by H. L. Murphy
“It would seem, Admiral Mayweather,” Dr. Zhao concluded her calculations, “you have learned a great deal in the intervening years.”
“Thank you for recognizing that fact, Dr. Zhao,” Mayweather nodded. “Although it is my hope that between the two of us, it will be you who has acquired the superior knowledge base.”
“You do not hope in vain, Admiral,” Dr. Zhao admitted. “After a brief period of readjustment in the hierarchy of the island, I devoted myself to the investigation of Virus Omega. There is little I do not know about it. In fact, the majority of my experiments were conducted with the expectation of learning something new about one facet or another of the virus.”
“You made those freaks by using the virus in them?” Vincenzo demanded, unable to remain silent any longer.
“Of course not,” the good doctor refused to look away from Mayweather. “I made them by altering the virus. By retro engineering Virus Omega back to something close to the base organism.”
“Wait. What do you mean, back to the base organism?” Mayweather asked, his mind turning the premise over and over.
“We have always known Virus Omega was extraterrestrial,” Dr. Zhao explained as though to a child. “What we did not understand was that Virus Omega is a corruption of another extraterrestrial organism. That organisms function, when in its original form, is not to cause undeath as we have termed it. Quite the opposite. The original organism prolonged life, could heal virtually any wound or sickness. There are even indications in select samples of Virus Omega that the original organism had been modified for military use.”
“That's what made those sides of beef we faced in the jungle?” Vincenzo asked, suddenly very interested.
“I thought that might catch your attention,” Dr. Zhao said to the Marine, finally deigning to look at him. “All you see is a weapon, another in an endless series of ways to slaughter your fellow man.”
“Stow your moral outrage, Cynthia,” Mayweather snapped. “I'm all too aware of the number of deaths you are responsible for, and it makes the Captains body count pale in comparison. How do you know this?”
“Hypocrisy is my only vice so excuse me if I indulge it from time to time,” Dr. Zhao shrugged. “As for the source of my information, I've had ten years of research and development. Not to mention I collected specimen from all over the planet. Even you would be surprised at the number of Class One beings in various states of disrepair held across the planet.”
“Maybe,” Mayweather admitted. He knew of ten, but suspected the number was closer to twenty.
“Hundreds, Admiral, there are hundreds,” Dr. Zhao told Mayweather, almost as if she had read his thoughts. “Most are only heads in jars, but some have more meat to them. No matter what damage has been inflicted upon them, every one of the creatures has survived. It seems the Class One beings can reconstitute their forms over time, and given enough protein. I might even be persuaded to admit I believe the Los Alamos specimen will eventually reconstitute itself in, say, a thousand years.”
Mayweather clenched his teeth at the mere thought of the Los Alamos specimen returning to physical form. The creature had been so violent, so uncontainable it had been decided to test the power of the newly developed atomic bomb against it. The results had been spectacular, and ensured the atomic program would continue.
“Alright, Doctor, what will you require to stop the Outbreak?” Mayweather demanded. The good doctor smiled again, and leaned back in her less than ergonomically designed chair.
“Angus J. Finnegan.”
“Does someone, anyone, want to tell me why the serious fuck we have this fucking thing with us?” Lucas Nines bitched from the rear of the SUV. Instead of pointing his light machine gun out the rear window, Lucas had the weapon trained on a plexiglass cube containing a disfigured zombie head.
“Because that was the order,” Michael Thawley growled, long since tired of listening to Nines bitch and moan. All he wanted was to deliver the head as ordered, curl up somewhere the fuck away from Nines and drink his mind blank. Then maybe go fuck a stripper in Daytona Beach. It was a well established fact among the teams that Daytona Beach had the best strippers anywhere, not because they were the prettiest, but because they would fuck at the drop of a hat.
“Oh, fuck me,” Nines squeaked. “It opened an eye. Fucking thing didn't even have eyes when we picked it up.”
“Do not fire that weapon,” Thawley shouted. The last thing they needed was an LMG going off in the enclosed vehicle.
“Will you please stop obsessing about that fucking thing,” Briggs asked. Seated next to Thawley, Briggs didn't like it anymore than Nines, but had chosen not to dwell on it. “According to intel it will regenerate slightly before it runs out of energy to fuel the process. Once it's gone as far as it can, poof, it sits there staring. Now have a cup of coffee and chill the fuck out.”
As team leader, Thawley had to tow the company line, even if he really, really didn't want to. That prick Fitzpatrick had made it clear they weren't getting out of the Q zone until their mission to bag Angus Finnegan was completed, then he had changed their orders to retrieve and deliver a particular zombie head. As soon as they fulfilled their mission parameters, Fitzpatrick swore he would extract them from the Q zone. Which meant a helicopter ride over the Line and into Daytona Beach where all the strippers lacked both gag reflexes and morals.
Ahead, in the dark of night, Thawley could just make out the tractor trailer he had been told to locate. More than that, he had been warned not to approach until ordered to do so as there would likely be antipersonnel mines and devices set up to protect the occupant. When Thawley asked the identity of the occupant he was merely informed to refer to the occupant as the Armorer and leave it at that.
“Armorer, this is Lightfoot actual, respond,” Thawley spoke into his comm mic. Seconds ticked by into minutes, until a bright, cheery voice spoke up.
