The Doomsday Infection

by Lamport, Martin

  “I’ll start back in the mid thirteen hundreds, but interestingly the Bubonic Plague has reappeared regularly in small doses even as recent as 2012, Madagascar off the African coast had an outbreak. Here in the US there were outbreaks in San Francisco, and New Orleans in the early part of the last century, and a one-off death of a park ranger in California, who’d contracted the disease from an infected squirrel.” The President paled, taking in the news. Sophie continued. “The Black Death reached Sicily in October 1347 and by January 1348 it had reached Venice and Genoa, a few weeks later Pisa in northern Europe, then France, Portugal, Germany, Scandinavia, and England and by the fall London had succumbed.

  As communication was virtually nil, mainland Europe was ill prepared, having no knowledge of the pestilence that was about to wipe out one third - some experts say half – of the population.” The men sucked in breath. “It was particularly virulent; striking indiscriminately from the lowest to the highest in the land, dukes, duchesses, even a member of the Spanish Royal family succumbed to the awful disease, which had a fatality percentage of ninety to ninety five percent of all who came into contact with it.” Sophie noticed the President shiver, not sure if it was from the news or from whatever he suffered from.

  “The clergy,” she continued. “Immediately stepped up their sermons and blamed the Plague upon unhealthy living. They begged their parishioners to turn to God in their time of need. But many found God wanting and oddly enough blamed the Jews. Persecuting and slaughtering them particularly in Toulon, France, and Barcelona, Spain. In Strasbourg, Germany, they burned nine hundred Jews alive on Valentine’s day, even though the plague hadn’t affected their town.”

  “You may have heard of the flagellants?” The men shook their heads collectively. “They were a highly religious order who went from town to town whipping themselves hoping to rid the great pestilence by their penance, but of course their efforts were useless.”

  “That plague changed the sociology of Europe, as the workforce was decimated there weren’t farm laborers to gather the crops, which in turn failed, leading to famines, and it took one hundred and thirty years for the population to get back to its pre-plague days.

  That plague would rear its ugly head another six times before the end of the century.”

  “Three hundred years later the Black Death, the Bubonic Plague, cut a swath through Asia followed by Europe once again. The Bubonic Plague carried by ship rats, quickly passed to their land-bound cousins and in turn to the human population via fleas.”

  “The Black Death, although occurring nearly four hundred years ago is well documented. In England for example, they knew that it arrived near Weymouth, on the south coast and in less than a month it had marched unstoppable to London, and this virus was even more deadly.”

  “The symptoms being fever, chills, swellings, nose bleeds, vomiting blood, blood seeping from the eyes, ears, nose even from the rectum. Buboes like giant boils under the arms and around the groin. These would burst, and worst of all the skin would rip.”

  “My God!” exclaimed President Burgess. “While the victim is alive?”

  “I’m afraid so, sir. I witnessed this happening on the way here.”

  “And which plague are we dealing with? The 1300s version, or 1600s one?” the President asked.

  “Both. In addition, possibly the septicemic plague mixed in. All the worst parts of the plagues, and this time it’s airborne.”

  “Right,” said the President turning to his aides. “We must act immediately; we need to get the cure to the infected on a scale that the world has never seen -”

  Sophie cleared her throat. “Erm, Mister President?”

  However, the Chief Executive was on a roll. “The military can corral the masses on the ground, the Air-force to airlift in the cure -”

  “Mister President,” Sophie said louder, the men turned to her, “Excuse me, but there is no cure.”

  CHAPTER 16

  00:45 AM

  Luke stood with his hands in the air. He watched while the soldiers in the camouflaged hazmat suits unloaded the dead from the airplane. It was a slow process as the cumbersome suits hampered the men. The heat made the temperature inside the suits unbearable, so much so, that several men fainted.

