Tooth And Nail

by Craig DiLouie

  “I survived,” she says, shivering.

  He nods again. He understands.

  “We survived, too,” he tells her. “Just yesterday, I was a second lieutenant.”

  Now it is her turn to nod. She is not familiar with the military, but she gets the idea. The Army chain of command in the area has sustained significant losses.

  “So the world outside. . . . It is bad?”

  “Dr. Petrova, it’s so bad, there may not be a world soon.”

  “I do not suppose you have any news of . . . Europe.”

  “Sorry. My situation awareness was once limited to New York, and is now limited pretty much to this building. I only know ground that my men can hold by force.”

  She swallows hard to choke back a sob. The Army is not in command of the city. They are refugees, like her, seeking flight. And if that is true, the same must be true in all of the big cities. Washington. New York. Los Angeles. Chicago. London.

  He adds, “Dr. Petrova, my superiors have instructed me to secure both you and whatever projects you were working on.” His eyes look hopeful. “A cure, I understand?”

  Petrova’s eyes flicker to the other soldiers in the room.

  “Clear the room,” Bowman says, his eyes never leaving her face.

  The boys file out reluctantly, leaving her alone with the Captain, Doc Waters and the man who is apparently Bowman’s second in command, Sergeant Kemper. This man frightens her for some reason. While the soldiers are mostly boys, quick to grin even in their desperate circumstances, the sergeants strike her as very hard men.

  “The Mad Dog disease is a separate disease,” she says, then pauses.

  “I’m listening,” he tells her.

  “Lyssa, as you know, is bad enough, but it is a Trojan Horse for the Mad Dog strain, which revealed itself by presenting a new vector for transmission—saliva. Biting.”

  The Captain exchanges a glance with Kemper.

  “That matches our understanding of the situation,” he tells her. “Go on, Doctor.”

  “I isolated the Mad Dog strain and produced a pure sample, but it was ruined when the power went out and we lost refrigeration in the labs. I already forwarded my work electronically to CDC and USAMRIID before the power went out for the last time. But I need to get back into a proper lab with a proper staff to produce another pure sample and finish my work on a vaccine.”

  Bowman does not appear to be satisfied with the answer. He stares at her intensely and says, “You seem to be saying there is no cure, only a vaccine, and that it will be a long time before we have such a vaccine in any quantity.”

  “That is correct, Captain.”

  Petrova lowers her eyes. She knows they rescued her at enormous risk to themselves, and her answer is not very satisfying to them. In part, they are here because she told a white lie to push CDC and USAMRIID to rescue her. But the scientific process is not like a military process, with quick, definitive results. One cannot shoot and kill a virus with a rifle. Science is a slow, laborious, collaborative effort. A pure sample must be grown in a cell culture. Then it must be tested for susceptibility against antiviral drugs. Then it can be distilled to produce a vaccine through a painful trial and error process. Make it too weak, and the host gains no immunity. Make it too strong, and you kill the host.

  Her discovery is a major breakthrough, and it is the best shot they have at defeating the virus. Not immediately, but over time.

  But the Captain was obviously hoping for immediate results. The world is ending right now. Soon, there may not be an America to defend anymore, if what he told her about the outside world is true.

  “I am sorry if you were looking for more definitive results,” she says. “Even if I had a vaccine in my hands right now, it would still take months to manufacture in significant quantities, assuming the biomedical factories are still working.”

  “My men risked their lives coming here,” he tells her. “Obviously, we can’t tell them that you have a cure and that they can be vaccinated before we get picked up. But if you want to promote a slight fiction that it will take less than months, I wouldn’t correct you.”

  “I see. . . .”

  “I hope you do, Doctor. We’ll be moving out within a half hour, as soon as our birds get in the air. We may have to fight every step of the way to reach them. If the men feel like they are fighting for an important cause, it might help instead of hurt.”

  She is nodding now.

  “We understand each other, Captain. I will help you any way I can.”

