The Shift: Book II of the Wildfire Saga

by Marcus Richardson

  Boatner chimed in: “This thing just kept coming. Every time we thought we had a handle on it, it drifted." He shook his head. “Now that the North Koreans have genetically modified it…”

  Daniels nodded. “The stupid sons of bitches. I can't believe they used this particular strain. Asia was hit harder than the rest of the planet combined—"

  Boatner cleared his throat. “I think Major Alston is right. We need to try to do something. We might as well try manipulating the antiviral drugs we have on hand.”

  Daniels rubbed his chin. “Well, we’re getting more shipped in every day as what's left of the National Command Authority finishes relocation to Denver. It might not be a bad idea.”

  Boatner shook his head and turned away from the window. He paced his cell like a caged animal, muttering to himself. “What am I saying? Monkeying with antivirals? It won't make a difference.” He stopped pacing and seemed to ponder a crack in the wall. “That didn’t work before, it just wasted time and resources.”

  “But it’s better than doing nothing,” said Brenda.

  “I’m telling you," Boatner replied, "without the antibodies in Mr. Huntley's blood, we can't effectively combat this thing. At best, we might be able to give people a 50-50 chance—"

  “Then that's what we've got to do." Daniels turned to regard her with a cool gaze. She ignored him. "Right now, just down the hall from here is a warrior who risked his life to rescue President Denton—and me—and he was infected as a result. He rescued you, Maurice,” she said, pointing Boatner at through the window. “I cannot just stand here and watch him die. If you don’t think it can be done, then tell me where to find the antivirals to modify and I'll work on them myself!"

  General Daniels looked from Brenda to Boatner. "I like her."

  Boatner flashed a lopsided grin. "Reminds you a lot of us ten years ago, doesn't she, Albert?”

  Daniels regarded her carefully. Brenda returned his stare with a cool gaze of her own. The General folded his arms across his chest. "All right—you've got it. Blank check, Major. Whatever you need, you come find me—I’ll authorize it. You've got SEALs and wounded Marines, you've got infected civilians from topside—all the test subjects you’ll need. I don't think any one of them will worry about signing consent forms right now. Hell, half of them have already tried to cough up their lungs."

  “How many?” asked Boatner.

  “At last count we had nineteen infected down here. Seven appear to be entering the early stages of ARDS. They’re beyond help. The best we can do is make them comfortable until…”

  Acute Respiratory Distress Syndrome was the final stage in the infected body’s doomed fight against the virus. Brenda closed her eyes. She knew first hand what ARDS looked like: her parents had each died in her arms, gasping for breath that would not come. Their lungs had been turned into a battlefield by their own immune systems in a last-ditch attempt to knock out the virus. Her mother had complained of the burning in her chest around gasps for air.

  Scorched Lung. Another name for The Pandemic. Brenda gritted her teeth. She wouldn’t stand by and let this happen again—she couldn’t. The memory of her parents—of Derek coughing up blood in his bed—wouldn’t let her give up. Anyone who reached the ARDS stage already had one foot in the grave.

  "I've looked at the results from the tests we conducted on your SEAL,” Boatner said as he studied the lab report. “There’s a curious note here.” He pointed at one of the readouts and held it up to the window. “The SEAL claims he was never infected ten years ago, correct?"

  "It's what Cooper—Lt. Braaten told me,” Brenda said.

  The General ignored her and moved to the window so he could read the paper Boatner still held. “Are you thinking what I think you’re thinking?”

  Boatner nodded. "The 2427 sample. The numbers look almost exactly alike."

  Daniels shook his head. "We only had at best a 50% survival rate, Maurice—"

  “Well, if I'm reading this report right and he picked up the flu in Boston—not Los Angeles,” Boatner said, throwing a glance at Brenda. “This will be worse. We’re going to see only a 10% natural survival rate. What’s he got to lose?"

  “Has he presented with ARDS yet?"

  Brenda shook her head. The 2427 Sample? What are they talking about? “No, sir. He's just now beginning to have pulmonary difficulties. So far, he’s only presented with a high fever and the usual debilitating aches and pains. A minor cough. His blood-oxygen levels are still what I’d call acceptable, given the circumstances.”

