AntiBio 2: The Control War

by Jake Bible

  AntiBio 2

  The Control War

  Jake Bible

  Copyright 2015 by Jake Bible

  Part One

  Dusk

  The children…

  Little Jenna, her eyes so wide, her face so flushed.

  Penny and Carlos, their hands grasping at my uniform, sparking from the static charge of the protective material, the life slipping from them.

  Maude, knowing what is happening, but powerless to do anything, her face blank and set, her eyes locked onto mine.

  My wife’s body lying in the hallway, lifeless, inert, just another casualty of a war that should be over, that is over, that was over a long, long time ago, that will never be over…

  1

  Naked and twitching, Dr. DeBeers squats in the corner of the isolation cell, her arms wrapped across her chest, her eyes flicking from one corner of the room to the next to the next to the next to the—

  “Mona? Did you hear me?” Dr. April Charter asks as she crouches in front of her colleague. “Mona? I asked if you’d like to take a sonic and maybe get some food. Would you like that?”

  Dr. DeBeers, the former ranking member of Control’s Management, just sits there, her eyes moving from corner to corner to corner.

  “She hasn’t spoken in two days,” Dr. Richard Benz, Head of Bacterial Coding, sighs as he leans against the open doorway to the holding cell. “She’s been in this isolation cell for four weeks and only gotten worse.”

  “I know, Richard,” Dr. Charter says, standing up from the still twitching form of Dr. DeBeers. “I have been watching her for four weeks.”

  “Richard?” Dr. Benz chuckles. “Aren’t we informal this morning. Have I done something to curry favor with you, Dr. Charter?”

  “You haven’t incinerated her yet,” Dr. Charter replies. “You have that going for you.”

  Dr. Benz narrows his eyes and looks long and hard at his colleague; Dr. Charter does not look back, but keeps her eyes focused on Dr. DeBeers.

  “Do you really think I’d kill Dr. DeBeers?” Dr. Benz asks finally, stepping from the doorway and into the isolation cell. He brushes past Dr. Charter and stands over Dr. DeBeers. “She is the greatest sample we’ve ever had here at Control. Inside her somewhere is the key to unlocking how we tame the Sicklands; how we take back this blasted country from the bacteria and filth that coat every square inch.”

  “Do you really want to take it back?” Dr. Charter asks. “Or do you want to lock it up, make it an extension of Control? An extension of your control?”

  “An extension of Him,” Dr. DeBeers says suddenly, her eyes finally leaving the corner the corner the corner and focusing on Dr. Benz and Dr. Charter. “We are all but an extension of Him. He has already won and you do not know it. She will not stop Him.”

  The naked woman lets loose with a loud fart and Dr. Charter grabs Dr. Benz by the arm, quickly rushing him out of the isolation cell. The door slides closed just as Dr. DeBeers fills her hands with her own excrement and throws it after them. The waste hits the door and wall and splatters, sliding slowly to the floor. Both doctors watch this happen as they stand in the corridor outside the transparent isolation cell walls and door; a permanent view into madness.

  There is a bright flash and the excrement is obliterated from the room, the surfaces sterilized by a blast of cleansing static energy.

  The cleanliness incenses Dr. DeBeers and she repeats her poo flinging until she lies on the floor, exhausted and defeated. More flashes, more static blasts cleaning the cell. Slowly, like a small child afraid to get beaten again, Dr. DeBeers sits up, bringing her knees to her chest.

  Her eyes go back to searching the corner the corner the corner.

  “He will come for me,” Dr. DeBeers says. “He already has. For He is here. He is everywhere! He always was and always will be!”

  The tinny sound of Dr. DeBeers’s voice rings in Dr. Charter and Dr. Benz’s ears, a haunting sound of insanity and devotion filtered through Control’s com system.

  “AiSP?” Dr. Benz says. “Increase Dr. DeBeers’s sedation by forty percent.”

  “Forty?” Dr. Charter gasps. “That’ll turn her into a drooling vegetable.”

