by JE Gurley
Finally, Evers spoke, “As you are aware, the flu epidemic has become a major threat to our country’s infrastructure. What you do not know is that over one-third of our armed forces are out of commission due to illness.” He waited as a collection of gasps passed through the room. “We have been placed on high alert in case our enemies use this epidemic as a ruse to attack. There have been rumors of a bloody coup and heavy fighting in Mexico where millions are now infected. Tens of thousands of people are moving north toward our borders.”
“We’re going to nuke illegal immigrants?” a voice called out.
Evers scanned the room but could not identify the speaker, who wisely chose to remain anonymous. “We are not attacking illegal immigrants. We are defending our country from a foreign invasion. Our infrastructure is crumbling. Our hospitals are bursting at the seams with the sick and the dying. Do you want your friends, your families, to wait in line behind illegal aliens, most likely themselves carriers of the disease, for medical treatment?” No one spoke up. “I see. We have not been ordered to go mobile. I repeat we are merely on high alert. ”
No one seemed to grasp the subtlety of the difference, including Vince. The idea of massacring tens of thousands of innocent civilians whose only crime was trying to avoid a war was inhumane. If things were as bad as Evers claimed, what difference did a horde of sick Mexicans make?
The news did not get any better as the hours progressed. Tensions mounted in the command center with each incoming coded message. The President had declared Martial Law for most major cities. All commercial airports and seaports were closed. Rail transport and most highway transportation was limited or had ceased altogether. As little as they knew, they still knew more about the rest of the country than they did about what was happening twenty-five miles away in Tucson or ninety-five miles north in Phoenix. Vince watched Mears grow more and more frantic about her little girl. He also noticed Major Evers’ clenched fists slowly pounding the armrests of his chair as he rocked back and forth. Their commander was slowly losing it. How a simpleton had ever gotten command of a front line nuclear facility had always amazed Vince. Evers’ spit and polish ways belied his fear of decision-making. Vince had known officers like him, men who had ‘yes-sir’ and ass-kissed their way into authority. Now, God help them all, he was in charge of nuclear weapons.
When the siren erupted into life, once again, Vince almost soiled his pants. He looked on in mute horror as the nuclear readiness board flashed DEFCON 1. Now we’re really and truly screwed, he mused.
4
Jeb Stone sat in his Explorer outside the gates of Medical Preparedness Facility 25-AZ wondering what his next move would be. For two long, exhausting days, he had been demanding to speak with the base commander and to see his wife and son. So far, all his requests had been ignored. He had briefly considered ramming his truck through the gates, but the heavily armed soldiers standing beside them looked as though they would frown upon such practices in a severely lethal manner. The only person from whom he had received any type of answer was an old sergeant named Hennessey. When pressed, Hennessey had acknowledged that a woman and child matching Karen and Josh’s descriptions had entered the camp within hours of Jeb’s returning home, but knew nothing of his son’s condition or present whereabouts. The sergeant’s look of pained sympathy as he glanced at a large, unmarked metal structure inside the security fence unsettled Jeb.
Jeb could see men, women and a few children wandering the camp like ghosts stalking a familiar haunt, and like specters, they moved with no purpose, no life. The faces beneath the floodlights were devoid of expression, emotionless. The large, pre-fabricated metal building inside the perimeter to which the sergeant had referred, separated from the trailers by a second fence and metal gate, appeared to be a medical center, but the only people he saw enter or leave were military personnel wearing stark-white biohazard suits.
Finally, disgusted by the army’s lack of cooperation and sensing he was getting nowhere, Jeb cranked his truck and left, deliberately spinning his tires and throwing a plume of gravel in the guard’s direction as a spiteful parting gift. He would have to rethink his approach, find a way through the red tape. His growling stomach reminded him he needed to break his two-day fast. He ignored the traffic lights as he returned home, daring any authorities to try to stop him or any vehicle, of which there were few on the highway, to crash into him. A meal, a shower and a few hours sleep – then he would call Colonel Robert Hinds, manager of the 355th Medical Group at Davis-Monthan Air Base south of Tucson. He and Hinds had graduated Arizona State University together. Hinds had gone on to John Hopkins and the military, while Jeb had finished his studies in psychiatry at Prescott. If anyone knew what was happening with the military, Hinds would.
