by Joe Nobody
Recalling the enormous facility’s floor plan, Taylor headed for the emergency room entrance. Rounding a corner, he came upon a grassy area filled with patients lying on the ground, nurses and aides hustling everywhere to deliver care.
Fireman and staff were bringing more stretchers to the triage area, often laying the patients on the grass and then rushing back into the building to retrieve others. It was bedlam.
He made for the entrance, but paused after encountering a harried-looking nurse with a clipboard. She intercepted two fireman exiting with a stretcher between them. “Where is that patient from?” she demanded.
“The 2nd floor, east end,” came the reply.
“Over there,” she pointed. “Do you know the patient’s name?”
“Are you kidding me, lady?” the exhausted rescuer snapped. “I don’t know my own name right now.”
Not giving her time to catch a breath, Taylor approached with authority. “Where are the 4th floor oncology patients, nurse?”
Without even looking up, the frustrated woman pointed towards a section of the grounds. “Over there, just past the fountain,” she responded.
Taylor didn’t bother to thank the woman, figuring he’d already pressed his luck. He identified the collection of prone cancer patients lying haphazardly on the otherwise meticulously manicured lawn. Three of the bodies were covered, head-to-toe, with sheets. After unsuccessfully scanning the infirm for some sign of recognition, he began the unpleasant task of peering under the linens in search of her. Less than a minute later, he found his spouse. Jenny was dead.
The colonel couldn’t remember much after pulling back that sheet. His wife’s normally bright face was blackened by smoke residue, her hair smelling like she’d been hovering over a campfire for an entire weekend. The grief-stricken husband simply sat down on the grass and began weeping, gripping his mate’s cold hand.
Taylor had no idea how long he’d sat beside Jenny’s body. What he could recall was being shaken out of his trance by a small explosion, immediately followed by the screaming of several dozen people. Someone had torched a police car, the demonstration now escalating into a full-blown riot.
It took him a few moments to shake off the fog of bereavement, to pull his head out of the muddle of losing the only thing in life he had left. Both of his sons were dead and gone – Jenny had been it. Bending to give his wife one last kiss on the forehead, Taylor rose stoically and began meandering back to his car.
Mass confusion and turmoil swirled around the colonel as he trekked through what had essentially become a combat zone. With squared shoulders and a stiff walk, he marched right past the worst of it. He felt there was nothing left to lose.
He was met with friendly, caring faces upon returning to the complex. Most of the men in his employ could tell something had gone badly wrong. His people rallied around their stricken comrade, offering condolences and sympathy when he finally announced that his wife had died in the fire.
If there was any silver lining to the colonel’s cloud, it was in the timing. He was barely functioning two days later when the fever hit. A grief-filled core had voided his appetite, so there wasn’t much to vomit. The pain brought on by Ebola-B was nothing compared to the agony he was already experiencing.
Houston had slid into complete anarchy. There were no functioning hospitals, no available ambulances. Cell and landline phone service had all but ceased to exist. Roving mobs of angry, dejected people roamed the streets outside of the complex’s high barbwire fences.
The security team, now living exclusively within the confines of the complex’s grounds, did its job. Some sense of survival brought them together, an instinct that made them all realize that the only thing separating their families from the animal-like behavior outside the gates was each other. They did what they were hired to do, protecting the warehouses and facilities under their charge.
Their small island of sanctuary was threatened more than once. On Q+8, a sizable mob began gathering at the front guard shack, several of the younger males pointing toward the group of un-looted buildings residing on the grounds. The security detail soon found itself in a standoff with three dozen hungry-looking men.
The firefight erupted less than 20 minutes later. In addition to their sidearms, the colonel’s team had access to AR15 rifles and 12-gauge shotguns. “A pistol,” the Marine often said, “is only useful to fight your way back to the rifle you never should have put down in the first place.” The battle at the front gate didn’t last long.
