At the beginning, Base 42 had everything that they needed, but since then, things had drastically changed. Gone were the military personnel, outside communications, vehicles, and any semblance of sanity. Through it all, Bill’s vision remained. He was determined to hold onto unquestioned power, and no one was going to stand in his way. The seizure of Base 42 had not been without its share of bloodshed, but they had taken the base nonetheless.
Bill took another drag of his cigarette. The nicotine helped calm him and allowed him to think more clearly. The goal was to ensure their survival, each and every day. He looked around his small, airtight quarters, taking another long drag. He didn't mind the smoke. The only thing he feared was germs. The thought of getting infected truly terrified him. He had seen the effects of the disease firsthand: the shaking, near-comatose bodies of blistered and bloodied souls, writhing in agony as their insides poured out of every open orifice. He refused to allow himself to die in such a hopeless and painful way.
He threw on some clothes: T-shirt, jeans, and jacket, put his hat on, grabbed a nearby rifle, and left the room. He walked down the tile floor of the hallway, where there were rooms with other sleeping quarters. At the end of the hall was a doorway that led outside to the concrete pavement that made up the base grounds. Bill missed the grass, the trees, the mountains, and open roads of Reno. All they had to look at were the walls that surrounded them—barricades that reached forty feet tall. The base was full of empty hangars, maintenance sheds, and conference rooms all ghostly in their isolation and emptiness.
Outside the base, he believed that the world was purging itself of the human population, much like it did during the bubonic plague, which had wiped out thirty percent of the world’s population. There was no doubt in his mind that history was going to be made by those who survived.
The sun hit Bill's face as he exited the building, causing him to squint. The Ebola treatment centers had long been reduced to ash, and their faint, charred smell still hung in the air. He had ordered the centers burnt, bodies and all, ridding the base of any possible remaining contaminants.
As he strolled across the dirt leading to the mess hall, his trusted enforcer, Specialist Christopher Santos—one of the few disgruntled soldiers he managed to turn—ran up to him, armed and in full military uniform.
“We got an issue,” Santos said.
“What is it?” Bill asked, rubbing his eyes.
“The Russell family. It’s not good.”
Bill stopped and stood with his arms crossed and rifle slung around his shoulder.
“What about them?” he asked.
“Someone tipped us off. The family is hiding something. One of their kids is sick.”
Bill’s eyes widened. “Like sick, sick?”
“That’s what we hear.”
Bill groaned and ran both hands down his scruffy face in frustration. “Unbelievable.” He opened his eyes and pointed authoritatively to Santos. “Round them up and bring ’em to me. Get everyone out of their quarters, and let’s take care of this thing. Immediately.”
Santos nodded enthusiastically and ran off.
Public Trial
The Russell family was in their sleeping quarters, waking up and ready to start the day. Aaron, the father, was dressing by the light of a glow stick hanging from the ceiling by a paracord. His wife, Judy, was just rising from the small mattress on the bunk bed they shared. Above her was their son, Freddy, and across the room, at the bottom of a bunk all by herself, was their daughter, Sarah.
She hadn’t been feeling well for the past few days, and her fever was rising. Since then, they had concealed her bed by draping a large wool blanket over the top bunk. They wanted to believe her illness was a passing thing and that it could be treated with antibiotics that Aaron had bribed one of the guards for. They hadn’t told anyone about their daughter as the rules dictated. It was for her own protection.
Aaron looked at himself on the small mirror taped to the wall. He, like most of his family, had lost a lot of weight. He had a full beard and thick black hair that sprouted in tufts. Perhaps he would shave that day, although razors were getting low around the base. His wife sat up from the bed, straightening her nightgown. Her long blond hair was tied back in a ponytail, and she had heavy bags under her eyes from lack of sleep. It had been another late night monitoring Sarah’s condition. Judy had rarely left her daughter’s side the past few days.
Aaron saw his wife’s reflection in the small mirror.
