George Magnum

by Dead Again

  “It has been a long time you son-of-a-bitch,” Peterson beamed.

  Armstrong lowers his voice so the others wouldn’t hear, “I’ve missed working with you, sir.”

  Peterson shot him a look of concern, “I think we’re about to make up for lost time.”

  Armstrong turned and bellowed to the team: “This is Commander Peterson. We’re piss-ass lucky to have him. If you ever give him shit I’ll personally fuck you in your eye sockets.”

  “YES, SIR!” came the response.

  Peterson nodded, as he surveyed them one last time. Yes, he thought. If we’re going to fight the devil, this team just might do.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Peterson sat in the command room at a long conference table, his team sat behind him in a row of bleachers. Moore and Washington were at the table as well. Moore reached up, pointed a remote at the far wall, and clicked. An image popped up, and Peterson leaned back to watch.

  The president of the United States sat at his desk in the war room, in front of a camera. A thick conglomeration of personnel were watching: generals, advisors, the chief of staff, the Secretary of State, and more.

  The President’s eyes darted, nervous. His face was tense, his jaw clenched. He looked dazed. A makeup artist placed the last dab of facial powder on his forehead and then quickly dashed away. A voice preceded the president: “We are on the air in three, two, one….”

  The president cleared his throat and addressed the nation.

  “For those of you who are able to receive this communication, as the world’s satellites have been temporarily overwhelmed, I address you, the American public, in an address of critical importance.

  “Mr. Vice President, Mr. Speaker, members of the Senate and the House of Representatives: only 48 hours ago the United States of America was suddenly confronted with what is believed to be a viral infection unlike any other we have seen in our time.

  “Indeed, one hour after the Center for Disease Control reported the very first case in the state of Pennsylvania, myself and the Joint Chief of Staffs acted swiftly, deploying the Army’s third regiment to establish a quarantine.

  “Today, as you know, the quarantine was not effective against the contagious and inexplicable phenomenon. This infection is also spreading throughout the world at large.

  “As Commander-in-Chief of the Armed Forces, I have directed that all measures be taken for our defense, in keeping with the yet unknown nature of the threat against us.

  “Today, at 4:13pm, I have signed a declaration of martial law. Such declaration places all law enforcement in the hands of the armed forces.

  “As of now, I ask citizens and law enforcement alike to peacefully abide by such declaration by following the charge of the U.S. armed forces, National Guard and military reserves.

  “We must not be mistaken that those who have become infected can be cured. Or that family members, friends, and loved ones who are infected can be restored to health. Because of the danger of those who are infected pose to the stability of our nation and the world, as difficult a decision as it is for me to make, I have ordered that all infected be terminated on site by any and all means necessary, and their bodies disposed of in a fashion keeping with what is best for the health of our nation.

  “Amongst civil unrest, hostilities exist. There is no blinking at the fact that our people, our territory and our interests are in grave danger. I plead with you today that we come together and put an end to civil disobedience. We must strengthen ourselves in this grave time and come together as a people. Those disobeying the basic laws of the United States, such as looting and other such reproachable acts, I now order to be punished by the full extent that martial law allows.

  “It is my belief that such law and order is imperative in order to regain calm and to properly face this challenge. Without civil order, we face a danger more grave than the infection itself.

  “No matter how long it may take us to overcome this unheralded event, the American people, I have faith, will, as we always have before, come together as one and re-establish law and order. With confidence in our armed forces, with the unbending determination of law abiding American citizens, we will inevitably regain control.

  “It is my promise and oath as President that we will find an answer to the nature of this infection—and, as soon as can be, a cure. We will bring this event to a prompt and complete end. So help me god.”

  General Moore and Dr. Washington, stood and turned away from the wall-size screen as it went blank, and the lights went up.

  Peterson, and the rest his team were frozen. There was a thick silence in a briefing room. Peterson could not believe what he had just seen.

  My god, he thought. Martial law.

  Moore took a deep breath.

  “There you have it,” he said. “Now, the military is in charge. That means us, people,” he said, looking visibly upset.

  He held up the remote, and a bright light flashed from a projector. A virtual image appeared, showing strategic maps and coordinates with cutting edge technology. Moore was illuminated by the projection as he stood before the team, who were listening intently, experts at work.

  “The video you are about to see was taken approximately 14 hours ago.”

  Aerial photography flickered, followed by footage through the eye of a camera mounted to a helicopter.

  Into view came a small, rocky island. The ocean pounded the rocky shore with waves and foam. As it zoomed in, a sprawling complex came into view. It was maximum security, protected by a fortified wall.

  Moore paced.

  “Located on Plum Island, about two hundred miles east of New York City, code named Ice-Fox, this laboratory was issued by A.R.P.A. to support the CDC with sensitive, classified issues. It is a gem in the military science community.”

  Peterson interrupts, “more sensitive?”

  Washington interjected, disdainfully. “Obviously, Commander, there are a lot of viral and biological threats out there which fall into classified territory. Really, I’m surprised you’re so naïve.”

  Peterson just got one more reason to hate Washington, that little fuck.

