Chill Factor: Ice Station Zombie 2

by JE Gurley

  Chill Factor:

  Ice Station Zombie

  A novel by JE Gurley

  1

  Aug. 3, Washington, DC

  General Terrence Scott began coughing as soon as he stepped off the MH-60M Blackhawk helicopter. Flinty dust kicked up by the backwash of the rotors tainted the sweltering, muggy Washington air that seemed uncomfortably heavy as he drew it into his lungs. The burnt-tar smell of hot tarmac assaulted his nostrils as the August heat rose in waves from the landing pad. The alabaster-white façade of the Pentagon building danced in the air like a mirage, a child’s balloon floating in the air with no string. The heat was immediately stifling, but it was a welcome relief from the sterile, frigid air at Resurrection City in Oates Land, Antarctica. He could almost smell the sweat from the Capitol building across the Potomac as a divided Congress attempted to rip each other a new asshole, as if Washington needed any more assholes to add to its plethora of useless talent.

  The general stretched his taut muscles, still aching after the weary two-day flight aboard the C-17 Globemaster from Antarctica. His damp shirt beneath his uniform jacket clung to his skin like toilet paper to a shoe heel. He hoped his deodorant lasted just a few hours longer. The six-hour rain delay in Christchurch, New Zealand, had eliminated any chance of even a quick shower before his meeting. He barely had time to eat. The reason for the meeting did not improve his foul mood.

  A sudden wave of nausea swept over him. He stumbled and reached out for the side of the chopper to regain his balance. He glanced at the stub of his expensive Cohiba Esplendido cigar, frowned, and tossed it onto the tarmac at his feet.

  “Damn thing must be tainted,” he mumbled.

  His journey to Antarctica had uncovered some unsettling results. Project Resurrection was not going as well as the Joint Chiefs had hoped. The project manager, Doctor Willis Cromby, was losing control of the situation. Cromby’s outdated ethics refused to allow him to cope with what in Scott’s opinion could be a God-given discovery. Perhaps it was time to replace him with someone a little more ambitious, like John Gilford. Cromby’s ambitious assistant struck him as a completely ruthless and unscrupulous man, exactly the man they needed for the new, unexpected turn of events.

  Scott had watched in awe as the AR-10 serum, designed to rejuvenate dead tissue and stimulate the growth of amputated limbs for soldiers, had brought back to life a dead soldier. He had then recoiled in terror, as the soldier became a mindless, ravenous creature, a flesh-eating zombie. Cromby saw it as a failure. Scott saw it as an opportunity. He knew squat about nanite technology. The idea that microscopic, self-replicating robots could crawl around inside the human body making repairs and encouraging certain cells to regenerate made his skin crawl. He rubbed absentmindedly at a persistent itch in his chest. According to Gilford, the nanites, while failing to remain focused on their original task, had animated the truncus encephala of the corpses, turning them into brainless animals with limited cognitive ability and an insatiable appetite. He rolled his tongue around the word – truncus encephala. It sounded like a damned venereal disease. On the trip back, he had looked up the term on the internet. It meant the brainstem, the part of the brain that controlled motor and sensory functions. He didn’t need a medical degree to oversee projects like Resurrection. For that, he relied on people like Cromby. However, he could appreciate the military applications of the zombies Cromby had inadvertently created.

  The most difficult part of any military operation was logistics. To deliver enough men to do the job required a means of transport, which reduced the chance of surprise and brought with it the added risk of immediate retaliation for the incursion. A single zombie or a small force of zombies, dropped in a strategic location could infiltrate the enemy, killing and infecting others as they went, increasing the number of casualties and of marauding zombies. Any losses would be minimal, since the attackers were dead already. It was an intriguing proposal he was taking back to his superiors, one he hoped brought him the recognition he deserved. At 62, he was near retirement age and wanted another star to add to his shoulder before going into oblivion.

  He checked his watch – two p.m. His meeting with the Joint Chiefs of Staff was scheduled for two-thirty. If he paced himself, he could pass through the countless security checkpoints and walk through the door of the briefing room exactly on time. Punctuality was important. Arriving too early indicated over eagerness; being late spoke of a lack of regard for those who controlled promotions and he wanted that fourth star.