  Luke, Sheila and the Asian man had rifles aimed at them, while the soldiers checked and double-checked their credentials and they repetitively answered the same questions. Sheila’s nostril started to run with thick, black blood. The soldiers stared at her aghast. The Asian tried to distance himself from her but was quickly made to change his mind by one of the soldiers prodding him with his rifle. Sheila fell to the floor, and vomited. The soldiers were helpless to offer her assistance and she sneezed again.

  “Shoot her!” said the Asian. “She has the plague, please, before she infects us all,” he begged, when to his utter horror he sneezed too, and instantly knew the significance. “Oh no . . . please God, no . . .”

  The sergeant major had difficulty in receiving a radio message as the hazmat suit’s helmet prevented him holding the walkie-talkie close to his ear. He barked orders and men scattered in all directions. He jumped down from the Humvee, and manhandled Luke towards a covered wagon. “You. Follow me.”

  “Where we going?” Luke asked, but the soldier ignored him. “Answer me, Damnit; I have a right to know.”

  “Southern Florida is under martial law, which means you no longer have any rights. You’re to follow military instructions to the letter, or else.”

  “Or else what?” Luke asked with a flinty tone to his voice.

  The soldier stopped dead and eyeballed him menacingly. “You do not want to find out, sir, believe me.” He waited until Luke got the point and then dragged him towards the wagon where Luke caught a glimpse of other civilians inside.

  “You’re being taken to an encampment, where you’ll be assessed and depending on your state of contagion, will be treated.”

  An explosion rocked the night sky as another missile launched from the warship off the Miami coast, and moments later, Luke saw it strike its target and another civilian airplane shattered into a million pieces. He gasped and watched appalled as the debris fell into the ocean. Even the sergeant major winced, before saying. “Tough times call for tough measures. Now get into the truck.”

  Luke moved to the rear of the truck, “What about the others?”

  “They are clearly in an advanced state of the virus -”

  “What’ll happen to Sheila and the -”

  “You’re being separated purely on symptoms. Two batches. Those that can be saved and those that can’t.”

  “But -”

  “There’s no time for, ‘buts’. You should be thankful you’re in the, ‘can be saved category,’” the sergeant major said trying to keep his voice even as he slowly lost patience with Luke.

  “Sheila had the plague for sure, but the Asian man?”

  “As skin color is the most obvious visual sign that’s our starting point for segregation.

  “That’s his natural skin color.”

  “That’s too bad,” the sergeant major said nastily. “Now get in the truck. It’s not your concern.”

  Luke clambered into the back of the truck and turned. “Why ain’t they coming with us?”

  “They will be processed, dealt with by, ah, a different department,” he replied, when Luke heard two sharp rapports from a pistol echo around them.

  The significance of the two shots hit Luke like a thump to the chest. He glanced back to see Sheila and the Asian slump to the ground in slow motion, after being executed. The sergeant major locked eyes with him and said. “Tough times, sir. Tough times.”

  Luke flopped heavily onto a wooden bench between Jake, a sun-bleached surfer dude and an elderly, hefty African-American woman who shifted her bulk to make room. He finally spoke. “They . . . they executed two Americans in cold blood.”

  Jake chuckled. “Duuude,” he made the word last three syllables, “Where have you be
en? This has been going on all day.”

  Luke reacted doubtfully. “It’s true,” Winnie said. “It’s been escalating since it got dark – they’s killing on color. You can imagine they don’t gonna argue that. They came into the neighborhood ‘bout six just shooting randomly.”

  Luke shook his head trying to absorb all the facts. “This can’t be happening? Word must be getting out, telephones, e-mail, twitter, they can’t possibly contain this monstrous news.”

  “Jammed it all,” said Jake. “Something to do with the Patriot’s Act. We’re in lock-down, roads, airports, seaports and you’ve seen what they’re doing to the incoming flights.”

  “Sure, I landed one of them.”

  Jake eyed him doubtfully. “You’re a pilot?”

  “It’s a long story.” He rubbed his aching arm and thought about the recent events. “How deadly is the contagion?” Luke asked.

  Jake said. “From my own experience it’s one hundred percent.”

  “Shit. . .” He looked at Winnie who nodded slowly.