Although it was still light outside, the inside of the house was dark when he returned. The weather had turned cool and gloomy, further affecting his melancholy mood. The lack of lights immediately reminded him of Karen and her tendency to keep lights on, even when she was not in the room. The silence felt like a vacant hole in his heart where Josh’s boyish laughter once sang. He stood at the door of his son’s empty room for many long minutes, unable to bring himself to turn away and leave. His son’s smell, a combination of Crest toothpaste, L’Oreal kid’s shampoo and peppermint scented Kiss My Face body wash, lingered in the air. A fourth odor, less appealing, was also present. With a shudder, he recognized it as the smell of sickness.
He thought it somewhat ironic that he now had a garage full of food and did not feel like eating. Even his two-day old hunger could not compel him to stand where Karen had so often stood and cooked at the stove. Instead, he grabbed a beer from the fridge and bag of chips from the counter. He realized it was not a wholesome meal, but it would suffice to knock the edge off his appetite. He wiped his greasy fingers on his shirt as he ate; adding to the sweat stains and accumulated grime already there. A shower might help snap him out of his lethargy, but his lethargy prevented him from getting up and showering – a vicious twist of circular logic.
He wandered into his office, sat in his leather recliner and switched on the television, choosing a 24-hour news channel. He was alarmed to see how badly things had deteriorated in the last two days. The east coast was now under Martial Law, as was Chicago, Detroit and Cincinnati. The screen showed ominous scenes of army barricades outside cities, crowds herded like cattle into FEMA camps and thousands of people crowding airports, fighting for seats on airplanes that were no longer flying. It reminded him of some Third World country during a revolution instead of America. The delicate civilized fabric of society was fraying at the edges. Soon, he feared, the big rip would come. Little news managed to leak from the cities under the double onus of Martial Law and medical quarantine. If Ben was right, little would.
The west coast fared little better. The President had also declared Martial Law in LA, San Francisco, San Diego, Seattle and Portland. In San Francisco, the far left City Council had refused to acknowledge the government’s authority and erected barricades on the expressways manned by angry protesters, mostly college students. The army, not known for its diplomacy, promptly destroyed the barricades, killed dozens of protesters that foolishly attacked armed troops with sticks and stones and arrested the remainder. The military detained the City Council and the mayor and occupied City Hall as its regional headquarters, ending the short-lived revolt.
Of Phoenix, Tucson, Las Vegas or Salt Lake City he could learn nothing. It was as if the entire country east of the Sierras and west of the Rockies had disappeared. Two of the local stations were off the air and the others merely repeated government health messages and warnings to remain indoors in looped messages. He could probably learn more by standing on his front patio and looking out over the city. He supposed Tucson would be next to fall under military jurisdiction.
Jeb saw little use in a trip to Davis-Monthan Air Base. He was sure they would never allow him through the gate. He first tried phoning the base, but after repeated a
ttempts, he gave up. The switchboard was not answering. In his frustration at failing to get through, he almost forgot the business card Hinds had given him several years ago. After searching his desk for his misplaced card folder and then digging through it, tossing cards on the floor in his haste, he smiled as he held Hinds’ card out in triumph. He hoped Hinds’ cell phone number hadn’t changed. He tapped his foot impatiently as the phone rang and he sat up straighter in his seat when Hinds answered.
“This is Dr. Hinds,” the familiar gravely throated voice said. “Who is this?”
“Robert. This is Jeb Stone.” He held his breath for several tense heartbeats when Hinds remained silent.
Finally, he said, “This isn’t a good time, Jeb.”
Jeb swore silently. “I realize that, Robert, but this is very important.”
“Okay, Jeb. What is it?”
“It’s Karen and Josh. Josh was ill. Karen took him to Oro Valley and the army sent them to the FEMA camp in Marana. They won’t let me in.”
