The Shift: Book II of the Wildfire Saga

by Marcus Richardson

  “You are too,” he said, gently touching the streak of red on her forehead.

  “My leg is worse,” she said. “I don’t know if I can walk on it.”

  "We got time for that later, lovebirds," Garza growled. "Let's go, the path is clear—we need to make like Elvis and leave the building.”

  Chad helped 13 navigate the tangled guts of the doomed aircraft as they gingerly stepped over seats and equipment. They worked their way toward the ramp and limped out into the bright autumn sun.

  Chad blinked as his eyes adjusted. They supported each other as they both limped away from the wreckage. They were in the middle of a forest, surrounded by massive oaks, elegant beeches, and bushy pines. Birches were interspersed among the other trees—a few distinctive golden leaves still clinging to their branches. Everywhere he looked he saw faded glory—autumn rapidly retreating in the face of the coming winter.

  Slowly he turned and took in the destruction around him. The Osprey had left a ragged scar in the landscape as if someone had taken a giant chainsaw and sliced out a chunk of the forest. Smoking branches and burning leaves lay scattered in all directions. A few of the pine trees in the distance were on fire, a parting gift from the Osprey as it barreled through the canopy.

  He turned around and watched Captain Alston leading the effort to remove equipment and weapons from the burning wreckage. A finger of thick, black smoke pointed up into the clear blue sky. Anyone chasing them would have no trouble finding the crash site.

  “Hey, get back, sir—we got this,” said Sgt. Garza. “Take her over to that tree until I can check you guys out.”

  They took a few more hobbling steps away from the Osprey before he finally saw the full extent of the damage. What remained of the left wing was almost perpendicular to the ground. Bits of twisted metal and wires were strewn along the path the Osprey had taken through the trees. He wondered if somewhere back there a wing and an engine were stuck in a tree.

  The airframe itself looked like a piece of crumpled paper tossed aside by a careless child. The front half of it was engulfed in flames and smoke. Bright orange fire shot out from the cockpit. Black smoke billowed through the cargo ramp at the rear. It didn’t look like anyone in the cockpit could have possibly survived.

  Chad helped 13 limp into the shade of a large oak tree still bearing its red and brown leaves. He eased her gently down against its grooved trunk and knelt next to her wincing in pain.

  "Are you okay?" she asked. "Your ribs," she murmured and reached out a hand to tentatively touch his side.

  Chad instinctively turned away and winced again. "I'm okay," he gasped, short of breath. It didn't hurt too bad if he didn’t breathe. "I just got banged up a bit when we landed.” He forced a weak smile. “I’ll be okay. Honestly, my shoulders hurt more," he said as he rubbed his left shoulder. "The seat straps cut into me like razor blades.”

  He gingerly reached forward and brushed the blonde hair from her forehead. She looked up in surprise and quickly glanced away.

  "You are very kind," she said quietly.

  "Mr. Huntley!" called out Alston.

  Chad cursed his luck.

  The tall Ranger strolled over through the leaves, his eyes never resting on one spot but constantly scanning through the forest. "I need to have Garza take a look at those ribs, now.”

  Chad turned to look back at 13. "Are you gonna be okay?" he asked.

  She half-chuckled and nodded. "I will be fine. Go, you are injured more than I. More important.”

  Alston helped Chad get to his feet and limp to Garza, who was triaging one of the Marines. Garza slapped a bandage on the Marine’s leg and wrapped it tight with elastic tape from the first aid kit. He turned his attention to Chad. “Let’s see your chest, sir."

  Chad gingerly lifted his shirt as Alston whistled. "Yeah, something sure smacked the shit out of you," he said.

  Garza gently applied pressure in the exact spot that hurt the most.

  “Damn," Chad hissed.

  "That hurt?"

  Chad closed his eyes to fight the pain. "Hell yes!"

  "Does it hurt to breathe, sir?" asked Garza. He stepped back and folded his arms.

  "A little," Chad muttered. “But not as much as before we got out of the plane.” He lowered his shirt and rolled his shoulders to adjust the bones inside. “I’ve certainly felt better," he said. The soldiers stared at him with stony expressions.