  Boatner rubbed his eyes. "Okay, we’ve got a game plan—we repeat what we did with the 2427 Sample during The Pandemic."

  “I’m sorry, the what?” asked Brenda.

  “Patient 2427—Geraldine Hicks—she survived The Pandemic,” said General Daniels. “We tweaked the best antiviral we had at the time and it worked. It only worked in a small percentage of cases, but it was the biggest gain we made until Mr. Huntley was found. It’s not much…”

  “That’s good enough for me,” said Brenda. “At least it’s a chance.”

  “Agreed,” added Boatner. “Let’s get to work.”

  CHAPTER 22

  Brikston, Kentucky.

  HUNTLEY NARROWED HIS EYES at the brick building and ducked back around the corner when someone pulled on his shoulder.

  "Sir, I really need you to stay back.” Captain Alston leaned against the wall and adjusted his helmet with a slightly trembling hand. “Peeking your head around corners is a great way to get it shot off.”

  "This place gives me the creeps," Huntley complained.

  Alston had to admit, the town was a little unsettling. "Look, please stay back at the other end of the building. At least wait until my men have cleared the area. We don't know what we’re walking into."

  "Looks to me like a set from The Walking Dead," muttered Chad.

  The bone phone in Alston’s ear broke squelch with Garza’s voice: “2-1 Actual, Golf. I got bodies in the street up here.”

  "You know the drill," warned Alston. "No contact. Keep your distance. This place has been hit hard—we don't want anyone to get sick." He clamped his jaw shut to stifle a cough. It was getting harder and harder to hide his illness. He worried that Garza suspected, but so far the medic hadn’t said a word. After all, there was nothing anyone could do about it until they made it back to Colorado. If he was sick, everyone around him—except Huntley—was probably infected, too.

  Alston knew Huntley was watching him. He stared back at the younger man. I know I look sick, buddy. Just keep it to yourself. Huntley looked like he was about to say something, but thought better of it and closed his mouth instead.

  Alston gave a brief nod and adjusted his grip on his rifle. A sudden wave of perspiration washed over his body as his fever came back. The shakes came and went at random, but he knew they’d only get worse. So far, he felt able to function as a leader, but he didn’t know how much longer he could continue. He paused an awful lot to lean against buildings as they worked their way through town. It wasn’t a good sign. Probably infecting everyone around me…if they’re not already sick.

  Alston shouldered his M4 and scanned across Main Street. Brikston, Kentucky. He thought Huntley was right. It did look like the set of a Hollywood zombie flick.

  They'd found the remnants of a police barricade across the main road leading into town as they had exited the forest. It'd only been a five or six mile hike, but his charges were completely exhausted. It didn’t help that he worried he’d fall flat on his face if they tried to go around the town. He was at the end of his rope. If they didn’t find transport in Brikston, he was handing over the reins to Gunny Morin. He had no choice but to seek temporary refuge in the town.

  Alston glanced down the street the way they'd come. There were a few bloated bodies here and there, but for the most part the town was deserted. They had not seen a single living soul since they stepped over the town line. Alston had kept them moving, skipping from building to bui
lding as they worked their way through town. Uncollected trash blocked alleys.

  Movement out of the corner of his eye drew Alston’s attention back across the street in the direction that Garza had scouted. For a second, hope flared inside his chest—perhaps it was a survivor. But no, it was just the wind stirring up a paper sign plastered to the side of a five-and-dime. Alston raised his carbine to his shoulder and peered through the ACOG scope.

  Remember, wear your mask.

  It's the law!

  He lowered his rifle and shuffled to the corner of the building. He took a deep breath and leaned his head around the corner. No movement, no signs of life. On the other side of a Toyota 4Runner, immediately in front of their position, he saw a woman face down in the street. Her skin had turned a mottled blue-gray and a dried brown stain marred the street around her head. When she’d gone out, she’d been messy. The stench was horrific. He’d never smelled something so bad before. Alston suppressed the fear that his fate would be similar soon.