  “Better than a shit tossing nutjob,” Dr. Benz says. “Management elected me Chairperson. I want Dr. DeBeers sedated until the next round of tests. If you feel this is unwarranted then bring it up when Management next convenes. We can all vote again and maybe you’ll get the position. Then the shit thrower will be your problem.”

  “She’s already my problem,” Dr. Charter snaps. “She’s all of our problem. Something happened out there in the Sicklands and if we don’t figure out what then it could happen in here.”

  “It won’t,” Dr. Benz says. “I have put certain safeguards in place to purge Control if any new bacterial loads are detected outside of that isolation cell. You and I are being scanned a million times as we stand here talking. The AiSP would have alerted us to any contamination then vaporized us on the spot, saving the data from our remains for the rest of Management to study.”

  “Dear Lord…” Dr. Charter whispers. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

  “Hardly,” Dr. Benz says. “It’s bloody exhausting. I would rather be working on the canine units and finalizing the bacterial communications network. Dr. DeBeers is fascinating and a possible key to defeating the Strains, but studying her could take years. We push forward with current projects, continue our studies of the samples, and run Control as we always have.”

  “Minus one of our most valued members,” Dr. Charter says.

  “Precisely,” Dr. Benz says. “Sad, but necessary.” He smiles at Dr. Charter, looks at the ever twitching form of Dr. DeBeers, then nods, pleased, and starts walking down the stark white corridor. “Coming, doctor?”

  “Yes,” Dr. Charter says. “I am.”

  “Good,” Dr. Benz says. “Where are we with the samples?”

  “We have called more to Control for study,” Dr. Charter says. She presses her wrist and swipes at the air in front of her as her eyes go black. “If you check your IRIS, you will see that the numbers are getting greater each day. We send out the call and they come.”

  “Except for the GenWrecks,” Dr. Benz counters. “Those burnouts are resistant to any influence.”

  “Yes, true,” Dr. Charter nods, swiping her hand so her IRIS image of bacterial culture projections disappears from her and Dr. Benz’s vision. “Their lack of consistent nutrition should weaken their systems, yet observations show them as strong as ever.”

  “Those that are still alive,” Dr. Benz says as a doorway at the end of the hall slides open before them. “Do we know who is attacking their bases? Any leads on the unseen menace that is killing the pitiful GenWrecks?”

  The doctors step into the next hallway, the walls of which are transparent, just like Dr. DeBeers cell, and show a massive lab on each side of the hallway filled with exam tables. Control personnel take notes and confer with each other as long, specialized robotic arms descend from the ceiling and dissect the inert, captive humans splayed out on each table. Pink faces, the dirt from their skin having been scoured clean by static and manual scrubbing, stare out into the hallway, their infected brains trying to make sense of what is happening to them.

  Neither doctor gives the samples much attention. Once inside Control, the cooties, denizens of the Sicklands, are nothing but numbers. Data to be studied. Samples.

  “Information is limited,” Dr. Charter says. “Patrols from GenSOF have reported seeing bands of cooties fleeing the smoking remains of GenWreck bases, but they cannot confirm whether or not the cooties are the attackers or just scavenging what is left.”

  “Who is our contact in
GenSOF right now? Not General Lowman?” Dr. Benz asks.

  “Yes, it is General Lowman,” Dr. Charter replies. “He isn’t exactly the most original of thinkers, but he does know the Sicklands and how to get us at least some information from his GenSOF squads.”

  “I could have an AiSP do his job more efficiently,” Dr. Benz says. “But I guess he gets to handle the Clean Nation cities’ administrators. That is a job I would never want. Keeping a buffer between us and those elite bureaucrats does make dealing with the man bearable.”

  “It’s the little things, doctor,” Dr. Charter says. There is a small chime and Dr. Charter stops walking, her fingers at her wrist. “Good. I have some results to check. I’ll catch up with you at the meeting this evening.”

  “Results?” Dr. Benz asks.

  “I’m conducting follow up tests on Sergeant Crouch’s cultures,” Dr. Charter answers. “Seeing what stress they can handle before breaking down. Don’t forget, he could also be the key to defeating the Strains.”

  “I’m no longer so certain of that,” Dr. Benz says. “But I’ll leave you to your hypotheses. Discoveries aren’t made by being complacent.”