  Garza shook his head. “I don't think anything is broken, but he may have cracked some ribs.”

  “Will he be able to keep up?” asked Alston.

  Garza shrugged. "We need to get him to see a doctor, maybe get some x-rays. Sorry, sir, there’s not a hell of a lot I can do for him at the moment, other than wrap it.”

  Alston nodded. "Roger that," he said.

  Garza pulled out an ACE bandage. “Hold your shirt up as best you can, sir. I’ll have you wrapped up real quick.” He wrapped Chad’s chest as he talked, “This will keep your ribs from moving too much. It may feel a little tight right now, but you’ll be better off with it than without.”

  Alston looked at Chad as Garza finished wrapping the bandage and secured the end. "You think you're good to walk?"

  Chad looked around at the wreckage, the smoke, and the forest that surrounded them. "I don't suppose I have a choice, do I?"

  Alston looked around as well. "None of us do. Garza’s got a few men left to treat, then we’ll be Oscar Mike. The pilot spotted a town not too far from here before we went down. Well,” he said, hands on his hips as he looked about, “if we went down anywhere near there. The pilot’s the only one who could tell us that…”

  Guilt washed over Chad. He’d been so concerned over 13 and his own safety he’d forgotten to ask if anyone else had been seriously hurt. “Who… I mean, how many…"

  Alston stood silent for a moment. “We lost the flight crew and two Marines in the crash. Zuka’s leg got tore open again and Deuce got banged on the head—”

  “Well, that won’t be a problem—he doesn't have anything up there to begin with…" snickered Garza as he repacked his medical kit.

  "Fuck you!" echoed across the clearing.

  Alston laughed. "Well, it certainly hasn’t affected his hearing."

  “Radio works fine, sir!" yelled Deuce from his sentry position on the other side of the aircraft.

  "Evidently," Alston said. The smile faded from his face. He excused himself and let Garza get back to the wounded Marines.

  Chad limped over to 13 and crouched next to her with a sigh. "We’ve got a few minutes while Garza finishes up, then we’re going to get out of here."

  "Do we know where the Russians are?” asked 13.

  Chad shrugged. "Captain Alston said something about the pilot seeing a small town from the air. Once he gets his bearings, he's going to lead us in that direction, I think." Chad shrugged again. "I don't even know what state we’re in…"

  13 leaned her head back against the tree and closed her eyes with a sigh. The pain slowly melted from her face as she relaxed in the embrace of the ancient tree trunk. “Sleep…” she murmured. “Right here…"

  Chad heard footsteps and turned to see Garza tromping through the leaves with his first aid kit. He knelt next to 13. "Ma'am? Excuse me, but I'm gonna need you to keep your eyes open…"

  13's eyes fluttered. "What? Why?" she asked, suspicion creeping into her voice.

  Garza held up one gloved finger and moved it back and forth in front of her eyes. Chad watched as her eyes struggled to track the movement.

  "Because, I think you might have a concussion. It's not safe for you to fall asleep right now.” Garza shined a penlight in her eye and brushed some of the hair back from her forehead. He clicked off the light and noticed a faint smear of blood on his hand. "Yeah, you've got some bleeding up here, ma'am."

  Chad's heart raced. “Is she going to be okay?” he asked, his hand already intertwined with hers. He felt her squeeze reassuringly.

  "Oh, I think she sho
uld be fine, but she's in for one hell of a headache in a few hours,” Garza chuckled as he applied a bandage to her head. He handed her his canteen. "Here, ma'am. Drink plenty of water." He looked at Chad. "You too. And make sure that she doesn't fall asleep, sir. We’re gonna have us a long walk and she needs to keep up."

  "You think the Russians will come after us?"

  Garza stood and took the canteen back. He picked up his first aid kit and slung it over his shoulder. "No," he said. "I think they’ll come after you."

  CHAPTER 21

  Denver, Colorado.

  Emergency National Reserve Operations Center.

  The Cave.

  BRENDA LOOKED THROUGH THE thick safety glass and watched Dr. Boatner adjust his glasses. She’d expected him to be more regal. An elder statesman. The man she watched was slightly pudgy and balding. She cocked her head and stared. You know, if he had longer hair and put on the right clothes…he almost looks like Benjamin Franklin…

  The intercom next to Brenda’s workstation chirped. “Your work is most impressive, Dr. Alston.”