  The truck’s diesel engine rattled, and the wagon vibrated as it started. The driver crunched it into gear and pulled away.

  “Still, we’re considered savable, ‘cause, you know, “Jake said. “They’re taking us to a, like, one giant refugee camp, where they’re gonna to treat us.”

  “You’ll be lucky.” Luke scoffed.

  “What do ya mean?” asked Jake.

  “There is no cure, man.” He shrugged and let the message sink in. “So, why are they rounding us up?”

  Luke heard rapid gunfire and saw from the back of the rumbling truck yet another execution squad dispatching more victims and his spirits sank.

  Winnie said. “Why are they saving some and killing others?”

  “Beats me, although. . .” Luke tailed off, not liking the thought, then continued. “Let’s say this disease is ninety-nine percent fatal. In this part of Florida we’re still talking about hundreds of survivors trying to escape. They can’t protect the borders indefinitely, and if word gets out about the indiscriminate killing, then there’d be mass panic and everyone left would try either to escape, or hide. My guess is they’ll act all friendly, make out there’s food and shelter and a cure at these refugee camps and, well, kill us all at once in a convenient, enclosed venue.”

  “Duuude,” drawled Jake, “that is so sick.”

  “It makes sense logistically. It’s what I’d do. And of course they need to consider the disease ridden corpses, how do you get rid of hundreds of thousands of dead bodies.”

  Winnie snorted. “So you reckon they’ll take us to their version of a concentration camp where they’ll kill us systematically?”

  “Yep, that’s about the truth of it,” Luke told his dazed companions.

  01:30 AM

  General Malloy’s entourage motored down the freeway unhindered. Although dark, he wore aviator sunglasses, sat up front of an open top jeep at the head of a procession of heavily armored vehicles. The convoy chugged from the freeway and approached the gates to the President’s summer residence, they slowed at the gatehouse that appeared un-manned and the entrance barrier pointed straight up in the air letting anyone into the President’s compound. “Sloppy,” snarled the General, “Very sloppy.”

  The armored vehicles trundled under the barrier unchallenged. “This is the goddamn President’s home, and it’s been left unguarded.” He snatched a walkie-talkie. “Sergeant, take some men, find those damned sentries, and bring ‘em to me – no, scrub that - line ‘em up against the wall and shoot ‘em for dereliction of duty.”

  “But, General...” came a hesitant reply.

  “That’s all, Sergeant.” He switched off the walkie-talkie before further protest. He smiled when he saw in the rear-view mirror that a jeep near the back of the convoy veered off, performed a k-turn and went back to the guardhouse.

  The sergeant yanked the jeep to a stop, by the illuminated guardhouse, “Serge, shouldn’t we be wearing one of those hazard material suits?” asked a nervous rookie.

  The sergeant grinned. “Not this far up-country, soldier, we’re twenty miles north of the previous exclusion zone which was already fifty miles north of the outbreak, don’t sweat it, we’re safe.”

  They strolled towards the guardhouse taking their time. “Serge, we got time for a quick cigarette?” asked the rookie.

  The sergeant watched the general’s tail-lights disappearing down the avenue leading to the President’s home and nodded. “Make it quick, and I’ll have one.” He lit up and inhaled deeply, pondering the general’s instructions to shoot the errant guards. It sure was one major fuck-up to leave your post when you’re guarding the most important person on the planet, but to do it when a four star general is due to arrive? Jesus, that has to be the dumbest thing he had ever heard. He couldn’t wait to meet the pair of numb-nuts who were playing hooky. He took another puff on the cigarette keeping his eye on the brightly lit guardhouse.

  Nope, still no sign of the idiot guards. The more he thought about it, the less bothered he felt about executing the fools. He ground out the cigarette butt underneath the sole of his heavy boot and marched towards the guardhouse. “C’mon, let’s go find these dopes.”

  “You’re not really going to execute these guys, Serge?” Queried the rookie.