  “No, they are not,” Dr. Charter says. “Later then?”

  “Later then,” Dr. Benz nods and continues walking.

  Dr. Charter waits until the man is through the door at the end of the hallway then turns on her heels and hurries back the way she came. She nods at the few assistants and lab techs that she comes across on her way to her quarters. No one gives her a second glance, well used to her hustling from one end of the massive domed complex that is Control to the other on a fairly regular basis. Timing is always of the essence in Control.

  She reaches her quarters and slips inside, making sure the door is locked and secured behind her. Her heart beats rapidly and she forces herself to calm down as she presses a panel and part of a wall slides aside. Taking a deep breath, Dr. Charter squeezes herself into a space barely more than a glorified closet that is filled with old tech video monitors and control panels.

  “Please be okay,” she whispers to herself as she sits down at a small chair. The wall slides closed next to her.

  Dr. Charter activates the video screens and brings up a view using a small joystick on the control panel. The view is of a GenWreck squad, Coffin Squad, standing by the entrance to a large cave. Smoke and flames fill the entrance, but Dr. Charter gives a sigh of relief as she sees a man standing amongst the bunch, hunched over and studying the ground while the other operators turn about slowly, their static rifles to their shoulders, covering the area, watching for attackers.

  The man, GenWreck Jonathan “Red” Blakely, shakes his head as another man, former GenSOF Lieutenant Courier Class Alton “Ton” Lane, points a finger at the cave then back out towards the Sicklands. Red keeps shaking his head then stops as he looks directly into the camera observing him. He starts shouting and a woman appears on the screen. Red points at the camera, almost as if he is pointing directly at Dr. Charter, then points at the woman.

  The woman, a Burn worker from Caldicott City named Jersey Cale, flips Red off then steps to the camera and smiles. Dr. Charter can’t hear what she says, but the view changes suddenly as Jersey wraps an arm around the orb that contains the camera, completely unaware she, and the others, are being watched.

  “Where is Jude?” Dr. Charter asks as her wrist chimes. She looks at the time and lets out a wounded squeak as she realizes she has wasted too much time watching Coffin Squad. “Dammit Red, find Jude.”

  Dr. Charter stands and shoves the wall open, hurrying into her quarters. This time a loud scream issues from her throat as she sees Dr. Benz standing before her. The door to her quarters is open and the rest of Management is standing out in the hallway.

  “Control AiSP has been keeping me apprised of your sudden disappearances from its monitoring,” Dr. Benz says casually, as if it is normal for a member of Management to come out of a hidden closet. “It wasn’t hard to figure what you were up to. I just needed to see it for myself.”

  “We needed to see it for ourselves,” Dr. Shamus Lopez says, a grossly corpulent fellow that seems to be made of roll after roll of fat. “It was hard to believe when Dr. Benz first brought us the information.”

  It’s obvious to Dr. Charter that the exertion of standing in the hallway is about to break the man.

  “Shamus, where is your hover chair?” Dr. Charter asks.

  “Do not try to make this personal,” Dr. Louis Sheffield says. A nondescript, average-looking, middle-aged man, Dr. Sheffield fails miserably at trying to be intimidating. “You will not curry favor with any of us by playing to our emotions.”

  “Is that so?” Dr. Charter asks, folding her arms across her chest. “Gordon? Do you agree?”

  A short man with kind eyes, Dr. Gordon Whittaker sighs heavily.

  “This is a mess of your own making, Dr. Charter,” Dr. Whittaker says.

  “Quite a mess,” Dr. Benz says, looking past Dr. Charter and into the closet containing the ancient video equipment. “How about you be completely honest and show us just exactly how much of a mess it is?”

  Dr. Charter starts to protest, but realizes there is no point. If she fights then Dr. Benz will have the Clean Guard detain her, possibly torture her. She’ll end up in an isolation cell just like Dr. DeBeers.

  “We can no longer afford to hold ourselves separate from the rest of the Clean Nation cities and the Sicklands,” Dr. Charter says, waving a hand towards her equipment. “I believe we are at war and may not even know it.”