  As he marched toward the Pentagon with his aide, Major Frank Belknap close on his heels, the general suddenly belched loudly. He stopped and patted his stomach. Another wave of nausea swept over him. He wiped the perspiration from his forehead with the back of his hand and turned to the major.

  “Damned heat! It’s too early for food poisoning to show up, isn’t it?”

  Major Belknap smiled reassuringly. His job was always to reassure the general. He had tied his future advancement to that of Scott’s. “I doubt that you got food poisoning from a steak and baked potato at W.T. Smithers, sir.”

  “I hope the hell not. It’s my damn favorite place to eat in Dover.” A frown creased his brow. “I hope I didn’t pick up a bug from that damned hell hole in Antarctica.”

  “It’s just jet lag from your journey, sir. And the heat,” he added quickly at a stern look from the general at his implied suggestion that Scott was getting too old for long trips. “I’ll locate some antacids for your indigestion once we’re inside.”

  Scott hoped Belknap was right and that it wasn’t ptomaine poisoning. He didn’t want to spew his lunch in front of the Joint Chiefs. He resumed his quick pace. Belknap automatically fell into step the perfunctory two paces behind.

  The pair entered the briefing room at exactly 2:30. The Joint Chiefs were sitting around the conference table waiting. Only the Chairman, the Vice Chairman, the Director, and three others were present, what passed for a closed meeting for the JSC. He ignored their stares and dutifully took his seat at one end of the table, feeling somewhat like an interviewee for a job. The Chairman, General Theodore Winston Herbert III, wearing a uniform jacket with seams so crisp they could cut butter, fixed him with the piercing blue-eyed stare that had made him famous during the Congressional hearings over the Chicago mall terrorist fiasco that had cost over two hundred lives. Campaign ribbons and awards covered his chest like a mosaic flak jacket.

  “General Scott, your message was frightening in its brevity. In the twenty-four hours since receiving it, we have,” he glanced at his fellow Joint Chiefs, “made inquiries of Doctor Cromby , but have received no reply.” Herbert tossed the pen he was holding on the table with such force that it bounced to the floor. His face grew stern. “Now, can you tell me what the hell is going on down there?”

  Scott wiped his suddenly perspiring forehead and smiled weakly. “Doctor Cromby is… um…proving unreliable. He’s afraid to push the envelope. His assistant, John Gilford, suffers from no such fears. He might make a good replacement. He and Doctor Gregory Malosi seem to have goals similar to ours. Gilford is eager to make a name for himself and Malosi is … well, Malosi is absolutely without moral principles. Project Resurrection has so far failed in its attempt to re-grow healthy tissue, but the new nanite serum, AR-10, has produced some rather startling results.”

  Admiral Alexander ‘Mac’ McMann, the Director, pushed his wire-framed shades up the bridge of his long nose, leaned forward, and rested his arms on the table. “Such as,” he prompted. Scott knew the Admiral’s vision was 20/20. He didn’t need glasses and certainly didn’t require shades in the confines of the office. The shades were a mere affectation. Wearing them, the Admiral t
hought himself a shorter version of General Douglas McArthur, his World War II idol. All he needed was a corncob pipe.

  Scott cleared his throat, which had suddenly become very dry. He looked around for a pitcher of water but saw none. “Zombies,” he said.

  He secretly delighted in the murmurs that ran around the table and in the looks of astonishment from the Joint Chiefs. They continued until General Herbert slammed his fist on the table to quiet them. “Not another Providence disaster, I hope.”

  Scott winced at the reference to the loss of the attack submarine USN Providence and its crew of one-hundred-twenty-nine men two years earlier. “No, sir. The sailor who was the initial source of the zombie infection aboard the Providence is also the source of the AR-10 serum. It has since been refined. While it is unstable, I believe that with some carefully directed research, we can develop a method to control zombies for use as a military weapon.”

  Air Force General Trenton A. Stiles half rose from his seat. Stiles, a tall, lanky Texan with cotton-white hair and matching bushy eyebrows, was notorious for his outspoken manner and directness. He wagged a thin finger at Scott.