“How long ago?”
“Two days.”
Jeb could hear several voices in the background as Hinds tried to cover the mouthpiece. When Hinds came back on line, his demeanor had changed. There was no warmth in his voice as he said, “I can’t help you, Jeb. FEMA is outside my jurisdiction.”
“You’ve got to know someone, Robert,” Jeb cried out. “I’m desperate.”
“Jeb, I shouldn’t be telling you this, but things are falling apart everywhere. The mortality rate of the flu is now up to 70 percent. They’re quarantining everyone who falls ill. There’s almost no word out of New York, Boston or Washington. If they have Karen and your son, they’ll keep them. If you go back, they’ll hold you too and you still might not find Karen. Stay away from Marana.” He paused. “Have you had the new vaccine?”
“Yeah, sure,” Jeb answered curious.
“Any symptoms?”
“I was dizzy for a day or two. I’m okay now. Just exhausted and frustrated.” Something in Hinds’ voice alarmed Jeb. “Why?”
“Listen, Jeb. If you can get out of town, into the countryside, do it. Or else, hold up where you are. I don’t know how much longer we can keep order. People are frightened. Hell, I’m frightened.”
A cold chill shot though Jeb’s spine. “What’s going on, Robert?”
“There have been reports of people dying and coming back to life as mindless animals, attacking people, like some horrible zombie nightmare. It’s spreading almost as fast as the damn flu. Beware of Judgment Day . . .”
The connection died. Jeb hit redial, but Hinds did not answer. He didn’t know if some of Hinds’ paranoia was rubbing off on him, but he suspected whoever was in the room with Hinds did not condone the conversation.
“Beware of Judgment Day,” Jeb repeated. “What the hell does he mean?”
He had never thought of Robert Hinds as a religious man. In fact, Hinds had often scoffed openly at Christians’ attempts to keep Christ in Christmas. Hinds had once told him, “Christians co-opted a pagan holiday, declared it Christ’s birthday and demand we all fall down and worship, while foisting the biggest lie on people since the Big Bang – Christmas presents.” Jeb’s own religious beliefs were a hodge-podge mixture of his Catholic upbringing and his early twenties dabbling in Deism. If there were a God and he wanted to destroy the world for some reason, he seemed to be doing a good job of it. However, Jeb doubted Robert Hinds believed in a Judgment Day.
Jeb shook his head in private dismissal. God had nothing to do with this catastrophe. Nature started it and man was doing his best to make things worse. There had always been people who thrived on carnage and disorder. The pages of history filled to overflowing with sad examples. It seemed, no age was spared its share of predators.
His brief, if enigmatic conversation with Robert, convinced him the authorities were lying. Nothing new in that, but now was when the people needed the truth. The truth might create panic, but it could save lives. As usual, the government clung tenaciously to the myth that it was in control of events. In reality, events swept the government along in its wake like the aftermath of a flood, bits of paperwork detritus bearing no relationship to the documents from which they were torn. In an insane bid to protect the people, the government, was responsible for more deaths than the flu. He worried for his son and Karen at the FEMA camp. The same people who deemed themselves above the law of the land, controlled their fate and there seemed to be nothing he could do, short of storming the camp. He imagined that would be a short-lived endeavor.
The days of tension and confusion slowly took their toll on his mind and his body. By the time, he had finished his second beer, his mind felt drained and his muscles refused to cooperate. Leaning back in his chair, he closed his eyes. Just for a moment, he thought, but the weight of his anger and his sense of loss fell upon him like a heavy fog. The beer bottle slipped from his hand and fell to the floor, spilling its contents on the carpet. Within moments, he was asleep.
5
Erin Costner picked absentmindedly at the plate of food in front of her with her fork, oblivious to the taste. She no longer had an appetite. Her stomach remained tied in hard knots from her recent encounter with Elliot Samuels, the regional FEMA director who now appeared to be in charge of the CDC. They had argued about the brutal manner of Lyle Medford’s death. She could not erase the gruesome image from her mind.