“Lightfoot actual, please proceed to my front door,” the voice practically exuded joy and happiness. Thawley wanted to vomit from the saccharin dripping off the man's words. Nonetheless, he drove the vehicle to the Armorers front door where upon he, and his men, dismounted. The surviving members of team Lightfoot were the picture of PMC badasses. In contrast, the slim, smiling figure that emerged from the trailer was immaculately dressed and looked as though he would be happier in a glass walled office building than knee deep in the undead.
“Is that it?” The smile grew to unbelievable proportions as Nines dropped the plexiglass cube in front of the Armorer. “Oh, this is so exciting. I've always wanted to get my hands on one of these, not literally you understand, but the sheer amount of technical knowledge we could learn from it is quite thrilling.”
“Hey,” Nines interrupted, more than a little creeped out. “I don't care if you skull fuck the thing all night. Get your jollies however the fuck you want, geek, I just want to get out of here.”
Thawley caught the half second long break in the Armorers smiling façade, and what he saw shook him momentarily. There was something dark inside that man, something best left unpoked.
“Nines, shut the fuck up,” Thawley bawled. “Get back in the truck.”
Slowly Nines turned to face his leader, a smart ass comment on his tongue when his head exploded into a shower of blood, brains, and bone fragments. Before either Thawley or Briggs could respond, the Armorer had gunned them down. His smile still in place, the Armorer swept his Beretta 93R over the dead men, pumping a single round into each man's head for good measure.
“Thank you so much,” he said to Thawley’s body before turning his attention to the head of Madalina Hurgoi. “Come my dear, let us retire to my lab. We have so much to discuss.”
Epilogue
I stood before the assembled residents of the S.S. Churchill, my choice and a personal hero despite my being Irish, decked out in my relatively snazzy tactical vest, loaded up with sickle magazines for a Kalashnikov pattern rifle and my original M1911A1. Holstered at my waist was the
old Colt revolver, no way was I chucking that beauty, and atop my head, against my wishes, was a ball cap with an American flag patch. It wasn't that I held anything but the utmost respect for Old Glory, it was that I felt like some kind of tactical wannabe. Unfortunately, the brand new Stetson I acquired had been lost during my tussle at Witham air field so I was more or less stuck with the operator-esque cap. Buffalo, who had been in the military, said it gave me a much needed air of authority. Wasn’t sure how to take that, especially after my showing in rescuing them. Whatever. It's just a stupid cap.
“I've taken the time to speak to you all on an individual basis,” I started, trying to feel my way through the potential quagmire to come. “I felt certain at the end of each conversation I had made the rules here quite clear. However, given that a significant portion of you ignored everything said, let me make this abundantly clear. This is my boat. Until I say otherwise, you're nothing but unwanted house guests. If you think for one moment I am obligated to put up with your stupidity, guess again. Those who wish to stay, will obey the few rules I put in place. Those who refuse to do so, will leave this boat. If you think I can't remove you from this boat, I invite you to recall the last group of self entitled assholes who thought they could do as they pleased with my boat and my family. Didn't end well for them, and it won't end well for you. So, it's real simple. Pull your weight, or go ashore. Follow the rules and you'll be left to your own devices. Think long and hard, because this is a one time offer.”
Those among the newcomers I knew would be no trouble had made their stance clear. They wanted to stay, they wanted the security of the Churchill over the insanity of the mainland. The best of this group, Buffalo, had taken a look at the port side diesel and declared it a cluster fuck of epic proportions, but he could probably put it back together. Think I would have kissed him, except that Mrs. Buffalo was watching and she was heavily armed.
“We don't got to do nothing,” a newcomer who called himself Trey sounded off. “You ain't God almighty, why should we listen to you.”
My forty-five was out and pointed at him before Trey could finish his question. The resounding click of the safety being thumbed off echoed in the sudden silence.
“You were saying?” I asked. My eyes bored into his, and whatever he saw there didn't sit well with him.
“I'm just saying, ain't no navy out there no more,” Trey blinked first, turning to point out the porthole, more nautical terms. “Why ain't we getting the hell outta here? We could go up the coast to Daytona, or Jacksonville, or Georgia.”
“That's a good question, Trey,” I clicked the safety back on and holstered my pistol. “The answer is simple. We don't know for sure if the quarantine fleet is still there or not, plus we only have one working engine. I'll be goddamned if I'll risk everybody here, not even you Trey, on running the blockade with one fucking engine. Now, Buffalo thinks he can rebuild it and get it going again. If so, great, we’ll circle back to getting out of the Q zone. If he can't coax it back to life, we will have to make some very hard decisions.”
“Like what?” Angie asked, genuinely curious.
“Like whether we can risk port of Palm Beach, or, worse, Port of Miami for parts,” I answered. “Or a new boat. Neither of these choices are particularly great. West Palm Beach was overrun over a week ago, and according to Francis, Miami is an absolute shithole of gang bangers, zombies, and cops that are shooting anything moving.”
“Yeah, that's something new and different,” Trey mumbled. I took it Trey had originated in that questionable city.
“This is how it is,” I cut off a rising tumult. “You don't want to toe the line, step off here. You stay, we are going into some mighty sporty situations and I don't need any bitching and moaning then.”
“What d'ya mean ‘sporty’?” Trey asked.
“I mean, bad men with big guns will come looking for us sooner or later,” I answered honestly.
“Why?”
“Because we have what they want,” I said. “Food, shelter, women, and the vaccine to the goddamn zombie virus. Some seriously evil mother fuckers know we have it and will kill us all to get it, and I won't give it to them. Somehow, some way I'm going to get the vaccine out of my blood and into everybody left alive.”