Children Of Fiends - Part 1 Winter Is Passing: An Of Sudden Origin Novella

by C. Chase Harwood

“I’m sure you know we get by.”

  “My intel says you’ve got a lot of idle wind turbines. Here’s what I need. I need a group of volunteers who happen to be immune to or in you and your crew’s case, infected with Cain’s, to travel across the country and bring back a shipload of new wind turbines and parts. The mainland, like your island is running out of juice. In exchange for this, the United States Government will install one new high-efficiency wind turbine on Nantucket along with the spare parts necessary to maintain it for ten years.”

  Dean looked at the Colonel carefully and decided that despite the ridiculousness of the request that this wasn’t a joke. Before he could respond, MacAfee continued, “I’m also required to inform you that if you and your crew don’t volunteer for this mission, your ship will be impounded for its many boundary violations. Your crew, while awaiting prosecution, will be disallowed from any further work on any other vessel and potentially subject to solitary imprisonment.” MacAfee cleared his throat again. “Those are the secretary of the interior’s words, not mine, but they have the backing of the president.”

  “I see.” Dean smiled and quietly stared into MacAfee’s eyes until the man uncomfortably shifted his gaze to glance about the room. Dean finally said, “Though you have yet to impart the details, and I think the likelihood of your mission succeeding is preposterously low, should we actually succeed, in exchange for near certain death for me and my crew, you will give Nantucket two wind turbines. Option two is that I let my bosun, Ensign Palmer, who is standing on the other side of that door, spit in your eye while I send my crew to climb up that net and take that frigate. The rest I’ll improvise afterward.”

  Ensign Palmer made an earnest hungry sound on the other side of the door.

  MacAfee laughed. “I do admire you. You’re perfect for this thing. I can’t guarantee the second wind turbine, but I figure if you can get the things all the way back here, we can drop one off on Nantucket on the sly before we cruise back up to Boston. Oh, and yes, I’m going with you.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Plum Island

  Wenfrin Blakely was a very black man. Whereas most African Americans looked like they had at least a splash of cream in their coffee, Wen was a dark roast, so dark that he could be legitimately called black. At the height of his law enforcement career he had been known as Black Blake, but he preferred to be called Wen; as in Wen is he going to come get me? He had thick, pockmarked, leathery skin on his face, offset by an intense winning smile and eyes that seemed bright enough to illuminate a train tunnel. The image was capped off with a crown of thick silver hair that beautifully contrasted with his dark chocolate coating. He was a semi-retired U.S. Marshall and trains were his passion.

  Before Omega and the whole world getting fucked up, Wen chased bad guys across rail yards and little side towns from Seattle to Tijuana. His prey was a gang of killers known as the Freight Train Riders of America: an anonymous group of shadowy men and women who first became known for going after transients, but who later became drug runners. They were an odd assortment of train freaks; folks who literally loved everything about trains and wanted to keep the world of freight trains free of those who didn’t. Their original crime was hobo killing, “cleaning up” anyone unfortunate enough to be hitching a free ride without the say so of the FTRA. That’s when Wen Blakely got involved – simple homicide. But it wasn’t simple. The killers were smart and they left almost nothing that could be called evidence. It was an adventure for Blakely. He got to work with trains and do some sleuthing. Then the game changed when a search for a ringleader nicknamed Downtown Crossing turned into a major manhunt. Several college students who had been hopping trains for fun were brutally murdered; an X like rail-crossing sign carved into their foreheads. A year of hard police work had ended with Crossing and several of his followers trapped at the top of a water tower. A sniper bullet to Crossing’s head finally ended the stand off. Drugs came into the picture and things got sloppy. The members of Wen’s taskforce found themselves dragged into the world of the DEA and the madness that was the war on drugs. For Wen it was a morale-crushing spiral into fruitlessness as they swept up one homeless person after another and jailed them for addictions that they would never really get help with. The ringleaders were all south of the border and very much free of any consequences; running the government there in all but name. Wen wasn’t a fan of the effects of drugs, but he was less of a fan of how the black market destroyed more life than the simple use of the stuff. When he loudly advocated for the Federal legalization of most narcotics, he was gently pushed into retirement.