Standing beside Samuels, she had watched through a plate glass window as her assistant and colleague had died while strapped ignominiously to a steel table in the morgue. The bite on his cheek from a mad patient, who Samuels claimed was a zombie, had quickly festered in spite of antibiotics. His condition had rapidly worsened as angry red lines of infection spread across his face and torso until, flailing on the table in a horrific spasm of pain, he gasped out his last breath.
At Samuels’ insistence, she had returned with him to the morgue an hour later to witness Medford’s metamorphosis. His death had affected her deeply, but not as deeply as Medford’s sudden ungodly resurrection. She wasn’t sure what she felt when staring at Medford’s dead body, but she was certain she would never be able to purge from her memory the sight of his blood-red eyes opening and gazing directly at her from across the room. His eyes, once so blue and kind, no longer contained a spark of humanity. They were the eyes of an animal, malevolent, wild and hungry. The sounds he made were also inhuman – deep, throaty growls, snarls and mad shrieks. Sick to her stomach, she had rushed from the morgue after Samuels, wearing a biohazard suit that hid his expression, entered the room, produced a pistol and shot Medford in the head at close range. The sound of the shot, barely muffled by the thick glass, still rang in her ears.
“You have to eat something,” Susan said. Distracted by her thoughts, Erin started at her friend’s voice. Susan sat across the table from her, and in spite of her admonition to Erin, her food also remained untouched.
Erin shook her head. “I can’t. It was so cold, like he was shooting a wounded animal.”
Susan knew she was referring to Samuels. “Lyle was dead, Erin. He had to be dead. All the monitors showed he was dead – no heartbeat, no pulse.”
Erin looked up at her. “His eyes opened. He was looking at me.”
“I, I don’t know,” Susan replied. “Perhaps the tissue samples from the autopsy will tell us something.”
Erin shoved her plate away and leaned back in her chair. The guard had been the first to turn, Medford the second. Three army personnel stationed outside the building followed within hours. Their worst nightmare was now a reality – the flu was airborne. One of them could be next. She stared at the ceiling and walls of the small break room and felt them closing in on her, smothering her.
“My God, we’re prisoners here in this damn building,” she moaned, clenching her fists.
Erin noticed Susan looking at her with a vacant expression that worried her. “I saw on the television, before the station went off the air . . . It’s a madhouse out there. P
eople are going crazy, killing each other.” Susan spoke quietly, tightly controlling her emotions, but Erin detected fear in her voice. We have reason enough to be afraid, she thought.
Erin placed her hands on the sides of her head and shook it once. “It’s madness.”
“Madness was developing a more lethal strain of the H5N1virus.”
Erin stared at Susan. “What do you mean?”
“Maybe, Mr. Samuels is right. I don’t think the virus could mutate so quickly unless there were other strains already in the population.”
Erin had considered the possibility, but had dismissed it as too horrible to contemplate. Given recent events, however . . .
“You think someone released the Netherlands strain on purpose?”
“That or someone followed their damn example. Their report is on the internet – what difference does it make? The strains have combined and produced what… a zombie plague?” Susan burst out in tears. “Poor Lyle!”
Erin agreed. Poor Lyle. He had been as close to a friend as Erin had. She had realized long ago that she was not a social butterfly. Her work encompassed her entire world. Friends and family, especially family, were foreign to her. Viruses, she knew. Epidemics, she could deal with, but people were an unfathomable mystery to her. Her daily brief encounters with colleagues and co-workers were a poor substitute for a real life. She had long ago accepted her phobia of close relationships and her social anxiety as part of her character, even considering it an attribute, an advantage in her field. She had risen to the top in her discipline on merit and determination, not through friendship. The tens of thousands of people dying of the plague had not affected her other than as a problem to solve, at least, until Lyle Medford’s death. Then it had suddenly become more personal.
She had never believed that zombies existed.
“They had a lethal strain in Wisconsin,” she reminded Susan. “Did your graph of mortality densities indicate an abnormal cluster there?” She waited a few seconds before adding, “Especially reanimations.”