  “Are you out of you friggin’ mind, General Scott? It took every resource and calling in every favor that we had to keep the Providence disaster from public scrutiny. The Aussies are still pissed. If word ever got out that the U.S. military was actively attempting to develop zombies …”

  General Herbert raised his hand, stopping Stiles midsentence. He patiently waited until Stiles had resumed his seat. “The idea is not without risks, I agree, but let us not dismiss it entirely. After all, we have financed this project to the tune of two billion dollars of taxpayer money. Nanite technology has far-reaching applications.” He looked at Scott. “You have prepared a report?”

  Scott rubbed his eyes as Herbert’s face began to waver. Ignoring his growing discomfort, he forced himself to focus as he reached into his briefcase for his carefully worded report. The manila folder felt strangely heavy as he lifted it from the case and held it out for his aide to deliver to the general’s hands. Suddenly, a violent spasm in his hand caused the file folder’s contents to scatter across the table. He ignored the shocked faces around the table and stared with mounting alarm at his trembling hand. He clenched and unclenched his fist, but the trembling remained, and a cold numbness was spreading up his arm. Breathing became more difficult, as if breathing through a clogged gas mask. As his chest grew tighter, he clawed his shirt open and stared down in horror at the black, blotchy, patch of skin just above his sternum. Angry black lines radiated like spider webs from the blemish, spreading upward toward his neck. He coughed and spewed dark, viscous blood across the long table and the manila folder. The Joint Chiefs began scrambling away from the table, as did his aide, Major Belknap.

  Scott reached out his hand for help. “Please,” he groaned.

  The room spun. He fell over, face-forward into a pool of his own blood. His body began to convulse, his head beating a staccato rhythm on the table. Bones snapped in his nose and his fingers, a sickening popping sound like dead twigs.

  As the room grew dim around him, he heard Admiral McMann’s frightened voice suggest, “Maybe we had better get him to Walter Reed.”

  “I’m not touching him,” General Herbert replied. “Major Belknap, call in the OD and get this man out of here. Get someone to clean up this mess.”

  As General Scott lay there, his mind slowly slipping into a deep pool of darkness from which he knew he would never return, he realized that the aches and pains had not been a precursor to the flu, food poisoning, or jet lag, but something much direr. He could almost feel the microscopic nanites careening through his body, dismantling good flesh and re-building it in the image of their creator – friggin’ Willis Cromby. His lips would not move so he mentally cursed Cromby and his damned zombie serum as he fell over the edge of oblivion.

  2

  August 15, Oates Land, Antarctica

  Gregory Malosi listened to the wind howling outside his small tent as he huddled over the tiny flame of his kerosene camp heater. He was low on food and almost out of fuel for the heater. For ten days, he had camped on a tiny patch of rock thrusting through the ice, avoiding Resurrection City and the death that stalked the base like the avenging finger of God. He doubted anyone remained alive. A few had fled the madness on snowmobiles but had little chance of reaching any inhabited Antarctic base. If by some miracle they did make it, they would be sowing the seeds of their own destruction.

  He had arrived at the decision to abandon ship, so to speak on Day 5, numbering the days of the world’s end from the initial outbreak. If God were exacting revenge for meddling in His handiwork, most of those responsible had been judged and punished. Doctor Willis Cromby was dead by his own hand, and John Gilford was either hopelessly insane or homicidal. Malosi had so far survived the invisible fingers of death and destruction, but perhaps that was because he placed no belief in any god. Rather, he put his faith in his revolver and a steady hand. Remaining at Resurrection City had become too dangerous. Men killed for imagined safety or for food. Zombies roamed the barracks, the labs, and stalked the open areas between buildings, killing and devouring anyone they caught. Malosi thought it both ironic and fitting that the whimsical name Resurrection City that everyone used when referring to their base of operations, had now become doubly appropriate. It had begun as a project designed to induce new growth in amputated limbs and damaged organs, especially nerves; now had it become Ground Zero for the resurrected dead. Hell on Earth had been unleashed and it had all been General Terrence Scott’s fault.

