by H. L. Murphy
About the instant Dane decided his friend needed a beating for sending him on a wild goose chase through the ruptured internal organs, diseased brain matter, and various debris from the things romp trough the moving truck, Dane’s fingers closed over the unmistakable baseball shape of a M67 grenade. Even better, his prize had a couple friends.
“Yes!” Dane giggled uncontrollably as he pulled the little globes of explosive death free. He held them aloft as though handed to him by the Archangel Gabriel to fend off the Legions of Hell. The grenades clinked against one another as Dane’s fist shook in triumph. It was now completely acceptable to his mind to have slogged through the unmentionable refuse now coating his forearms.
“Shit, brother, you need a bath,” Gaunt said from upwind of his friend. Rummaging through the remains of a corpse wasn't his speed although Gaunt knew himself well enough to accept he would search every stiff between Stuart and Miami the moment his supply of herbage dipped low enough.
Takes all kinds, Gaunt decided.
“As I have already explained, at ridiculous lengths,” Dr. Cynthia Zhao repeated for the Nth time. “I require access to a networked system of computers in order to continue my research, as well as access to the remaining Internet to secure my existing research.”
“And as I've said, repeatedly,” Admiral Mayweather stated firmly, “I will never allow you unrestricted access to a calculator, let alone a computer network.”
“Do you want a vaccine or not?” Zhao demanded.
“Doctor, in the entirety of my life I have met exactly three people who turned out to be every bit as intelligent as they thought,” Mayweather explained casually. “You made that list, but while you are arguably the most intelligent, most well educated person on this boat you are also the most undeniably amoral. Excuse my bluntness, Doctor, but I genuinely believe you'd fuck your own mother if it got you even a millimeter closer to your own personal goals.”
“Crudely stated, Admiral, but essentially true,” Zhao acknowledged with a tilt of her head. “However the facts remain unchanged. I require access to a computer network to process the terabytes of information I will be dealing with.”
“Not that long ago, Doctor, you stated the one overriding need for your vaccine was the presence of one Angus J. Finnegan,” Mayweather circled the brick wall of Zhao’s argument, both figuratively and literally as he began pacing about the small desk. “According to my Intel chief this Finnegan is a virtual nobody. An American citizen residing deep within the Florida Quarantine Zone, likely killed during the Outbreak. No military service record, no law enforcement training, nothing. How can this person be of any help whatsoever?”
“I see you haven't changed as much I had hoped,” Zhao said flatly. “You asked these questions before, seven days running to be precise.”
“And you've utterly failed to provide satisfactory answers for seven days running,” Mayweather snapped. His predatory pacing came to a halt directly behind Zhao, thickly muscled hands dropped upon her thin shoulders. Fear had long since ceased to find a home in Cynthia Zhao’s psychological make up, yet a cautiously estimated probability indicated a sixty-seven percent chance of Horace Mayweather resorting to low level violence as a means to an end. The Doctor knew from previous encounters the Admiral believed entirely in whatever his stated mission may have been and felt a duty to pursue that end by any means necessary. This close to achieving her goals, the Doctor did not wish any set backs.
“Angus Finnegan was an unwitting participant in a field test of several vaccine serums,” Zhao admitted, refusing to flinch as she felt Mayweather’s finger’s clamp onto her shoulders. “He was injected with an experimental variant of my formula four-fifty-one.”
“So you already have a vaccine?” Mayweather demanded.
“You hear, but you do not listen,” Zhao spat, her contempt for all lesser minds showing through her cultivated veneer of civility.
“Then explain it,” the Admiral released his grip on Zhao and resumed stalking around her.
“My agent injected several subjects with a variety of serum variants,” Zhao began. “Unfortunately, this agent was terminated before he could transmit the test data. It is only because of camera telemetry I am aware of the success of subject Finnegan’s injection. A detailed examination of his blood should reveal not only which variant was utilized, but what genetic markers are present in the subject’s DNA which permitted a successful vaccination.”
“Wait, why would his DNA influence the vaccination?” Mayweather dropped into a chair before the Doctor.
“Oh, my dear Admiral,” Zhao smiled wickedly, “it isn't just his DNA we need to be concerned about, but the genetic coding of the virus itself.”
“My understanding is you have already mapped the virus’ DNA thoroughly,” Mayweather interrupted.
“This is both true and false,” Zhao nodded. “You see, the virus has mutated several times since its original introduction to the human race. Further more, at least two specimen I examined indicated an entirely separate strain of infection. These specimens were…unique in my experience. The genetic coding seemed targeted at a non terrestrial species. There were markers present that do not exist in the human genome.”
“Are you telling me this virus is a customizable bioweapon?” Mayweather felt ice fill his intestines. “And whomever has control of it has deployed it so often we're catching splash damage from other field ops?”
“Comforting to know that no matter how advanced a civilization, their leadership is just as careless as our own with epoch ending weapons, isn't it?” Zhao smiled broadly.
“How does acquiring Finnegan change anything?”