  Moore continued: “The ARPA pursues research and development where risk and payoff are both very high and where success may provide dramatic advances. This is their brainchild.”

  Peterson looked hard at Moore.

  “I’ve never heard about this Lab, General.”

  “That’s because it doesn’t exist, got it?” Moore snapped back.

  “Excuse me sir, but is there a relationship between this facility and the infection?” Armstrong called out.

  The General worked the remote, and images of faces appeared.

  Washington picked up: “There was a community of seventy five scientists. They are the leading scientific minds of our nation, totaling one hundred and sixty five occupants in all.”

  But Armstrong never took well to being ignored. “Sir, do you intend to answer my question? I think we all deserve to know.”

  Moore loses his cool: “What the hell do you think? This is why you’re fucking here.”

  Washington turned to Moore. “I thought this team was the best, General? They seem like amateurs to me.”

  Peterson had enough of Washington and his prissy attitude: “Who is this limp dick freshman, General?”

  Washington was taken aback by Peterson’s insult, as if shocked that such an inferior man would launch such an assault.

  “Listen up!” Moore snapped. “This situation has all of us stressed out. Keep your damn cool.”

  Washington stepped forward again.

  “This is about a Doctor Rudolph Winthrop. Graduate from Harvard’s child program. He finished his undergrad studies at the age of twelve, and went on to accumulate over eight doctorates in every subject from math to physics to biology and much, much more. His I.Q. can’t be measured. There’s never been anybody like him in our generation, at least. He is in fact the greatest scientific assets of the United States.”<
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  Moore interjected: “Now he may hold a cure of what may become the greatest pandemic the world has ever seen. Does this answer your question, Armstrong?”

  “Yes,” Armstrong answers with a calm, controlled voice, “It certainly does.”

  “Was there an accident General? A mistake on our behalf of some sort?” Peterson asked.

  “No,” the General emphasizes. “It’s not like that.”

  “Then what is it like, General?” Peterson persisted. “Are you saying this lab and the infection is somehow related?”

  Moore thought hard for a moment, “No. It’s not.”

  “Then what caused it?” came Tag’s voice.

  “I don’t know.” Moore responded, and rested his hand on his chin, deep in thought.

  Peterson was confused. “Then exactly how does this scientist know how to solve it?”

  “He may know how to solve it, Commander,” General Moore’s voice lowered in anger, “that’s what I was told, and this is all that I’ve been told.”

  Washington interrupted: “That is because how it started is irrelevant now. And it is not what you need to know to successfully accomplish your mission. Dr. Winthrop may hold the answers we need—most importantly, how to bring this infection to an end.”

  “Simply put, as of now, Dr. Winthrop is the best bet the world has at beating this infection,” Moore concluded.

  Cash raised his hand, like a schoolboy waiting to be called upon.

  Moore hesitated, “Go ahead Cash.”

  “What does the infection do to people?”

  Moore looked to Washington, who responded, “We don’t have enough information yet. All we know is that people have begun to act with random extreme violence, and are void of basic rational senses. And that it is contagious, and spreading at a lightning-fast rate.”

  “Extreme violence? Void of basic instincts?” Sharon piped up.

  Moore looked at her, “You have something to say, Corporal?”

  “You’re a Doctor, right?” she asked Washington, “Or a scientist? Or whatever creep you are, I expect you can share a bit more about the nature of the infected. The news is reporting that corpses are returning to life and eating people’s flesh. ‘Void of basic instinct’ sounds like just a bit of an understatement.”

  Washington smiled politely and turned to Moore. “Perhaps now is a good time, General?”

  Moore rubbed his temples, fighting a headache, then said, “Why the fuck not?”

  He flipped the remote and a video appeared on the screen.

  “Watch up children…and learn.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  Peterson edged forward with curiosity as the projector flickered, then showed an image captured by a video camera documenting a procedure. A tired-looking doctor performed open heart surgery on an elderly woman. Her ribcage was open, and the doctor reached in and put a clamp on an artery. The beeping heart rate monitor suddenly flat-lined, emitting a sound all too familiar: a long, endless beep—the stopping of a heart.

  “You’re watching video from a teaching hospital in New York. We have been told this is patient Zero.” From his tone, it sounded like Moore has seen the video countless times; he paced away from the screen. “It’s amongst the first documentation we had.”

  Washington stepped in. He seemed to take a perverted joy in outlining the situation.

  “Marcy Grey was a ninety one year old woman who had lived a conservative life. Grinding her way through a nine-to-five job, she never got married, never had children, and had no one to mourn for her as her heart stopped on a sterile operating table at New York Central Hospital. The Doctor was making a last attempt to save her. Her old body just gave way.”

  The video’s audio became louder than Washington. “We lost her, doctor,” the anesthesiologist said blandly. The doctor snapped off his surgical gloves, responding with a routine voice: “Time of death, four-thirteen. Get her down to the morgue.” The doctor turned to the nurse: “And turn that damn monitor off. The sound is driving me crazy.”

  The flat-line machine went silent as the Nurse reached over and turned it off. Abruptly, she halted, looking at the patient in shock.