  She smiled. "Thank you, sir.”

  Boatner removed his glasses and leaned back in his chair. He had been accorded his own private decontamination room complete with a large desk, several computer monitors—each depicting images of different evolutionary phases of the virus—a large refrigerator well stocked with food and drink, a soft bed in the corner, and a private bathroom.

  She looked at her hands and picked at one chipped fingernail. As Boatner reviewed the work she’d done to date, her mind drifted to Cooper. She wondered how he was handling the boredom of the forced quarantine—he still had 24 hours to be declared infection-free. She cupped her hands in her lap to force them to hold still. It was agonizing to wait.

  "Very impressive…it looks like you’ve gathered most of the information that we need to continue our work," Boatner said.

  ‘Our work’. The smile returned to Brenda’s face. Perhaps she wasn’t useless after all.

  He turned and flashed a slight smile before picking up a stack of paper from his desk. “You can confirm the authenticity of this report from…what was his name?“ He frowned and picked up his glasses, “It sure is hell getting old.” He shuffled through a few of the papers while Brenda waited. “Ah, yes, this Mosby character? The CIA man.”

  It was Brenda’s turn to nod. She pushed the intercom button. "Yes, sir, I was briefing President Harris on a possible antigen drift when Director Stylau informed us that they had a person on the ground. I was there in the Office when they brought up a live feed—"

  Boatner grunted. “Of course the CIA has a man on the ground…”

  "The agent we spoke to in Kentucky indicated they had seen 28 fatalities in the last 48 hours, but the infection rate had skyrocketed in town—especially among the hospital staff."

  Boatner mumbled and looked at another sheet of paper in his hand. "That suggests to me the virus is undergoing a rather aggressive drift. There can be no other conclusion.” Boatner looked up from the report. “Tell me, does this remind you of the antigen drifts we went through during the Great Pandemic?"

  Brenda shivered. The tone of his voice, summoning The Pandemic’s history like that—it was creepy as hell. She refused to believe that things would get that bad this time. She pressed the intercom button. "No, sir. I was just out of high school…"

  Boatner sighed. "Just a child. Yet you survived…" His smile was thin and didn’t reach his eyes. "The original virus must've gone through a drift every three weeks or so.” He took his glasses off. "It played hell with projections—we had the damnedest time just trying to keep pace with it. We could never pull ahead.” He smiled blankly at the ceiling. “Not until we found Mr. Huntley."

  It was Brenda's turn to sigh. She had been at the President’s briefing earlier that morning. Word had come in that the Rangers and Mr. Huntley had been shot down somewhere in Kentucky. Brenda turned away from Boatner’s empty stare. She couldn’t think about Derek right now—she couldn’t.

  Was he alive? Was the Source alive? Was all their work in the lab futile—did Cooper risk his life bringing Boatner back for nothing? Without Huntley, the chances of their success were microscopic. She sniffed and wiped at her eyes in frustration. You’re not going to do this right now—you’re just tired. You’ve operated on soldiers during firefights before, remember? Pull it together, Alston.

  "I just wish there was something else we could do…"

  Boatner's tinny voice responded from the other side of the 2 inch-thick glass. "If I had a nickel for every time I heard someone say that ten years ago…"

  Brenda tapped a few keys on her keyboard and brought up the latest image of the mutated virus. She stared at the odd little protein cluster of cones and probes that stuck out from the virus cell. The thing looked so similar to its original shape, but she could tell where they were slightly different. The protein bundles were slightly longer, slightly thicker, more rounded on the ends. "Isn't there anything we can do?"

  She heard Boatner sigh from the other side of the glass. He stood from his chair, the creak muted over the intercom. She watched in silence as he moved across the room and opened the fridge to get a bottle of water. "You know, it's been four days since I've had clean water…” He took a long drink then shut the fridge. He remained staring at the wall above the appliance.