  “Not me, Soldier, you are.” He grinned in the dark and watched the boy pale at this instruction. “These guys are too stupid to live. We’ll be doing them a favor, putting them out of their misery.” He booted open the door to the guard house and drew his weapon. The other soldiers did likewise. “Yo! Anybody here?” He waited for an answer then pointed at two of his colleagues and signaled for them to go on ahead.

  Their training kicked in and they slinked on ahead hugging the walls, taking it in turns to cover open doorways, until they were in the control room, the rookie gasped as he saw the two blackened guards on the floor laying in a pool of thick blood and vomit. “Holy shit.”

  CHAPTER 17

  Sophie Garcia watched as the team of doctors finished their hourly battery of tests upon the President. She noticed the sly glances pass between them, and as a student of body language, she knew the results were not good. The President’s personal physician waved his assistants away. “Let’s give the President some room, he needs his rest.” He ushered them from the bedroom, and clicked his fingers towards Sophie including her in the room clearance.

  “No,” said the President weakly. “She stays; I want to hear more of what we’re up against.”

  The doctor spoke to the President gravely. “That would not be advisable, Mister President, you must have your rest.”

  “I don’t have the luxury of rest. I’m still the goddamned President of the United States of America and will do my utmost to protect my beloved country right up until my final breath, do you hear me!” His face raged red. Shocked by his outburst, the men retreated as fast as they could.

  He smiled at Sophie. “I know they mean well, but sometimes they worry too much. However, I think I will shut my eyes for a moment - stay with me. I’ll only be a moment. Please feel free to freshen up, the bathroom is through there.” He pointed, then leaned back on his pillows and within a moment was fast asleep.

  Sophie opened the door to the en suite bathroom and gasped at the opulence in the President’s private bathroom suite, a cross between Louis XIV’s boudoir and a Hollywood starlet’s dressing room. She washed her face, and brushed her dark, wavy hair wondering what her mother, God rest her soul, would have thought of her only daughter using the facilities at the President’s house.

  She had to pinch herself to believe it was true. The vast bathroom had double french-doors out onto a patio area where she could see a bar-b-que pit and wooden garden furniture. She heard the murmurings of male voices and presumed the doctors’ had returned.

  __________

  President James Burgess jack-knifed in bed and clutched his heart as his bedroom door burst open and General Malloy marc
hed in purposefully, accompanied by armed troops.

  “What is the meaning of this?” hissed the President. “You burst into my bedroom like some jack-booted Nazi!” The monitors strapped to his body beeped in protest to his rising anger. Sophie heard the commotion and peeped through a crack in the bathroom doorway, and recognized General Malloy. “How dare you!” continued the President in anger. “Marching in here and barking at me like some jumped up scrap-yard dog! I’m the Goddamned President!”

  The General whipped out his pistol. “Correction -” he calmly shot the President between the eyes, “- were.”

  Sophie gasped in shock, and General Malloy swiveled towards the bathroom door, and flicked his head for one of his lackeys to look.

  The Soldier took a cursory glance around the bathroom, could not see anything untoward, looked out at the patio, no one could have gotten far and shut the french-doors.

  He re-joined the General, “Nothing, General,” he told him.

  “Let’s check the security monitors just to make sure, we don’t want any loose ends.”

  02:00 AM

  The canvas-covered military truck carrying Luke halted with a squeal of air brakes. He tentatively glanced through the gap in the flaps. He’d stopped watching from the back some time earlier, sick of seeing the death squads dispatching the plague-carriers.

  They arrived at the Marlins Park, built on the site of the infamous Orange Bowl. The Stadium was a hive of activity, with helicopters circling overhead shining searchlights down into the arena. A continuous parade of military trucks pulled up and unloaded its human cargo. Hazmat wearing Soldiers with loudhailers ordered Luke and the others down from the truck. They were frog-marched single-file down a hastily made wire enclosure, towards the stadium under the watchful eyes of armed guards. A skinny youth made a run for it, the sergeant major snapped up his rifle and shot down the kid mid-stride.