“Simple,” Zhao continued to smile. “A particular variant of four-fifty-one achieved its stated purpose, protecting against the virus. Through examination we can deduce which variation of virus infected him and which genetic markers may have aided in resisting infection. After that it's only a matter of time and application before I can produce a general vaccine good for the spectrum of virus variations within that particular strain. It's not a cure all, but it gives us time and a fighting chance.”
“So our best chance of saving the human race is on the other side of the world, deep inside a Quarantine Zone, surrounded by hordes of evolving undead, and through the various navies of the world on the highest alert status since World War Two,” Mayweather breathed. The latest intelligence placed a significant portion of the Chinese navy steaming towards the carrier group while the Russian navy seemed to be shooting at everybody not flying a Russian flag. The Australian navy seemed to be content to defend their territorial waters in partnership with New Zealand. The entire continent of Africa was a black hole. No information, no people, nothing but fear was escaping. At last check, the Untied States Navy had been ordered to hunt down the Constellation while still maintaining the Quarantine Zone blockade and preventing any refugee ships from landing until every passenger had been medically cleared. Mayweather didn't need to be there to know exactly how impossible that task was. The Admiral picked up a hand set and issued orders. “Set course immediately for Florida Quarantine Zone.”
“A wise decision, Admiral,” Zhao sat back contentedly. While her face remained neutral, her eyes, Mayweather noticed, gave away her true feelings. She had won a battle, a contest of wills, in her estimation. He couldn't afford to permit too many of these contests to go in Zhao’s favor. If the good doctor perceived him to be weak or ineffective, she would move against him like lightning.
“No computers,” Mayweather stated harshly. “Not until we have secured the subject. Until then it's nothing more than placing temptation in your path. Take her back to her cell, but allow the Doctor access to our library.”
Two dedicated, ass kicking Marines firmly escorted Zhao from the room, but Mayweather never moved his eyes from hers. He watched as Zhao’s dark eyes turned ice cold and hard as diamond. Yes, he would need to keep a close eye on that one.
Chapter Five
T
hat Went Well
Displeased.
Outraged.
Homicidal.
These were all words I would have used to describe Lizzy’s reaction, or at least what I expected to be her reaction. None of these words, however, applied to how she actually responded.
“I know,” was what she said. Calm, accepting, and even somewhat supportive. It was so far out of line with what I believed would happen, I couldn't help but glance around in a less than furtive manner looking for the baseball bat powered attack that had to be coming. “You need to save him because he's your friend. And because he knows where all our goddamn supplies are. Melinda and I just went through the kitchen…”
“Galley,” I interposed.
“Melinda and I just went through the fucking galley, and our food stuffs are getting dangerously low,” Lizzy continued with more fire.
“Pussy whipped, fat bastard,” I muttered. “Congealing masses of cellulite must have displaced the shit he called brains. Spent too damned much time reclining on his floating dais eating frogs and eye fucking Princess Leia to cultivate any common goddamn sense.”
All I can say is I never meant to speak aloud, but somehow the disconnect between brain and mouth wasn't in place. My first clue came in the form of stunned silence from my beloved wife. Out of the corner of my eye I could see Lizzy mouthing the words, ‘what the fuck’.
“Never mind,” I mumbled. “It's been a long day. I'll work something out with James on the pantry front. Is there anything I can pick up for you while I'm out?”
“Jesus, Finnegan, you're not going to the grocery store,” Lizzy stomped, actually stomped her petite foot. “You need to take this seriously. There are ravenous hordes of flesh eating creatures wandering the streets in a mindless quest for their next meal.”
“So, how is that different from a trip to the grocery store?” I asked, trying my best to sidetrack my firecracker of a wife. “Brainless fat bastards and bitches charging Buffalo-like down aisles of processed food stuffs only slightly better for you than fresh roasted toxic waste. Convenience added to high doses of sugar made that slop more palatable than the fresh vegetables and fruits which sat unattended by ninety percent of the patrons. The only real difference between then and now would be the median body odor quotient has dropped to a uniform rotting shit stench which alerts every living thing with a half mile radius of their presence.”
Again with the stunned silence and mouthed interrogative. In my defense, Lizzy knew exactly how weird I was before she married me so I don't see where she gets off being surprised by the things I say. You buying that? Nah, me neither. It's like a I set a standard for questionable statements just so I can prove how much worse it can be.
“No,” Lizzy launched preemptively as she observed my yap dropped open. “Don't speak, just get ready for tomorrow. And give your daughter a lot of kisses.”
I decided to go along with Lizzy’s directive, but with one slight alteration. A plethora of kisses descended upon the face and neck of my beautiful wife. Half hearted protestations assailed my ears until I landed a few well placed kisses on the nape of her neck and then all pretense ended. Hands caressed, breath hitched, and a special heat blossomed within each of us.
After months of crazy intense survival, I was about to get lucky.