“How are you feeling?” he asked.
“A little tired but okay,” she said in a low, hoarse voice.
“I think you should get some more sleep,” he said, putting a T-shirt on. “I’ll watch Sarah for a little bit. You rest.”
“You sure?”
“Yes, honey.”
“Thanks,” she said, falling onto the mattress on her back.
Aaron looked over to the concealed bed across the room with mixed emotions of hope and dread. He wanted to pull the blanket back and see that his daughter had gotten better. She had to get better. She simply had to. If not, he wouldn’t know what to do.
His son, Freddy, got up and climbed down from the top bunk, shaking the bed frame.
“Be careful. Your mom’s trying to get some more sleep,” he said as his son hit the cold tile floor.
“Okay” he said.
Freddy was a small seven-year-old boy with a mop top of dirty-blond hair and wide blue eyes. He walked across the room wearing only pajama bottoms to a wall locker where his clothes were.
His father looked over to him. “Don’t think you’re getting dressed before you take a shower.”
“Ah, come on. I might miss breakfast!” he said, kicking the ground.
“You have plenty of time,” Aaron said, lacing his shoes. “And don’t forget to bring back food for your sister.”
Freddy sulked then grabbed a bath towel from the wall locker and dug through his hygiene bag. Aaron approached the cloaked bed with apprehension. He peeled the blanket back and saw Sarah lying there, the bangs of her long brown hair stuck to her forehead by sweat. Her skin looked red, like a sunburn, and her breathing was fast. He wanted to touch her forehead to feel her temperature but was afraid.
“Sarah?” he whispered.
She had no covers over her after complaints of being too hot. Her pajamas were soaked and clung to her body. At only twelve years old, she was a strong fighter. Aaron took a rag hanging from her bed post and dampened it with water from a canteen on the ground. He then gently placed it on her forehead.
“You’re gonna get better,” he said. “Mom and Dad are praying for you, and we know you’re gonna pull through.”
Suddenly a forceful kick from outside caused the small door to their quarters to fly open. A beam of light from the hall entered the room followed by several large, silhouetted figures rushing into the room, taking everyone inside completely by surprise.
Judy jumped up and screamed. Aaron closed the blanket, concealing Sarah, and turned around, startled. Freddy stood frozen and terrified. There were three men in full HAZMAT gear brandishing rifles, and they took no time in shouting their demands.
“Put your hands up against the wall!” one of the men shouted.
Another man rushed to Judy’s bed, pointed his weapon at her, and demanded that she get up. The third man went immediately for Aaron and pushed him against the wall. Freddy tried to hide beside his wall locker but was pulled out and thrown against the wall next to his father. The shouts disoriented and frightened the entire family, and they were soon clinging to each other, trembling before the unexpected violence.
“Is this everyone?” the HAZMAT man asked. Two others stood on both sides of him.
Quivering, Judy began to cry and was told to keep quiet as Freddy clung to her side. Aaron had his hands up, trying to calm the men down.
“Let’s just relax here, please. You’re scaring my family.”
The HAZMAT man in the middle stepped forward and clubbed
Aaron in his right leg with the buttstock of his rifle. Judy screamed, and Aaron fell to the ground, clutching his knee.
“Answer the question!” the HAZMAT man shouted. Aaron simply looked at the ground and winced from the pain.
The two other men scanned the room, noticing the bed in the corner with a blanket masking the bottom bunk. They moved quickly to the bed and yanked the blanket off in one vicious jerk. Sarah lay there exposed, and the men took a careful look at her sickly state.
The HAZMAT man next to the Russell family looked to his men. They nodded back, knowing what was coming.
“Let’s go!” he shouted at the family. “All of you!”
They were forced out of the room at gunpoint down the hallway and into another room down the long, quiet hall. One of the men stayed with Sarah as she slept, studying her. The commotion in the room hadn’t fazed her. The HAZMAT man simply shook his head. There would be consequences for the family’s decision to keep their daughter’s illness a secret. He just didn’t know at the moment what they would be.