For a period of weeks, numerous attempts were made to breach the facility. Often it was one or two teenagers trying to cut through the fence. Sometimes more organized hordes were the threat. But it was Ebola-B that presented the greatest danger.
Like a demon selecting its victims at random, the virus made its way through the ranks of the compound’s residents. Of the 65 souls now calling the warehouses home, 62 contracted the illness. Of those, 34 died. The staff who weren’t afflicted were almost as debilitated, worrying about when it would be their turn to suffer. Everyone found it odd that three of their ranks never contracted the disease.
By Q+11, the colonel’s fever broke. He was one of the lucky ones. When the virus had finally burned itself out, Northside had become the full-time residence for 31 hardy, Ebola-proof souls.
During his stroll back to the complex, Taylor encountered other survivors walking here and there. Almost everyone was wearing an armband of either blue or gold.
Blue, by far the majority, was proudly displayed by those individuals who had contracted Ebola-B and survived. The gold cloth adornment indicated that a person had been exposed, but by some miracle of their DNA, hadn’t been afflicted by the deadly virus.
While exact numbers were impossible to obtain, doctors had informed the board that roughly 2% of the population seemed to have a built-in immunity. Without nationally available labs and scientific resources, it had taken a while before the doctors realized that the Golds carried the virus, and probably would for the rest of their lives.
The Blues were thought to possess only part of any such immunity. Blues became ill, showing the same deadly symptoms as those who died, but for some reason their bodies ultimately overcame the viral invasion. Less than 30% of the population fell into one group or the other, the rest had died.
There was still a third category of citizen left in Houston, but they were now extremely rare. Often called the “Cavers,” they were the people who had hid from society and shunned contact, avoiding exposure. The colonel had heard many interesting stories about Cavers, included a tale involving a family who anchored their boat in the middle of Lake Houston and lived in isolation for weeks. Eventually, they ran out of food, and the fish stopped biting. All were dead from Ebola within 12 days of their return to shore.
At first, Cavers were partially blamed for Houston’s continued quarantine. CDC and World Health Organization (WHO) standards stated that a region or area was considered “Ebola Free” 60 days after the last recorded case. Unfortunately, Cavers kept coming out of hiding and resurrecting incidence of the virus. Even now, months later, the colonel knew of at least 200 individuals who were waiting to see if they were a Blue, a Gold, or dead.
But Cavers weren’t the only ones causing the CDC to keep a ring of steel around Houston’s throat. In reality, it was the Gold population that was causing puzzlement and paranoia within the scientific ranks. Before communications were cut off with the outside world, several government doctors had expressed concerns that Gold bodies were in fact the cause of the new Ebola’s strain.
The colonel didn’t understand all of the scientific jargon and long Latin words. What he did grasp all-too-well was the fact that Washington and Atlanta were unlikely to ever lift the quarantine. He wasn’t the only one to reach that conclusion.
Evidently, the government officials leaking statements to the press didn’t realize that the residents of Houston could still listen to what was being said. There were military and civilian s
atellite communications within the wall, as well as hundreds of HAM operators and dozens of radio and television stations. Yet, despite those capabilities, the feds talked about the Bayou City as if everyone south of Dallas was deaf, dumb, and blind.
When the citizens began to hear their city described as a “Cesspool of viral mutation,” and a “Breeding ground for an Armageddon strain,” it became clear that the Q wouldn’t be lifted anytime soon. The colonel’s favorite was, “A petri dish for the next extinction event, an apocalyptic germ party.”
It was at that point the colonel knew the people of Houston were at war. While it might have been an undeclared conflict, it was a struggle for survival nonetheless.