  “When the power went out in Boston on… I think it was a Friday.” He turned to face her. “What day is it? Never mind. The last email I got from campus administration was for everyone to try and fill their bathtubs with water." He took a long swig of the bottled water and smiled. "I've been drinking bath water for four days.” He held the bottle up. “This tastes much better." Brenda waited patiently while he took his chair. “To answer your question, Dr. Alston, there's not a whole hell of a lot we can do. We can watch and we can track, yes—you’re proof of that. But without viable blood samples from Mr. Huntley," he raised his hands in exasperation. "There is no offensive action we can take against this thing. Only defense."

  "Defense?" Brenda asked.

  "Yes, the active risk reduction protocols that the President has authorized—restricting access to public gatherings, shutting down transportation, closing roads, isolating infected cities and the like. These are all things that we tried during the Great Pandemic—indeed, they were the only things that were tried during the Spanish Flu of 1918. None of it works, Dr. Alston. None of it.”

  "Brenda."

  "Very well, Brenda it is. We’ll be working together a lot going forward, so you must call me Maurice."

  Brenda smiled. "Is there anything else I can get you, Maurice? You have enough food and water?"

  "Unless you can suddenly wave your hand and make Mr. Huntley's blood samples appear—or even more miraculous, Mr. Huntley himself," the virologist said as he looked at the computer screens, "I don't think there's anything anyone can do right now…"

  Brenda stretched her arms and heard her spine pop in more than one place. She closed her eyes and sighed in relief. "Well, if you'll excuse me, I’d like to get some shut-eye. There's not much I can do right now, anyway—now that you're here.”

  Before she could stand from her chair, the observation room door opened. General Daniels walked in with two cups of steaming coffee. The smell was heavenly.

  "I hope you weren’t heading out to get some rest?" he asked. He handed Brenda one of the cups. "We've got a lot of work to do."

  The intercom chirped again. “I was wondering when you would make your appearance.”

  Brenda watched as the two old friends exchanged pleasantries through the glass window. She sipped the coffee—it was strong and dark.

  "It’s good to see you Maurice,” said Daniels.

  Boatner grunted again. “After the adventure I've had getting here, I'm just glad to be breathing.”

  The smile fell from the General’s face. "Major, I need you to prep the receiving lab and make sure Level 4 containment protocol is up and runn
ing.”

  Brenda put the coffee down. “What's happened, sir? Did they find Mr. Huntley?"

  "No," said Daniels. "But a detachment of Marines sent on recon in southern California has returned with wounded.” He glanced at Boatner. “Two of them are infected."

  “Damn it,” muttered Boatner.

  Brenda sighed. "Is anyone topside going to take our recommendations on troop safety seriously? Do they not understand that officers need to make sure their men are wearing masks and gloves—"

  “There's a possibility that we’re looking at a new variant."

  The statement went off like a bomb in the room. Brenda felt her breath catch in her throat. She glanced at Boatner who stared at Daniels.

  “This is just like before…” muttered Boatner.

  "This is worse than before," said Daniels. "We're getting reports of severely drifted strains—two of them, now—in Europe. Personally, I think it’s already shifted.”

  "Wait—two new drifts? In Europe?” asked Boatner.

  “Berlin,” said Daniels, “Frankfurt, too, and a new case in Brussels.” He put his half-empty coffee on the desk. “All of Europe will be exposed before we know it. It won’t be long now…”

  “You’re thinking a Wildfire Event?” asked Boatner in a quiet voice.

  General Daniels nodded. “W.H.O. announced late last night they’ve confirmed two distinct strains in Europe. German soldiers fleeing Boston brought it back to Berlin and now it’s spreading faster than anyone expected.” The General looked at Brenda.

  "If this thing keeps spreading and changing at this rate," said Daniels, his hands on his hips, "your theory of an ELE might right.”

  "Well, that may be, we can’t just sit here and do nothing," said Brenda. She put her hands into the deep pockets on her lab coat. "We've got to try to do something, anything. We have—"

  “Major, we have nothing. Without Mr. Huntley's blood, or at least the samples that we had taken years ago…" He shrugged. "The original virus was adept at blocking everything we threw at it ten years ago. And when I say everything, I mean everything. We pooled the resources of not only the United States, but the United Nations.”