The New World (Book 7): Those Who Remain

by G. Michael Hopf

  “Don’t like flying?”

  “Um, no, not really.”

  “For me, it’s the feeling of not being in control that freaks me out most,” he said.

  “Ha, for me, it’s the fear of crashing,” she joked as a smile creased her tanned face. She tucked a lock of her straight brown hair behind her ear and relaxed even more into the seat.

  “So where you heading?” he asked.

  “Home. What about you?”

  “I just left home, heading to London. My first time,” he answered.

  “London, nice. I’ve never been, but would love to travel one day.”

  “What do you do?” he asked.

  “I’m an astrobiologist.”

  “Sorry, what is that?” he asked, leaning in. He was truly curious.

  She looked at him; he was handsome. His short brown hair had a dusting of gray on the close-cropped sides, and his blue eyes were piercing. She loved the look of dark hair and light eyes. This was one of the things that had attracted her to Devin, her longtime boyfriend and now fiancé. She wasn’t one who enjoyed the contrived conversations that many had on flights and tried to avoid them by putting on headphones or feigning sleep. However, he had caught her unprepared, and she was happy for it. He had a calming effect, and she needed it.

  “I study the origin, evolution, distribution and future of life in the universe,” she said, rattling off her well-rehearsed answer to the same question she had been asked hundreds of times.

  “Wow, life in the universe, like ET?” he quipped.

  “Yes, like ET.”

  “Sorry, I hope that didn’t come off wrong. I didn’t mean—”

  “Don’t worry about it,” she said. Her vision became a bit blurry, and she could feel another hot flash coming on strong. Larger beads of sweat built up on her forehead, and she even felt her hands get clammy.

  “You feel okay?” he asked.

  She didn’t answer right away; she blinked repeatedly to focus her vision. A feeling of malaise was overcoming her, and she didn’t know why. This added to her already anxious feeling.

  “Yeah, I’m fine, just very tired. It’s been a long week, to say the least,” she finally answered, but the tempo of her speech was slow.

  “You look a bit pale.”

  “I’m fine, sorry, but I think I’ll get some rest,” she said as she raised her sleeve and vigorously scratched her right shoulder.

  “Ouch, that looks like it hurts,” he remarked upon seeing her shoulder.

  “What?” She looked down in amazement at the spot where just twenty-four hours earlier she had been given one of the shots.

  “Are you sure you’re feeling all right?” he asked, now concerned for her health.

  “I’m fine, just tired.”

  “Okay, get some rest.”

  “Actually, I think I need to go to the bathroom. Do you mind?”

  “Not at all,” he answered, standing up in the aisle.

  She stood but felt weak, and a slight sensation of vertigo came upon her from the minimal movement.

  He saw this and immediately came to her aid by taking her by the arm and helping her out.

  Her legs felt wobbly. She paused just before stepping into the aisle and looked at him.

  “How do I look?” she asked.

  “Not good, should I contact the flight attendant?”

  She took a step, and the weakness overcame her as she fell into his arms.

  He grasped her tightly. He could feel the heat and sweat coming through her clothes. He placed her back in her seat and held her hand. He looked into her eyes, which in a matter of moments had become bloodshot. He wasn’t sure if what was befalling her was a normal sickness or something critical. Once he knew she was resting in the seat, he hit the flight attendant call button.

  “Devin, please contact Devin,” she muttered.

  He leaned in and asked, “What was that?”

  “Devin, please call him.”

  “Okay, I’ll call Devin,” he responded just to placate her, not knowing who Devin was or how to reach him.

  She closed her eyes and sat. Her breathing had increased along with her heart rate. Her thoughts were jumbled, and the heat radiating from her body was intense.

  The flight attendant approached and asked, “How can I help?”

  “She’s not doing well. She’s really sick,” he said, motioning to Cassidy, who was now lying down across all the seats.

  “What’s wrong with her?”

  “I don’t know. She seemed okay just ten minutes ago, and then this.”

  “Ma’am, can you hear me?” the flight attendant asked Cassidy.

  Cassidy could hear the flight attendant, but her voice sounded like it was muffled and distant, like she was immersed in water. She tried to respond, but the fatigue had become so great she didn’t have the strength to even speak.

  “Ma’am, are you okay?” the flight attendant asked as she squeezed herself between the seats to take a closer look at Cassidy. She placed her hand on her arm and felt the fever that was raging in Cassidy’s body. She looked up at the man and asked, “Do you know her?”

  “No, I just met her not fifteen minutes ago. I don’t even know her name,” the man answered, shrugging his shoulders.

  Another flight attendant walked up and asked, “Margaret, is everything okay?”

  “No, get me a blanket and pillow.”

  The second flight attendant marched off.

  “It’s going to be okay, sweetie. Can you tell me your name?” Margaret asked.

  Cassidy opened her mouth and whispered. Her eyes were shut tight.

  Margaret shook her roughly.

  Cassidy responded and opened her eyes.

  “There you are. Do you require medicine? Please let us help you.”

  Cassidy pulled up her sleeve, exposing the red, enlarged bump where she had received the shot. A reddish rash now encircled the area.

  “What is that?” Margaret asked as she pulled away from Cassidy, now afraid that she might be contagious.