Some of the board members had been hesitant to approve the escape plan, many voicing concerns over such a bold move. It was aggressive, confrontational, an act of war. Taylor had been passionate in his response. “We, as a people, have been abandoned, shunned, and left to die by our brothers and sisters. We, the survivors, have learned to value freedom and personal liberty above all else. I fought for the flag that now flies over the wall of our prison, offered my life to defend the country that has falsely incarcerated us. I lost my oldest son in Iraq, my youngest in Afghanistan, both of them fighting to defend those who have casually thrown us to the wolves of starvation and sickness, denying all of us basic human dignity. So my vote, ladies and gentlemen, is to use our resources and defend our rights. Think of the impact to our people. Consider the boost in morale if the plan works. We are sending a message that we won’t go down without a fight…. We are letting the world know that freedom still has meaning in Houston, Texas. We are telling all of the desperate souls who look to us for leadership that their rights as freeborn Americans are our absolute top priority.”
And it was true.
To the people of Houston, sick or not, the federal government’s actions had been unforgivable. The suffering, anger, and frustration resulted in a transformation of the average citizen’s mindset. Freedom became the religion of the survivors, personal liberty the most important aspect of their miserable lives. As food became scarce, the running expression had been, “I’d rather be scrawny and free, than a well-fed slave.”
When the neighborhood riots had morphed to city-wide violence and anarchy, people reminded themselves that they weren’t suffering as much as the patriots in the Revolutionary War. They comforted each other, comparing their scared, huddled, existence to Washington’s Army at Valley Forge.
For weeks, the funeral pyres illuminated the night skies. Despite the intermittent availability of cell phones or any other medium of communication, everyone knew what that distant glow on the horizon meant. “I might be fuel for tomorrow evening’s bonfire, but I’m alive today,” was repeated all over the city.
As he approached the now-home industrial park, Taylor paused to scan his surroundings. He was proud of the citizens of Houston, more so than any group of men he’d ever led into battle.
The colonel’s positive outlook was further bolstered by the previous night’s operation. Being on the offensive was reassuring to any military officer, but he knew they had accomplished more than just a minor jailbreak or providing a morale-boosting buzz within the community.
No, Colonel Jack Taylor, USMC, retired, was well aware that his side had just fired over 200 human missiles at the enemy. He was absolutely cognizant of the ramifications, comfortable with the weapons of mass destruction he’d unleashed on his foe.
Turning to the northeast, he faced Washington while a vision of the Pentagon filled his mind. “I just dropped the hammer on your sorry asses, and you don’t even know it yet. You will, you traitorous bastards… you’ll soon figure it out. And when you’re knee deep in bodies, when you’re watching your loved ones bleed through their eyes, I’m going to make sure nothing like this ever happens again.”
Chapter 3
Anna and Paige McMillian had never been so happy. Riding north toward Dallas, the two sisters couldn’t seem to stop smiling. Their father shared in the joy, his beaming grin and light-hearted banter adding to the festive atmosphere.
The two girls had spent most of the night hiding from the army, utilizing the tips and tricks taught to all of the escapees by the colonel’s men. “Stay in the tree lines. Don’t cross open fields. Keep your blankets and wool mats away from your body so they can’t see you on infrared. Move slowly. Be quiet,” the instructors had preached over and over again.
Their father had been waiting right where the HAM radio operators had said he would be. Despite being muddy, wet, tired and hungry, the trio had enjoyed a reunion unlike anything the family had ever experienced. Now they were going home.
“Sorry this is taking so long, kiddos, but I want to take the back roads just in case the authorities are looking for you guys. I’ll have you home and safe soon,” Mr. McMillan said.
“I’m going to take a long, hot bath with soap,” Anna declared. “I’ve not had any shampoo or toothpaste in over a month.”
Paige was more interested in food. “I want a cheeseburger dripping with onions. And French fries! Lots and lots of fries!”
Mr. McMillian navigated his pickup north, the mood in the cab changing as the country miles passed by.
“We can’t forget those people back in Houston,” Anna noted to her sister, the initial burst of euphoria wearing off. “What the government did to us wasn’t right, and we can never forget that.”
“You girls are free of all that now,” responded Mr. McMillian. “I hope with time, you can put all of that behind you.”