  They wanted to make a better world

  Captain Bowman stares at the beautiful scientist sitting across from him and realizes that he and his men might end up dying for her today. They are risking their necks simply because she has the best theory on how to cure the disease. They will fight in the next few hours, and they might die without seeing the sun again, to get this woman back into a working laboratory so she can produce a vaccine. A vaccine that will not be ready until the Mad Dogs have virtually overrun America and destroyed everything he loves about it.

  All this effort for a cure that will come too late.

  It is the classic Army bull, but he should have known better. He should have known she would not deliver instant salvation. A quick fix to a global disaster like this would be highly unlikely, if not impossible. Life is so much more complex than he’d like it to be. Many soldiers complain about this, but he is mentally flexible and accepts the complexity of life as a law of nature.

  In short, it figures. But he wanted to believe.

  The fact is, if he were General Kirkland, he would make the same call. This woman is the only scientist who spotted the real threat. She may be the best shot America has at producing a vaccine. She is a primary asset in a war that must be won, plain and simple. Even if there is not enough time to make a difference, America must try to find a cure. Where bullets and bayonets failed, medical science might still, one day, prevail. If she dies and nobody else steps up to cure Lyssa, the virus will have won the war against mankind even as it slowly burns itself out, perhaps permanently, perhaps to rise again.

  Dr. Petrova is also our ticket out of here, he tells himself. At this moment, she is more valuable than we are. Without her, we might be left behind. The situation is unstable, chaotic. The Army is apparently in a shambles during its retreat from the cities, shedding units and equipment in the confusion and constant attrition. He had to bargain with Immunity, in fact, just to get them to live up to their promise of airlifting all of them out. Immunity had taken a line that they would extract the scientist from a nearby roof, and then they would see what they could do about rounding up a few CH-47s to evacuate Bowman’s troops. Perhaps in a few days, assuming the Mad Dogs would all be dead then. For Bowman, there were too many what-ifs, assumptions and empty promises. He knows Immunity is heading south and within a few days, it will be far away and may not even exist. No Chinooks, no scientist, he told them. He will catch hell for that later, he knows. Possibly lose his command. They might even put him against a wall and shoot him. But his men will survive, if only to fight again, and perhaps even die, another day.

  “I have to ask one thing, Dr. Petrova,” he says.

  “Yes,” she says.

  “Two things, actually.” He stumbles a bit. “Yes, two things.”

  She eyes him curiously.

  “Of course.”

  “My first question is: How did this happen?”

  “I developed a hypothesis. But a scientific hypothesis, you see, is only—”

  “I understand, Doctor. What’s your theory?”

  “My apologies. My theory is based on several observations. The virus is too perfect. Lyssa somehow snaps back to its Mad Dog ancestor once it enters the brain. The incubation period defies belief. It must have been bioengineered.”

  Behind Bowman, Doc Waters gasps.

  Kemper says, “A terrorist weapon?”

  “Why produce a terrorist weapon that will kill so many people on all sides
?” Doc Waters says.

  “Maybe the terrorists think they’ll survive it and come out ahead,” Kemper says. “Maybe they think it will level the playing field.”

  “It sounds too good, though. It must have had government sponsorship.”

  Petrova says, “Actually, you are both incorrect.”

  She hesitates, apparently afraid of offending them.

  “In my opinion,” she adds.

  “Go on, Doctor,” Bowman says. “You’re the expert here.”

  “Viruses are highly proficient at penetrating human cells and inserting DNA,” the virologist tells them. “It is what they do. Because of this, viruses normally thought of as deadly have begun to be used as Trojan Horse delivery systems for genetic material or drugs that can cure other diseases. Before this happened, gene therapy was an exciting area of biomedicine with tremendous potential.”

  For example, she adds, a modified and benign form of HIV, the same virus responsible for AIDS, has been studied as a delivery system for diseases such as hemophilia and Alzheimer’s. Herpes may be proficient for targeting and destroying cancer cells. Even Ebola, one of the world’s deadliest diseases, has been studied as a delivery vehicle for a benevolent retrovirus that can repair cells and help combat diseases such as cystic fibrosis.

  “I believe researchers in Asia were working with a modified rabies virus as a new gene therapy asset, and something went wrong, obviously,” Petrova concludes.