  “Between the garbage they left laying around and all these bodies, this place reeks,” muttered Deuce’s voice over the radio. “Sooner we get out of here, the better.”

  “Hooah. It wasn't nearly this bad at Salmon Falls,” observed Zuka in a whisper behind Alston.

  "It hasn't been this bad since the damned Pandemic," replied Alston. He felt the mucus in the back of his throat and tried hard not to gag. It was getting worse. He cleared his throat. “Now cut the chatter.”

  "I got nothing, Cap. I think this place is D-E-D, dead. No signs of looting, just bodies and empty cars. Most of the shops are still intact, some even have open doors. I've checked a few. There's nobody here, but we got a decent amount of supplies. We could do worse, sir.”

  Alston stood up, feeling the burn in his legs. As the breeze shifted, the sickly-sweet odor of decay assaulted his nose once more. He grimaced and rubbed his face with the back of his sleeve, hoping to kill the scent with dried mud and soot from their march. He stifled a yawn and blinked to clear his vision. They needed to find shelter and food. He needed meds. The wounded Marines that they’d been dragging along on makeshift litters needed rest, most of all. He glanced at the late afternoon sky and saw dark clouds on the western horizon.

  Where the hell did those come from? Dammit, I’m losing my focus. I should have seen that storm…

  “We need to find some shelter before that storm hits. I want us inside and secured before sundown." He turned to the line of Marines, Rangers, and two civilians spread out along the side of the deserted hardware store. "All right, everybody, we’re moving. I want you all to keep your eyes open. Move in pairs, don't touch anything, and for God’s sake, be quiet. First sign of trouble you hit the deck. You get me?" he whispered.

  He pointed at Deuce and the big Ranger took point. He trotted past Alston and led the group under the awnings of abandoned stores along the street. Deuce walked forward at a normal pace, his weapon at the ready. He searched every window, seeking threats. Next came Zuka, limping along and covering the far side of the street. Two Marines followed, then Huntley and his girl, followed by six more Marines, carrying the wounded. Satisfied that everyone was in good marching order, Alston stepped around the and brought up the rear. Soon enough, he spotted Garza, waiting two blocks away, next to a red pickup truck.

  "I don't like the way those clouds look, Actual,” Garza said.

  As Alston stepped between two buildings, he looked west into the darkening sky. The storm was moving fast. The lower clouds looked so dark they were almost black. He felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. Get real, what are the chances of getting hit by a tornado in November? He glanced at the sky again and frowned. On the other hand…stranger things have happened—like getting shot down in a plane full of Marines over Kentucky by Russians.

  "Golf, we need to find temporary quarters most riki tic.“

  "Already there.” As the group approached, Garza stood and walked across the street, giving a bloated corpse in the middle of the road wide berth.

  Alston leaned next to a crumpled 4-door sedan and tried to hide how desperately he needed to catch his breath. Gunnery Sergeant Morin jogged forward and took a long look at Alston. His eyes narrowed and he turned to Garza.

  Alston winced. He knows. Damn.

  "What you got in mind?" asked Gunny Morin.

  "Just up the street, a block to the west," Garza said making a hatchet motion with his hand. "Got a church—looks in pretty good shape. Clear field of fire all around. I'm thinking that’s the most secure place we've seen so far.”

  Alston forced himself to stand free of the car and blinked away the spots in his vision. He wasn't immediately thrilled with the idea of hiding in a church, since in times of sickness and crisis a lot of people might gather there. That could get messy. He glanced around, examining the deserted shops that lined Main Street. They all had large windows. The church looked like their best option.

  Alston nodded, relenting. “Put on your Sunday best, folks.”

  A gust of warm wind buffeted them and stirred the trash. The odors that encircled the little group were extraordinary. Alston had been in some pretty rough spots around the world as far as sanitation was concerned, but this was a whole new experience. One of the Marines gagged and doubled over to dry heave next to a parked car. The others looked on, not even bothering to ridicule him.

  “Oh my, God,” groaned Huntley. “That smell!”