  Heart and chest cavity still open, Marcy Grey eyes had opened. She was looking at the nurse.

  “Doctor, she’s alive. She’s awake!” the nurse shouted, confused.

  A muffled shock spread throughout the operating room.

  “Damn machine!” the doctor yelled as he hurriedly placed his hand on the old lady’s heart, feeling for a beat. He looked into the eyes of Marcy Grey, who slowly looked back.

  The anesthesiologist quickly checked the readings.

  “There’s just no way!” he said with a shaking voice, “There’s no way she can be awake!”

  The doctor was overcome by anxiety, too. “Her heart’s not beating!”

  He slowly took his hand off her heart.

  “Just stay calm, Mrs. Grey, stay calm,” the doctor said, clearly not knowing what else to say.

  A guttural snarl suddenly arose from deep within her throat. Then it happened: she sat up, grabbed the doctor, and bit his forearm.

  He was so shocked he couldn’t even scream. Marcy Grey gnawed, tearing a chunk of flesh out of his arm.

  She sat up. Her chest cavity was still opened, and blood and innards spilled out. She chewed on the flesh of the doctor, who pulled away his arm in disbelief. The nurse let out a blood-curdling shriek of absolute horror.

  The screen in the briefing room finally went black.

  Moore faced the room. “Get the picture?”

  The team was silent for a long moment.

  “How does it spread?” Peterson asked.

  “Through contact with infected blood,” Washington eagerly answers. “We know that if you’re bitten, within 24 hours you will be fully infected. It’s also possible that if you get their blood in your eyes or mouth, you may become infected as well. This is still an outstanding question.”

  “But that’s not the burning question, Dr. Washington,” Peterson snapped back.

  Dr. Washington looked at him. “Then perhaps you can enlighten us?”

  “The question is…are they alive, or are they dead?”

  “They are infected,” retorted Washington.

  “Fucking zombies if you ask me” Cash chimed in.

  “How can we cure what is not alive?” Sharon added.

  Washington gave them a smug, superior smile.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” he began. “We are dealing with an infection. Viral, most likely. Where there is an infection, there is at least, if not a cure for those who have already been infected, an inoculation for those who have not been. Get it?”

  Peterson spoke up: “We recover the information so that an inoculation, or cure, can be created?”

  “Yes, but all you worry about is recovery. We need Dr. Winthrop safe and sound.”

  “What makes you think Dr. Winthrop is still alive?” asked Peterson.

  “We’re not sure, we pray,” Moore said, clearing his throat.

  He flipped a switch and a series of grids appeared on a projected map. As the images shifted, a blueprint of the ice-fox building compound came into view.

  “In addition to Dr. Winthrop, there is another primary target,” Moore pointed to a particular gird. “For security reasons, there is only one hard drive which contains the accumulation of all the research. There are fifty separate hard dives which contain the research in piecemeal. Fifty hard drives is out of the question. So we go for the primary—it’s referred to as ‘Darling.’

  “It is located here, on sub-level four. It is the central nervous system of the complex, and this is where Darling is seated. You will possess the security codes, you will manually unlock the system, you will establish a satellite uplink and we will download the information.”

  “Rumors are, sir, that satellite communication has become unreliable,” Armstrong chimed in, sounding concerned. “Non-existent in some places.”

 
“You are correct, Sergeant,” Moore said, apparently approving of Armstrong’s insight. “Then we move to plan B.”

  “Which is?” Peterson asked.

  “Rough and tumble. You bring the packages back manually, and find a way to get your asses back here.”

  “Back where, sir?” inquired Angelo.

  “Back home, son, where your ass is seated now.”

  Moore changed the image. “It is important to know that though there are many scientists, if any are still alive, their recovery is not part the mission. Your mission is to recover Darling and Dr. Winthrop only.”

  The projection changed, flashing a picture of a white-bearded man: his hair was tasseled, unkempt and his glasses were crooked. He looked like a mad academic, the type of man who spent all his time thinking and neglected everything else.

  “This is Dr. Winthrop. He invented the ice-fox project.”

  The images changed in a slideshow, revealing a series of men and woman, apparently important scientists at the lab.

  “We are not to help the scientist, General?” Ishmael asked, sounding puzzled.

  Moore hesitated. “No,” he finally said, almost ashamed.

  Peterson looked at the faces of the scientists as they flashed by on the screen.

  Disposable assets, he thought. Just like us.

  The screen went blank.

  “The hard drive, or black box if you will, will give us answers as to what is happening. Its recovery may equal the survival of hundreds of thousands of people.”

  Washington stepped up. “At this pace more likely millions and millions of people.”

  Peterson looked at Moore quizzically, “it sounds like double deuce Sir.”

  “It is,” responded Moore, “If you can’t save one, save the other. Ideally, however, we need both packages intact if we are to have a shot at a cure.”

  “Last reports said the infection has reached over 41 nations; this is now a global pandemic.” Washington sounded proud to be able to relay such information, as if any form of knowledge made him special, even if it was horrible.

  The team murmured, and Peterson spoke up, confused. “Just four hours ago it was limited to 15 states.”