  “You can say that again,” Kemper says.

  “The rogue experimental virus entered the community but quickly mutated into what we call Hong Kong Lyssa—a respiratory disease similar to avian influenza. Perhaps it was accidentally mixed into the experimental vaccine formula. Such mistakes have happened before at biomedical facilities.”

  “How could they even tamper with nature like this?” Doc Waters demands, his face reddening. “They basically destroyed civilization.”

  “Please,” Petrova says, her nose wrinkling with distaste. “You have medical training, Mr. Waters. Certainly, you can appreciate that the release and spread of the disease is an odd occurrence, a one in a million circumstance, a very small risk for incredible gain for humanity. The world took far greater risks harnessing atomic energy. This was not the product of some sinister plan. The intent was to strip the virus of those attributes that made it deadly and insert benevolent genetic material into the hollow protein shell. The virus is not supposed to replicate or attack cells. It is a very careful process. I cannot imagine what went wrong, although something certainly did go wrong.”

  “You can say that again,” Kemper says.

  “I can tell you gentlemen one thing positively about the people who did this. The only thing I know for certain about them and what they did. They were trying to cure diseases that claimed millions of lives. They wanted to make a better world.”

  “So did Hitler,” Doc Water mutters.

  “Oh,” Petrova says, obviously offended.

  “It’s a hell of a thing,” Bowman says, preparing to rise. “As far as theories go, I can’t think of a better one.” He does not hold her responsible for what happened. Instead, he admires her strength and intellect. The fact of her survival over the past several days marks her as a remarkably resilient and resourceful woman. “Thank you, Doctor.”

  “You said you had two questions for me, Captain.”

  “I did, as a matter of fact,” Bowman says, grinning. You’ll probably find the question a little strange, possibly even improper. Aw, hell, I guess I’ll just ask flat out. If we survive this, can I take you to dinner, Dr. Petrova?”

  Petrova smiles and displays the gold wedding band on her left hand.

  “Captain Bowman, that is a flattering invitation,” she answers, “but as you will observe, I am a happily married woman.”

  Bowman smiles and nods.

  “That also figures,” he says dryly.

  Time to kick my ass?

  McLeod finds Sergeant Ruiz alone in the elevator lobby, leaning against the wall with his hands deep in the pockets of his BDUs, seemingly lost in thought. The CO has authorized the company to take off the N95 masks until the march, and it is strange to see Ruiz’s face again. Most of the soldiers took advantage of the fact they had to wear masks 24/7 and grew scraggly beards, but not Ruiz; he is clean shaven. A gung ho mo fo, as they say in the ranks.

  McLeod says: “You, uh, wanted to see me privately, Sergeant Ruiz?”

  The NCO steps away from the wall, the muscles of his bulldog torso straining against his uniform, his eyes intense and staring. As he approaches, McLeod flinches, but holds his ground. This is it, he thinks. The hour of reckoning.

  Magilla is finally going to kick my ass.

  Ruiz continues until he stands directly in front of McLeod, looking him up and down while the soldier stands at attention.

  “Private McLeod, you are one sorry sack of shit,” he says.

  “Yes, Sergeant,” McLeod answers, meaning it.

  “A big greasy shit stain on my otherwise spotless record of training the world’s finest combat infantry.”

  “Yes, Sergeant.”

  “I got one question for you.”

  Do you want to get punched in the face or stomach?

  “The question is: Are you ready to man up, son?”

  “Sergeant?”

  “McLeod, this unit has been in constant danger for the past four days. Our battalion has lost about two-thirds of its strength during that time. A good number of our casualties were sustained by mobs of people who tore our guys apart with their bare hands. While all this was going on, have you fired your weapon even once?”

  “Um,” says McLeod.

  “Speak up, son.”

  “No, Sergeant,” he says clearly.

  “It’s not a test,” Ruiz tells him. “At ease.”

  Just tell me when you’re going to do it. Don’t sucker punch me. That’s all I ask.

  “I said relax, Private. Relax and listen good. I’m trying to teach you something.”