  Boredom had him founding a tourist-based program for faux train hopping. With the blessing of the Burlington North Santa Fe Railroad, he took people on paid trips hopping freight trains across the country. When the Cain’s pandemic happened, it was his knowledge of the nation’s rail system that had allowed him to shepherd perhaps a hundred people to safety, getting them to New England. With law enforcement decimated by the plague, Wen was asked to come out of retirement and work for the Feds in Boston. Surprisingly perhaps, his assignments were few. In a society suddenly united against turbulence and disorder, he found himself spending long days at his local pub. His life took a celebrity turn when a martini lunching literary agent overheard him telling his escape story. The Adventures of Black Blake had been turned into a book, a children’s book and a Virtutrip that was growing in popularity.

  Decades before, Plum Island off the eastern tip of Long Island, had been shut down as a research facility and the Federal government had tried to sell it for private development. Unfortunately for the U.S. taxpayer at the time, a horrible economy mixed with rampant stories of an island covered in diseased animals and God only knew what kind of human experimentation, killed the idea of a new Shangri-La for the rich and famous. Abandonment had allowed nature (even in perpetual winter) to survive and thrive. The former laboratories had been converted to a museum, which, post Omega, had been restored to their original purpose: the study of the most virulent animal borne diseases to befall mankind. Cain’s disease or FNDz (frontal negation dementia) as it was scientifically termed by one Dr. Andre Zachariah, was the primary (actually the only) subject.

  It was bitterly cold but dry as the Navy patrol boat carrying Wen Blakely approached the island. The location of the Sun could almost be made out through the uninterrupted cloud layer. Despite this heroic back-story and his sort of job as a U.S. Marshall, he was at a loss as to why he had been summoned to an island that had once held the U.S. research labs for the most virulent animal diseases in the world.

  A large schooner, outfitted for whaling, lay at anchor two hundred yards off shore. A thin trail of smoke trickled out of one of the deck cabins. A cheerful looking passenger dock, clearly built for when the island was for sale, greeted him with a brightly painted sign, Welcome to Plum Island. Where Nature’s Bounty Meets The Sea, USAMRIID. A machine-gun emplacement was built into the hillside above the dock with two very alert soldiers occupying the post. Wen noted that the gun appeared to be aimed toward the anchored schooner. A squad of Army regulars greeted him as he stepped ashore, and he waived at the sign snickering, “Really?”

  The sergeant leading the squad offered Blakely a frown in response. “Welcome to Plum Island, sir.”

  Wen continued, “Thanks, but really? Nature’s bounty?”

  He was whisked via Humvee into the interior to the main labs and greeted by another soldier who reconfirmed Wen’s identification with a retinal scan before escorting him into the building. Colonel MacAfee and two people wearing lab coats, one holding a cocktail, stood inside. MacAfee said, “Marshall Blakely, Colonel Dusty MacAfee. We spoke briefly on the phone. I’d like you to meet Doctors Tina Freigh and Nathan Schiller.”

  In total contrast to his lab coat attire, Schiller offered Blakely the cocktail (complete with mini umbrella) and said, “Welcome to Fantasy Island, Marshall Blakely.”

  “Nice to meet you. Call me Wen.” He held the
straw to his lips, then hesitated, looking at the drink with suspicion.

  Tina said, “Everyone is a guinea pig on Plum Island, Mr. Blakely.”

  “Tina is joking, Marshall,” said MacAfee

  “No I’m not,” said Tina. “But the cocktail is meant for what it does: takes the edge off.”

  Wen shrugged and took a long sip.

  “Glad you could make it,” said MacAfee

  Wen let the straw drop from his mouth. “Colonel, the only thing getting me here was an order from the Justice Department. Apparently, I still follow orders.” He smiled at Schiller. “Real rum.”

  Schiller gestured at the doors behind him. “This way please, Marshall Blakely… Wen.”

  As they entered the conference room Wen stopped short. Two rugged looking men wearing surgical masks sat on one side of a long table. Their cocktails sat on the table untouched.

  MacAfee smiled and waived his hand in the direction of the men. “Marshall Wenfrin Blakely, meet Captain Stewart Dean and his first mate Mr. George Sanders. The Captain and Mr. Sanders are infected with Cain’s, thus the precaution. And yes they are from Nantucket.” Dean and Sanders took in the new arrival as MacAfee said, “U.S. Marshall Blakely, is an expert in trains among other things. He also hails from the Port of Los Angeles.”

  Wen nodded while taking a step back toward the door. The two men nodded back.

