base. Make him out to be whatever we want him to be. We tell the people that any measures we enforce, no matter how extreme, are for their own protection against this man.”

  Marcus jumped in. “And maybe it’s not just one man. Maybe it’s several.”

  Alex continued with enthusiasm. “And then when Jacob and the boys catch him, we bring him before the people and show what happens to outside threats.”

  Hodder nodded along, intrigued. He raised a finger, putting a stop to their speculations. “First things first. I want to talk with that woman again. The one we have in quarantine. I want to know everything about this man, from his name to his physique down to his driver’s license number. We could really be onto something here, gentlemen. And Alex, I see a job in politics is in you
r future.”

  Alex flashed a self-satisfied smile as Hodder continued. “In the meantime, get this base under control. I’m talking curfews, increased labor, and better rationing of the supplies. As soon as we introduce the prospect of an outside threat, we’ll put an end to this bullshit talk of resistance.”

  Hodder left the room without saying another word, leaving Marcus and Alex to contemplate their next moves.

  ***

  Greg carefully lowered himself onto the pavement moments after the truck was parked. His arms were sore and his legs ached, but he had made it. He rolled onto his stomach and waited. The small pack fastened around his shoulder contained both his knife and pistol—the most important assets for exploring dangerous new territory.

  He was inside some kind of garage or shaded area. Greg saw legs on both sides of the truck walk by and go to the corner where there were wall lockers. The men opened the lockers and began to change out of their protective clothing. Greg could hear their conversation.

  “So you think this thing could actually be airborne? I mean, if that was true, we’d all be dead by now.”

  “Some of us are luckier than others.”

  “I mean, we’re collecting, what—five, ten bodies a day? At that rate, we’re not gonna last another month out here. Calling ourselves the Survivors. What a bunch of bullshit. We’re dying just like everyone else out there.”

  “You ever see any of the bodies we dump?”

  “No. So what? I don’t want to be exposed to that shit. Next thing I know, it’ll be me zipped up.”

  “It ain’t always Ebola, genius. There’s a resistance growing, and Hodder’s just keeping them in line.”