Aaron, Judy, and Freddy were brought into a near-empty and sterile room where they were told to stand in the corner and wait. Aaron recognized the voices of the men. There was Marcus, a burly man who worked the guard towers; Alex, a tall, silver-haired man who worked supply distribution; and Specialist Santos, who worked perimeter security. All of the men had something in common: they were Bill Hodder’s personal enforcer team. Aaron knew that he and his family were in trouble; the only question he had was how he could get them out of it.
Marcus, Alex, and Santos were huddled around a table, going over documents under the fluorescent light. Aaron and Judy both knew the reasoning behind their being taken to the room: they were suspected of being infected.
“What’s going on?” Freddy asked, still clinging to his mother.
She looked down at him, trying to hold back tears. “Everything is going to be all right,” she said.
“I’m scared,” Freddy said.
She brought her hand down on his head and ran her fingers through his hair. “There, there. Don’t worry about a thing.”
The three men approached the family and stopped within a foot of them as Alex put a hand out, beckoning Aaron closer. Santos was holding a clipboard with several sheets of paper on it. Marcus held a small flashlight and tongue depressor.
“Come forward,” Santos said, standing next to Marcus and signaling to Aaron.
Marcus shined his small light into Aaron's eyes, one pupil at a time. “Normal colorization,” he said as Santos made a check mark on a sheet. “Open your mouth.”
Marcus examined his tongue and palate. “Looks normal.”
Santos made a check mark on the list.
“Lift up your shirt,” Marcus said.
Aaron hesitated and looked around.
“We don't have all day,” Marcus added.
Aaron nodded and slowly pulled up his blue shirt, revealing a pasty-white torso.
“No signs of skin rash.”
Santos made another check mark.
“Now, in the past week, have you experienced any stomach pains or vomiting?”
“No, I haven't had either,” Aaron answered.
Santos made another check mark.
“Have you experienced any muscle pain or exhaustion?” Marcus asked.
“No.”
“How about fever or headache?”
“No.”
Santos made two check marks on the sheet.
“OK, go back and wait by the wall,” Marcus said. He then waved his hand forward to Judy. “Next.”
Aaron stood there for a moment. “Come on, guys. None of this is necessary. My family isn’t sick.”
“Move out,” Marcus said.
Aaron shook his head then turned around and walked back as Judy stepped forward nervously.
Marcus ran through the same questions with her and conducted the same tests, finding no signs of Ebola.
“Where’s my daughter?” she asked defiantly.
“She’s been placed under observation,” Marcus answered.
“I want to see her now.”
Santos cut in. “You folks know the rules. You’re supposed to report any signs of infection immediately.”
“We did nothing wrong. Sarah hasn’t been out of the room in days. We’ve been monitoring her.”
“Go over there and cool off, will ya?” Santos asked, pointing to some empty chairs in the corner of the room.
“You have no right to treat us this way!” she shouted.
“Judy, please,” Aaron called out. “Just do what they say.”
She looked back at him and Freddy then to the three armed HAZMAT men. She whipped around and walked back to the wall as they signaled Freddy forward. The boy shook his head. He didn’t want to move.
“Come on, buddy,” Aaron said, placing his arm around him. He walked Freddy forward to the men and stopped, noticing their looks of disapproval. Judy remained near the wall, pacing in frustration.
“Trust me,” Aaron said, “it'll be easier with me here.”
“Whatever,” Marcus said. He looked to Freddy and went immediately through the questions, almost as if assuming he was fine.
“Any stomach pain or vomiting?”
Freddy stared at the ground, unresponsive.
His father squeezed his hand. “Answer the man, son.”
Freddy shook his head no.
“Is that a no, you don't have those symptoms or no, you don't want to answer?” Alex asked.