“That’s going to be difficult, Daddy,” responded her sister. “What they’ve done is worse than the Japanese internment camps during WWII. I felt like I was an Indian being forced to stay on a reservation and then starved to death.”
“More like a German concentration camp if you ask me. Only we had Ebola rather than gas chambers,” Anna said.
“You girls need to be careful,” their father warned. “Technically, we’re all criminals now. I know you want to make things better for all those poor people back there, but you won’t be able to accomplish anything if you’re in jail.”
Mr. McMillian’s sobering words put a damper on the elation, the cab growing quiet as they continued north. It was Page who finally broke the silence. “Dad’s right; we have to be careful. But that’s not going to deter me from doing what I believe is right. I am never going to sleep well until those people back in Houston see justice.”
“I’m proud of you girls for wanting to make things better. You’ve both been headstrong about that sort of thing since you were little. But don’t think you have to take this all on by yourselves. Why, just yesterday, I saw news reports of a massive protest being organized in Washington. One of the reporters said it was going to be the largest demonstration the capital has seen since the Vietnam War. It sounds like a lot of people have realized how abusive and out of control the whole Ebola thing has become.”
Paige perked up at her father’s words. “When is this demonstration supposed to happen?”
“Now, Paige, I know that look. Your mother and I haven’t seen or heard from you girls for weeks, and you’re already thinking of running off on some crusade. I think they said the demonstration was next weekend, but I can’t be sure. But I beg you… want you to understand your mother has been a wreck since the quarantine. Stay with us. Be safe. Don’t think you have to take on the world right now.”
Realizing her father was right, Paige leaned across and kissed him on the cheek. “I’m sorry, Daddy. I know you and mom went through a lot to get us out of that hellhole. I’m not going to do anything but eat, sleep, and hug both of you for quite a while.”
“For once I’m glad dad spent all that time sequestered in the garage with his radios,” Anna chimed in. “It used to hurt my feelings that you spent so much time playing with your HAM gadgets and talking to people we would never see or know. Now, I’m awful thankful you did.”
“Your mother and I would ha
ve gone completely insane if it hadn’t been for those transmissions. After the military started randomly jamming the Houston operators, I thought your mother was going to have a heart attack. We had no idea what was going on… if anybody was still alive… it was horrible.”
“How did the operators get through?” Paige asked. “I’ve been wondering about that since we found out about the escape plans.”
“I think the guys down in Houston made it difficult for the military to block their transmissions. I know they kept changing frequencies, and at one point they were using some awfully powerful signal boosters. Speculation is that they tied into one of the big AM radio stations down there and were overriding the army’s portable jammers.”
Everyone went quiet again, the conversation reminding the family about all they had endured over the past months. As she watched the Texas countryside zip by the window, Paige couldn’t let go of the injustice her sister and she had experienced. It made her angry beyond words. She could feel the familiar rage building inside when her thoughts were interrupted by her father’s voice.
“Oh, shit,” snapped the driver, nodding with his head toward a police car approaching from the opposite direction.
The deputy sheriff passed by, the officer clearly staring at the McMillian pickup as it passed. Anna and Paige followed the patrol car with their eyes, both girls uttering curses when they saw the brake lights engaged.
“Shit!” Anna exclaimed from the crew cab’s back seat, her head turned to watch the cop making a quick 3-point turn. “He’s going to pull us over.”
“Stay cool,” Mr. McMillian advised. “He might be just checking my plates or something.”
Paige’s voice was full of fear. “I’m not going back there, Daddy,” she said in a low tone. “I’m never going to let them send me back.”
They all watched as the police cruiser closed the distance. A sudden thought occurred to Mr. McMillian.
Reaching quickly to open the truck’s center console, his hand sought the radio equipment mounted inside. With his eyes darting between the road and a mass of knobs and buttons, the cab was soon filled with the static of an empty radio frequency.