  “Yes, Sergeant,” McLeod says, swallowing hard.

  “Do you know what time it is, son?”

  Time to kick my ass?

  He answers, “It’s about oh-five-forty-five, Sergeant.”

  “That is affirmative. Outstanding, Private. Do you know when the sun rises? I’ll tell you when. Today, the sun will rise around zero-six-twenty. Do you know what that means?”

  McLeod chews his lip, sweating.

  The Sergeant says, “Don’t hurt yourself, Private. It’s not a trick question. I’ll tell you what it means. It means that even if Immunity were to put birds in the air right now and we left this facility right now to meet them up in Central Park, we still wouldn’t have enough time under darkness to conceal our movements. That means we will be taking some, most or all of this trip in daylight exposed to Maddy. What would you do if you were in command?”

  “Me? I guess I’d ask the General to wait until tomorrow night.”

  “Outstanding, Private! But the General just told you it’s now or never, do or die. Division is pulling stakes and trucking south. In twenty-four hours, all their birds are going to be far gone, committed to other missions. There’ll be empty sky around here as far as the eye can see. So it looks like we have no choice. We’re moving out, and we’ll be walking in Maddy’s shadow.” Ruiz puts on a sad face. “How does that make you feel, Private?”

  “Feel, Sergeant?” McLeod clears his throat. “Well, honestly, it makes me—”

  “Do not answer that question, Private.”

  “Yes, Sergeant.”

  “Get your shit together, son!”

  “Yes, Sergeant.”

  “What’s holding you back from kicking Maddy’s ass? Are you scared?”

  I just want

  “Yes, Sergeant. I’m scared.”

  Ruiz shakes his head, circling McLeod like a shark studying its prey.

  “You got to man up, son. Fear is your bitch. Do you understand?”

&nbs
p; to go to school

  “Yes, Sergeant.”

  “When Maddy hits you, you got to hit him back tenfold. Hooah?”

  and read books

  “Hooah, Sergeant.”

  “If you survive the next one or two hours, you can survive anything. You are really and truly the baddest motherfucker in the world. Really and truly the best. Am I right?”

  and be left alone.

  “Yes, Sergeant.”

  “Remember son, pain is temporary, but honor is forever. This is about how you see yourself in your old age. What you tell your grandkids about what you were doing during the plague. So are you a warrior? Or are you chickenshit?”

  McLeod relaxes his stance and looks his squad leader in the eyes.

  Time to be honest with this guy for once.

  “Sergeant,” he says, “I never was a warrior and I doubt I’ll ever be one. You know it and I know it. But I’ll do right by you. You’ve always done right by me. You may not think I think that, but I do. So I’ll do right by you. I’ll kick ass today for the squad.”

  Ruiz blinks.

  “All right, then,” he says finally. “Just be aggressive with that SAW.”

  “Hooah, Sergeant,” McLeod says, coming to attention and saluting.

  The NCO shakes his head, regarding McLeod with his intense stare. “You really are a piece of work, Private. Anybody ever tell you that?”

  McLeod grins and tells him, “Every day, Sergeant.”

  “Be aggressive on this march, McLeod,” Ruiz says darkly. “I’ll be watching. Now get your shit-eating grin out of my sight before I kick your ass all over this building.”

  Brave or stupid, take your pick

  First Squad sprawls on the floor in full battle rattle, wolfing down MREs and catching last-minute smokes but otherwise ready to move. Mooney and Wyatt share the last pack of cupcakes from the rich kids’ lockers. Ratliff is hunched over a boot, finishing his repair of a broken lace. Carrillo pulls the plates out of his body armor, as the boys have been ordered to ditch the extra weight so they can move as fast as possible. Finnegan reloads the last bullets he just cleaned into a magazine, which will improve the odds that his carbine will not jam. Like Sergeant McGraw, who was spotted earlier playing pocket pool with his lucky talismans, the boys have their superstitions: Finnegan kisses the magazine before loading it into his carbine. Rollins runs off to find the chaplain after being told the man is leading a group of soldiers in prayer in another room.