  “Is that so?” Dr. Benz smirks. He studies Dr. Charter’s face and the smirk slowly fades away. “You aren’t joking. Jesus, April. Why didn’t you come to us with this? The whole point of Management is to make sure Control is ahead of any threat outside the dome.”

  “I didn’t come to you because I wasn’t sure,” Dr. Charter says.

  “But you are now?” Dr. Whittaker asks.

  “Yes,” Dr. Charter says.

  “How can you be certain?” Dr. Lopez asks.

  “I can’t,” Dr. Charter says. “It’s a gut feeling.”

  Dr. Lopez laughs at that statement, but Dr. Benz holds up a hand and cuts him short.

  “Enough of this talk here,” Dr. Benz says. “We go below where it is secure and we can discuss this fully.”

  “I have experiments running,” Dr. Lopez protests. “I can’t just drop—”

  “You can and you will,” Dr. Benz says. “We meet down below. Now.”

  He narrows his eyes at Dr. Charter then waves a hand at the video equipment.

  “Can you bring the data or is it too cumbersome?” he asks. “That tech looks centuries old.”

  “Not quite centuries old, but close,” Dr. Charter says. “Only way I could keep the AiSPs from detecting and intercepting the data.”

  “Bring the files you have,” Dr. Benz says. “I want all the data you are using to back up your gut feeling.”

  “It’ll take me a while to do that,” Dr. Charter says.

  “You don’t have a while,” Dr. Benz snaps. “You have thirty minutes. Make it happen.”

  Dr. Charter nods then turns and gets to work at the control panel in the closet. She doesn’t look back as one by one the other members of Management hurry off to take care of what they need to before meeting down below in the subterranean levels of Control.

  2

  The stench of cooked meat wafts towards Red and Ton as the two men stand by the mouth of the cave. Neither move away from the stench, away from the smoke, but just stand there and stare into the glowing maw of death before them.

  “How many were stationed here?” Ton asks, his eyes watching the dancing shadows that cover the barely visible cave walls.

  “Too many,” Red replies, his eyes locked on the dancing shadows as well. “Close to thirty. If all squads were in base then we lost at least thirty operators today. We pack them in tight at each base.”

  “You’d have to,” Ton says.
“Only way to stay alive.”

  “Not that it did much good,” Red responds, flicking a bit of soot from his cheek. “Eighth base, Ton. The eighth.”

  “We should go,” Ton says. “Move on to the next base. How many do you have left?”

  “Not many,” Red says.

  A hard breeze pushes past the two men and into the cave, clearing some of the smoke briefly. Towards the back, silhouetted by the light of the flames, a blackened hand lies on the ground, its fingers curled up, locked into position by a cruel, agonizing death.

  Red turns from the sight and looks up into the grey clouds that perpetually cover the Sicklands. His mouth opens in a silent scream of rage as his body shakes with emotion. His hands pound his thighs, the dull slaps echoing across the barren landscape.

  The operators around Red and Ton glance back at the noise then quickly look away, preferring to keep guard with static rifles to their shoulders than witness the grief of one of the men that is their rock, their foundation for going on.

  “Worm is calling us,” Jersey says from the open hatch to the transport that sits idle a few meters off. “He says we have incoming.”

  “When don’t we?” former GenSOF Sergeant Courier Class Simon “Blaze” Crouch says.

  None of the GenSOF operators can be considered any class other than deserter now. Genetic Special Operations Forces will have disowned them all for going off reservation and joining ranks with the GenWrecks of the Sicklands.

  Blaze looks at Jersey and she gives him a hard scowl.

  “What?” Blaze asks. “This is the pattern, right? We move from one dead base to the next, always with cooties on our asses.”

  “Can it, man,” former GenSOF Sergeant Courier Class Paulo Kim snaps. “You’re bringing me down. Your bitching ain’t helping anything.”

  “Not bitching, just observing,” Blaze responds. “Are you saying that hasn’t been the pattern?”

  “How far off?” Marco asks, one of Red’s GenWrecks. He glances over at his fellow GenWrecks of Coffin Squad. “Nick? You up to driving some more?”