  Garza made a face and turned away. "Storms comin’ in quick, sir.” He coughed. “This is just nasty.”

  “It’s like your cooking,” muttered Deuce.

  “Besa mi culo, puto!”

  Deuce laughed and slapped Garza on the shoulder. After a moment, the smaller Ranger grinned.

  “What did he say?” asked Huntley.

  “He told him to kiss his ass,” replied one of the Marines with a smile.

  Alston cleared his throat. They were wasting time and making noise. Bad ideas behind enemy lines. Alston stepped into the middle of his charges. "Sgt. Garza will check out that church,” Alston said, pointing down the street. “If it looks clear, we’ll make it our new base of operations. It's not a five-star resort, but I think it's the best we can do under the circumstances."

  Garza tested the front door, found it unlocked, and disappeared inside the building. The medic reappeared a moment later, looked around, and flashed a thumbs-up. “All clear. Got one body inside.”

  Thunder rumbled in the distance. Alston looked up. Time was running out. They needed to get off the streets and do it soon. If the Russians sent ground forces after them, their first stop would be Brikston.

  Before signaling to move out, Alston checked the magazine in his rifle. Everything was good to go and ready for action. He coughed and looked over his troops. Gunny Morin met his eye and Alston stifled a curse. He knows now, too.

  Alston’s men formed a protective ring around Chad and 13. The Marines grouped in a similar formation around their wounded comrades. All of them wore grim faces and gripped their rifles tight. No eyes rested in any one spot for too long. Everyone was alert and wary. That was exactly what Alston wanted.

  "Actual, Golf. This place is clear. I'm on the northwest side—I see movement down the street. Recommend you hustle.”

  That was all the motivation Alston needed. “We are Oscar Mike." He stood up. "Let's go, everybody, on the double.”

  Alston led his group down the street to the church as quickly as their injuries would allow. The wind began to pick up and bits of trash and leaves swirled in little eddies across the street and down alleys. The smell was absolutely atrocious, buffeting them like a physical presence. There were two bodies in the street near the entrance.

  Garza held the door open as the Rangers led Chad and his charge into the darkness. The Marines quickly followed suit and after one final check to make sure the coast was clear, Alston stepped inside the vestibule and shut the door against the gathering storm. He peered through the closest window and
the view outside quickly darkened. The first fat raindrops splattered against the window like a bug hitting a car windshield. Thunder shook the church to its foundation.

  Just in time.

  He stepped through the vestibule and closed the heavy wooden inner doors behind him before walking into cool, putrid air of the nave. His first order of business would be to remove that body by the altar. Then he’d secure the perimeter, post guards, and take stock of their supplies.

  Alston looked around the shadow-filled nave. It wasn’t an ideal defensive position, but the church would have to do. “Zuka, Deuce," he called out. “Mr. Huntley, you too, please.”

  "Over here, sir,” said Zuka, up by the altar.

  “Found the priest,” added Deuce, looking at the body. “This place needs an air freshener.” The sound of his voice was swallowed by the cavernous sanctuary.

  "You two secure all the exterior doors. Make sure everything is locked and barricaded with whatever you can find." He turned to one of the Marines. "Corporal, you go with them."

  "Yes, sir." The Marine shouldered his weapon and moved off across the church, his footsteps muffled by the blue commercial-grade carpeting. As soon as he’d turned his back, Alston coughed into his elbow.

  “Mr. Huntley, could you move the priest’s body outside?”

  “Me?” he said, glancing at the limp form by the altar.

  “Yes, sir. You can’t get sick, right?” Huntley nodded. “Then you’re the only one here who can do it without getting infected.”

  Huntley clenched his jaw and took a deep breath. “You’re right. I’ll get him outside.” He moved off toward the altar.

  Alston turned back to Garza as Huntley reached down to grab the dead priest. "Garza, make sure our wounded are comfortable and find a place for our HVTs."

  "The priest’s vestry is up there behind the altar," suggested Garza, watching Huntley drag the corpse around a statue of the Virgin Mary toward the emergency exit.