Later, we emerged from a small office off the cargo bay, content if somewhat disheveled. Not for the first time I found myself thanking fate for my new healing ability, especially given the number and depth of the scratch marks across my back. Shuffling through the corridors I discovered my little Hermione locked in fierce battle of wills with James’ daughter, Anya, over the disposition of ragged looking doll dubbed Sir Wankadoo, whom it seemed had been cast in the roll of villain in their little drama. Anya, several years older than Hermione, felt they should cast Sir Wankadoo into the cold arms of the “stinky people eaters”, while Hermione felt justified in “giving him a spanking and putting him to bed with no babi”. Yeah, something of a disparity in judicial sentencing. By the way, a ‘babi’ is what Hermione calls a bottle, so her judgement hits a little closer to home than chucking the doll to zombies. Viewed in that light, Hermione was handing down some stiff punishment. Hope to hell she’s never in a position to sit in judgement over me. Find myself without cigars, hate, and bourbon for life. May as well fucking kill me.
“Time to go, baby girl,” I announced, breaking the stalemate, and probably saving Sir Wankadoo in the process. Hermione leapt to her feet and ran to me, Sir Wankadoo safely tucked beneath one delicate arm. Brilliant blue eyes gazed up at me with love and trust as only a child can have, and I swung my bundle of mischief up into my arms producing a giggling squeal of joy. From her position on the deck, surrounded by what few toys we could scrounge together, Anya was casting some serious shade on the ragged Sir Wankadoo and promising the most dire of consequences if he stepped out of line again. If this was the height of their concerns through the course of a single day, I thought, I should spend more time with the kids.
Walking through the bowels of the boat to our cabin, I held my daughter close and couldn't help but question whether I was making a mistake of galactic proportions. Risking my future with my wife and darling little girl for the continued existence of a single fat bastard manipulated, I hoped, by a pretty face and a little sex. Before anyone runs away with the idea that I was a self righteous prick, I have done some phenomenally stupid things in the pursuit of pussy when I was much younger so when I pass judgement on a man I've known for twenty years I do so from a place of experience. And just like that almost all my doubts evaporated. That's what happens when you live long enough to learn from your own rampant fuck ups, you understand people's motivations and somehow lose the self assured belief that you know best.
Fifteen minutes later, Hermione lay snoring away while I quietly went through my gear to separate functional from nonfunctional, battle proven from bullshit theoretical. My experiences, not nearly as extensive as a genuine operator, had taught me a great deal about what I really needed in the field, and what just looked tacticool hanging on a snazzy tactical vest. Now I was applying my experience in the most ruthless ego bashing fashion possible without humiliating myself in public.
Plate carrier? Check.
Magazine pouches? Check.
Pressure bandages? Check.
Flashlights? Check.
Notebook and pencil? Check.
Flush the rest of that tactical crap? Check.
Time slid away entirely too swiftly and before I knew it the morning light was peaking through the porthole, piercing my sleep and informing my brain it was time to get moving again. Mustering all my acquired ninja skills I removed myself from our bunk, millimeter by millimeter. I could feel the strain on my tendons and muscle fibers as I held myself practically motionless above our bunk, but thankfully gave no sound as I lowered myself to the deck, note the correct use of nautical terms. Stacked outside our hatch, more nautical terms, was all my gear, boots included. In less than a minute I was suited up and on the main deck, waiting on James.
Not for the first time I noticed an unseasonable chill in the air. It isn't that Florida has no winter, it's just that winter in south Florida is the loveliest three days out of the year. Since the beginning of the Outbreak I'd noticed a series of very chill evenings. So much so everybody aboard had been layering their clothes, including me. Being somewhere between a blithering idiot and a certified genius I could only cogitate a limited number of events capable of causing environmental changes of that magnitude. Christ on fire that's a thought that'll keep me awake day after day until hell freezes over or somebody with several degrees explains to me in nauseating detail how wrong I am about the causes.
Nuclear winter.
I thought we left that kind of insanity behind in the eighties. I can still remember the talks between the United States and the Soviet Union aimed at securing a nuclear peace and disarmament. The Soviet Union didn't last out the century, and their successors weren't t
erribly interested in renewing hostilities. Which begs the question, who the unholy fuck launched nukes, and at whom?
One more fucking question I don't want burdening my overtaxed brain.
“Where’s your little cap?” James asked from behind me. I guess I wasn't the only one with evolving ninjas skills. To judge by the clenching of my sphincter, his skills were a tad more evolved than my ability to detect his approach.
“I don't like it. It implies things that aren't true,” I responded, trying to keep my voice out of the higher octaves. “I'm not an operator, and not a veteran.”
“So you're going free range?” James asked, pulling his customized baseball cap low over his eyes.
“No, I'm going to pick up a new Stetson on the way south,” I announced. “And maybe a few other things as well.”
“More cigars?” James teased.
“Yes, but also coats and maybe a few bundles of yarn,” I confided. “It's cold and getting colder. We're going to need blankets and sweaters and stuff like that. Melinda knows how to knit. It won't be easy for her, but we need these things. Almost as badly as we need the missing engine parts. That reminds me, who was picked to guard Farah Fuckwit?”
“The ladies have worked up a rotation,” James smiled. “It seems they don't trust any of the single guys to guard little Miss Easy Pants.”