  “Introductions made, let’s cut to the chase.” MacAfee indicated for Wen and the scientists to sit. Wen sat with deep reluctance. MacAfee grabbed a remote off the table and nodded at a technician who stood behind a window inside a projection room. “If you’ll all direct your attention to the screen in front of you.” The lights dimmed and a PowerPoint presentation came up. The first image was of the former Continental U.S. with a purple line indicating the border of The Seven States of America and the Eastern Canadian provinces. The rest of the map had a gray overlay with the word UNKNOWN stamped across the expanse of it. MacAfee pointed at the map. “By unspoken consent of both the people and the combined governments of Canada and the U.S., those of us who have survived the last decade seem to have chosen not to acknowledge the fact that we are amputated from the rest of our nation. Despite reports to the contrary, with the exception of a few observations from mostly unmanned surveillance posts that are out at the periphery, the government has no working knowledge of what lies beyond the Terminus Zone. What those posts reveal is sketchy at best, but what we do know is too disturbing for public consumption.”

  “Too disturbing?” asked Wen.

  MacAfee clicked the remote. The map became an animated video showing the frigid but healthy parts of the nation and its bustling infrastructure: electric vehicles on highways, massive vertical green houses built into former skyscrapers, industries of many types – a working population of modern humans. “Now obviously this is a virtual representation of the nation, given that Satellites are either no longer operational, have fallen out of orbit, are incommunicado or subject to partial blindness due to perpetual cloud cover.” The video settled on a wind farm where hundreds of wind turbines turned in huge lazy circles. “The primary source of all of our energy.” MacAfee nodded at Dean and Sanders, “including for our friends on Nantucket. We’re rapidly running out of parts for existing units and the rapid rise in birthrates and general productivity is putting an unsustainable strain on what we’ve got.”

  The presentation zoomed back out to the map of the Continental U.S. and paused. “So here’s the deal. In some records office in Boston, a clerk dug up the manifest for a shipping company and, based on a purchase order from a now defunct wind energy company based in Maine,” the map zoomed to the port of Los Angeles where miles of massive docks and cranes hung over hundreds of tankers, container ships, general cargo, roll on off vessels and even a few ocean liners, “we think we have isolated a vast cargo of wind turbines and parts in this vessel here.” The video zoomed to a huge cargo ship at the end of a commercial dock. “This is a satellite image that was taken approximately one month before the Russians went for their suicidal bid to stop Cain’s, and gave us this fucking decade long white Christmas.” He glanced around. “Sorry. It still irks me. At that time, this ship,” MacAfee looked at his notes, “The Delfshaven, had been left in port for more than a year after Los Angeles was lost to Omega. Obviously, we have reason to believe that it hasn’t left this position. I’ve been asked to put together a team that is capable of getting this cargo and bringing it back.”

  Wen put up a hand, “Here is where I get off the bus. It sounds very heroic and exciting, but I’ve sworn off that kind of stimulation since retiring from chasing drug runners.”

  MacAfee offered a patient smile. “Let’s discuss your options when I’m done, Marshall Blakely.”

  Wen shrugged and gestured for the man to continue. “Suit yourself. Just sayin’.”

  The map zoomed out again and paused over the East Coast. “The mission is more than just bringing back badly needed and difficult to manufacture parts for our energy infrastructure, it’s also about finding out what’s out there. The president has fashioned himself as a new Thomas Jefferson. We’re the new Lewis and Clark Expedition. We all talk as a nation about taking our country back, but from what? Do Fiends still roam the countryside? Doubtful. Zombified madmen have little hope of surviving a ten-year nuclear winter, but what of their children? We’ve all heard tales of their children.”