  When General Scott had arrived from Washington on a surprise inspection, he had quickly made known his obvious lack of enthusiasm for progress on Project Resurrection. Through him, the Joint Chiefs expressed their concern that their two billion dollars had bought them nothing. Over Cromby’s spineless objections and with Gilford’s backing, the general had cajoled Cromby into administering the nanite AR-10 serum to a patient knowing its miserable rate of failure. Once again, it proved its ineffectiveness by killing the patient, and then resurrecting him as a bloodthirsty zombie. It would have been just another wretched failure if the general’s biohazard suit hadn’t developed a pinhole leak. To make matters worse, the technicians had not discovered the hole until Scott was already enroute to Christchurch on the first leg of his return trip to Washington. The military had chosen the old Australian base because of its remoteness. All their preparations had been for naught because one lousy, conceited general had insisted on wearing his uniform, medals and all, beneath his biohazard suit. The only consolation Malosi could see was that General Scott was probably long dead.

  Before they had abandoned all hope of stemming the epidemic, the technicians had discovered that the mutating nanite virus had become airborne as well as transferred through zombie bites. They were all infected. They were all doomed. According to the reports of cities in flames and populations fleeing before communications ceased, the entire world was doomed. Malosi’s only hope of survival was his belief that the dropping temperatures would render the zombies immobile. A quick trip back into Resurrection City for supplies and extra fuel for his snowmobile, and he could attempt the long trek to McMurdo Base. He expected no rescue there. He simply wished to place as much distance as possible between him and Resurrection City in case the military decided to sterilize the area with a nuclear strike.

  Malosi packed his tent and few supplies and secured them to the sled behind the snowmobile. He experienced a short moment of panic when the vehicle didn’t start on the first try, but on the third attempt, the engine turned over smoothly. Because he had chosen the least likely route from the base to avoid others, through narrow trails of snow and ice winding through spines of treacherous rocks, he covered the twenty miles to the base in just over an hour. He stopped the vehicle outside the base and walked the last few hundred yards to avoid attracting unwanted attention. He needn’t have bothered. The base was silent and dead. Fr
ozen corpses sprouted from the snow like a crop of death. Snow-dusted bodies lay in open doorways. He sat on his haunches watching the lab where John Gilford had established his safe haven from the carnage. A thin rill of smoke rose from a makeshift chimney sticking out an office window – Gilford. When Malosi had left on the fifth day after the first outbreaks, at least twenty men were still alive. Judging by the silence, it appeared that Gilford alone remained.

  Malosi skirted the labs and went directly to the cafeteria in search of food. Bodies and parts of bodies lay in obscene positions of death in the dining room, some human, some zombies. Blood trails marred the linoleum floor where others had died. The large hall that had been the central hub of off-duty activity for restricted base personnel, where men and women had met for food, conversation, and games, was now a mausoleum dedicated to the folly of man’s hubris. The scent of death seemed to fill the cold air, even though he knew it was mostly in his imagination. The dead bodies were pristine; free of corruption and decay by bacteria for as long as they remained frozen. He shook off his apprehension and hurried to complete his task.

  He had decided to try to reach McMurdo Base. The death that stalked the planet had not spared McMurdo, but his chances of escaping Antarctica were better from McMurdo than from an invisible base no one knew about. The journey was a long one – almost 600 miles across rough ice, rocky terrain, and glaciers. He needed as much food and fuel as he could carry. He knew he couldn’t carry heavy cases of food and cans of fuel back to the snowmobile. He would need to stage them outside the base and come back with the snowmobile. By loading quickly, he hoped to avoid facing Gilford. He had no qualms about killing his insane former colleague, but Gilford was a better shot. Discretion was wiser than revenge.

  He made two trips from the storeroom carrying boxes into which he had loaded cans of meat stews, soups, vegetables, and fruit. He also added several bottles of vitamin supplements and a can of Rishi green tea, his favorite brand because of its high catechin content, an antioxidant. If his food supplies ran low or his diet became too unvaried, supplemental vitamins could keep him healthy and a good quality green tea, unlike coffee, needed no sweeteners. He also added a fully stocked first-aid kit.