“Cut him some slack,” Aarons said. “He's only a child,”
“I’m fine,” he answered, annoyed.
“How about headaches, fever, or exhaustion?” Marcus said.
Freddy didn't answer.
“Come on, Freddy. It's okay,” his father said.
“I have a headache,” he mumbled.
“What?” Santos said, taking a step back.
Aaron extended his arm out, signaling for the men to back off. “Let's not get carried away here. It’s early and he's tired. This has nothing to do with Ebola.”
As Aaron continued pleading, Specialist Santos looked down and noticed something troubling. A small drip of blood trickled from the boy’s nose down to his lip.
“Holy shit!” he screamed. “He's got a nosebleed!”
Marcus and Alex immediately looked down at him just as he wiped his nose, smearing blood across his cheek. The three of them jumped back as if afraid for their lives.
“The boy’s a carrier!” Sam shouted.
His father, again, pleaded for calm. “He gets nosebleeds from time to time. It's a passing thing.”
“Red alert!” Marcus yelled. They pulled Freddy aside and took both Aaron and Judy out of the room, pushing them down the hallway as Judy screamed for them to let her see her children.
Bill Hodder was in a conference room preparing to be briefed on the situation. It was the very room where high-ranking military officials had once planned and strategized. There was a large oak table in the middle of the room and several maps on each wall. He opened a set of horizontal blinds and looked out the window into the morning sun.
He could see and hear the commotion—people were gathering in the public square. Then footsteps sounded from outside the door of the conference room, followed by his group of enforcers making their entrance. Specialist Santos was no longer in HAZMAT gear, and with him were two different men, both of them older and wearing hospital scrubs.
“What’s the status?” Bill asked, walking to the table where his M4 carbine rifle rested.
“It’s worse than we thought,” Santos answered. “Both kids are sick.”
“Yes, the girl has a high fever and slight discoloration of her skin,” the first man in scrubs said. He was skinny, balding, had a long neck, and wore circle-framed glasses. He and his counterpart were part of the medical staff. They were physical opposites of Bill’s bulky, tattoo-covered enforcer team.
“I can almost certainly ascertain
that we’re dealing with Ebola here,” the other man in scrubs added. He was more heavyset than the other and had more hair. “We can run some more tests on the boy, but it’s too early to tell at this point.”
“I want them dead and burned,” Bill said, interrupting him. “No funny stuff. Just give them the injection, put them to sleep, and then into the fire pit.”
The man objected. “Now wait a minute. We can learn a lot about this virus by performing a full autopsy on both patients. We can learn how it’s spreading.”
“Burn the bodies!” Bill shouted, slamming his palm onto the table.
The room went silent. Santos nodded at Bill and then directed the two men out of the conference room, signaling with his rifle. As they left the room, Santos closed the door and then turned to him.
“Everything is ready,” he said.
“You know, Santos, I’ve been sitting here thinking for a while,” Bill said, placing his arms behind his back. “This disease isn’t going anywhere soon. We could be here for another five months to a year.”
“That’s true,” Santos said, glancing at his watch.
“Hiding Ebola puts us all at risk. It’s a very serious offense, perhaps the most serious of all.”
“Well,” Santos said. “There’s always murder.”
“Ebola is murder,” Bill said. “And those that harbor the disease must be dealt with as murderers.” He grabbed his rifle and walked out of the conference room with Santos, closing the door behind them.
The large, open square was filled with hundreds of people, many of whom had just gotten out of bed and heard that there was going to be a public trial. Nervousness and anticipation surged through the crowd of men, women, and children. Their clothes were ragged and their faces worn and tired. Attending a trial was a lively experience that many looked forward to. Those who didn’t were forced to observe anyway. At the center of the square was a platform occupied by armed men; others had taken positions surrounding the crowd. Before it became a place to conduct trials, the public square was little more than a parking lot for military vehicles.
End Days Super Boxset Page 87