  On the screen an animated dotted line traced its way from Plum Island down to Richmond Virginia. “In addition to his crew of mostly former military personnel, Captain Dean has offered up his schooner, Ginger Girl, for the trip south where we will make port in Hopewell, Virginia and, from there, utilize his whale boats to row up the James River to Richmond and Old Town Manchester. There we will rely on your masterful knowledge, Marshall Blakely, of the Nineteenth Century wonder that was the steam locomotive.” Another satellite image zoomed in on an old rail station located next to a major rail line, then zoomed tighter to an attached modern glass and steel building. A long commuter train was stopped on the tracks. The entire area around the train was covered in dead, mangled bodies - hundreds of people. “Sorry. This was the only available image. It was taken when Cain’s broke out of the last Southern containment zone. Focus on the building if you please. Inside is a 1919 P-5-A Atlantic Coast Line Pacific tank engine. The building is a museum. They converted the engine for rides in 2016. Chances are excellent that despite the harsh climate of the past years, this well built old machine is still operational. Assuming so, it will provide us with the basic transportation needed to make our way across the country. They were offering tours right up to the months when the shit hit the fan. It’s possible that the coal tender is full and if not, there are additional supplies to be had.” He clicked the remote and a satellite image of a coal-fired power plant came up. “This is the Contex power plant just down the main line from Hopewell and the museum. Note the line of loaded coal cars on this spur. As a back-up, if these cars are no longer there, the engine can run by burning wood. Given that we can’t count on a consistent supply of diesel fuel, it has been deemed logical that we use this older but proven tech.”

  Dean interrupted. “Forgive me, but what kind of bullshit intel is this? The government still has access to aircraft. You got tar sands for fuel. Why not do a proper recon on this?”

  MacAfee paused, the light from the projector illuminating half his face. “Yes, that’s the rumor anyway.”

  “Wait. Are you saying the U.S. government has no ability to fly a plane down there?”

  “Captain. Transportation on the mainland is reduced to electric vehicles only. We have not had the ability for several years now to create enough biomass for all the food we need, much less fuel. The tar sands you speak of were either made radioactive by Russian nukes or are locked in permafrost with weather so extreme that… Suffice it to say that poor planning by the previous administration as well as wonton wastefulness, and a general unwillingne
ss of the surviving population to accept our circumstances, has left us mortally short. Only our ability to produce electricity through alternative methods has kept the lights on. Every mission, including chasing around a Nantucket whaling schooner, needs a sign off from the top. We have satellite pictures. The chance that anything has moved out there since these were taken is close to nil. Now, may I continue?” The US map suddenly filled with overlays of color, each with a skull-and-crossbones on top. A yellow line zig-zagged its way across the nation through the Southern States. “You will note the highlighted jagged line. That is our intended route. It doesn’t skirt every potential hazard, but a lot of number crunching was done, and this seems to be the best way to avoid the various nuclear melt downs and toxic waste zones that resulted from or hasty exit ten years ago. We will occasionally have to don our hazmat gear and drive fast.”

  “This just gets better,” blurted Sanders.

  Dean said, “Assuming that this intel sucks, what’s your plan B?”

  “Whether we go or not is not an option. As far as transportation - the commuter train next to the museum is plan B. We locate whatever diesel we can as we go. There are options via the whole route but nothing is guaranteed. As I’m sure you recall before being bitten, in the end every type of fuel was being rationed.”

  Wen gestured at the screen disapprovingly, “Can I go home now?”

  Putting on a stiff smile, MacAfee continued, “Four hand picked volunteers from my own special forces unit will be along for the ride and will be responsible for shaping us into a fighting unit that can handle itself in this unique circumstance.”

  Dean offered a wary look. “Fight what?”

  MacAfee signaled for the lights to be brought back up. “Part two of our presentation. If everyone will follow Doctors Freigh and Schiller. They will escort us to the laboratory.”

  An elevator descended twenty stories to reach a maximum quarantine zone, requiring the passage through two airlocks and a decontamination chamber before the group came to a stop in a foyer that could have been the entrance to any dentist office in America, sans magazines. Tina said, “What you are about to experience is more than top secret. There is no paper that you will be required to sign nor is there a penalty that you will be threatened with if this information makes it to the general public. The nature of this is such that few would believe it anyway.” She put her eye in front of a retinal scanner and a door opened to a small room with two desks, each outfitted with a computer. A large frosted window took up one entire wall. There was a well-used sofa with a bed pillow and a coffee table with the crusts and crumbs of a meal or two. Seated at a desk was a woman who finished dictating into a headset. She looked up, removed the headset and smiled... and such was her stunning beauty that Stewart Dean found himself almost floating off his feet. She was perhaps in her mid-twenties with soft shoulder length brown hair and deep hazel eyes that in the low light of the room were dilated into dark pools. The smile was of a genuine nature, both open and inviting. Dean had to scold his heart, commanding it to slow down even as he could feel a flush rising through his neck. The woman took no notice of this. Despite Dean and Sanders’ masks, she warmly parted her lips in anticipation of an introduction.