  Cassidy pointed and with a gasp said, “Shot.”

  “Do you know if she takes medicine?” Margaret asked the man.

  “Like I said, I don’t know anything. I just met her.”

  As if her body had been pulled up, Cassidy sat up quickly. She opened her severely bloodshot eyes and stared at the seat back in front of her.

  Margaret and the man watched her with amazement and now fear.

  That same fear and worry had spread throughout the plane as everyone was either listening or attempting to witness the scene happening.

  A teenager from row 22 was kneeling in his seat, facing her. Armed with his smartphone, he was videoing the entire scene. Like many in his generation, the thought of aiding was a second thought as opposed to documenting every tragic or dramatic scene they could with their devices. Technology gave society many great things but in equal return showed the worst. With a slight glee in his eye, the boy shot his video with hopes that he’d get millions of hits on YouTube.

  Cassidy craned her head and looked at Margaret and said, “I think they gave me something.”

  “Who gave you what?”

  She again motioned to her right arm.

  “What is it?”

  Looking as if she had just completed a spin workout, sweat poured off her face and body. Her clothes stuck to her body, soaked through.

  The pilot suddenly appeared and asked, “Margaret, what’s happening?”

  “I don’t know what’s wrong with her exactly, but as you can see.”

  Like Margaret, he leaned in and asked, “Ma’am, how can we help you?”

  Cassidy looked at him and said, “Devin.”

  “Who’s Devin?” he asked.

  Cassidy’s body cringed, and without notice, she threw up all over the seat back of row 22.

  Everyone reeled from her vomit.

  The teenager in row 22 shouted, “Gross! I got some on me!”

  Cassidy a
gain threw up.

  The smell of bile and partially digested food filled the nostrils of all around her and began to overtake the others on the plane.

  “I’m going to put us down. Get everyone in their seat,” the pilot ordered, then headed towards the cockpit.

  In between vomiting episodes, Cassidy looked up and pleaded, “Help me.”

  Everyone just looked at her. Some were unsure of how they could help; others just watched, not wanting to interfere for fear of getting sick.

  The PA crackled to life. “This is your captain. As you all know, we have a very sick passenger. At the moment, we are too far out of New York to make it there. We are going to make an emergency landing in Indianapolis. There, the ill passenger will receive the medical care she needs. I apologize for any inconvenience, but rest assured we will get all of you to your final destinations.”

  Read the rest of THE DEATH: QUARANTINE

  HERE

  READ AN EXCERPT FROM

  BINARY

  (A New Science Fiction Novel Concept Coming 2017)

  G. MICHAEL HOPF

  ___________________________

  CHAPTER ONE

  AVLC (Armored Vehicle Landing Craft) Two Charlie

  United Earth Federation Marine Corps

  Task Force Reaper

  Altitude 295,256 feet and descending fast

  Lance Corporal Gabriel Conrad hated the stiff straps and tight bindings of the Combat Utility Hardened Armor, the combat armored suit that was now standard issue. He especially disliked the thick bindings that cut across his upper thighs. If you didn’t put them on correctly and they slipped over your crotch, the force of deploying from the ship would have you singing soprano after landing.

  He was covered in sweat from his brow to his back. He was sure the extra thermals he wore didn’t help but would come in handy as soon as he hit the ground. The heat pads in their armored combat suits were sacrificed to add the new graphene plates just developed.

  The pilots did their best to keep the AVLC, or Hen as the Marines called the ships, cool for the long trip, but it didn’t matter. Soon the bottom hatches would be open and they’d be deploying into the cold air beneath them. The heat was also the least worry of many, as this would be their first actual combat landing since graduating infantry school.

  Gabe was one of those fresh faces, or boots as the veterans called them. He had just received his private first class stripe along with his orders to report to the infamous First battalion, Ninth Marine Regiment only two months before. He was proud of his graduating the rigorous training, but fear struck him when he saw his new command would be with a group whose nickname was the Walking Dead.

  The Walking Dead’s reputation went back many years to the jungles of Vietnam. The men who served in the ranks of one nine since proudly carried on the reputation of a fierce fighting force regardless of how many times they had been disbanded or treated. Often the veterans joked that you knew shit was real and the fighting would be ruthless if they reactivated the Dead. And so it was with this war. All hands would be needed on deck and the Marine Corps couldn’t win without them.

  Sergeant Grant, a nine-year veteran with combat experience, turned on his radio headset and said, “Listen up, second squad, I just got word we’re entering the atmosphere.”

  Gabe gulped when he heard the news from his squad leader. He looked left, right and settled his gaze on first squad across from him. He closed his eyes and said a silent prayer to himself.

  The first jolt from the air shook the Hen. He opened his eyes and looked at the others lined up along the bulkheads from the aft to the forward compartment.

  The Hen held an entire infantry platoon, which consisted of forty-eight Marines. Each platoon had four squads, and within each squad there were three fire teams of four Marines. Besides the platoon, the Hen’s crew comprised a pilot, copilot, crew chief and two gunners, each responsible for manning the huge Mark 39 plasma rifles that would come in handy for cover fire when they reached deployment altitude.

  The Hen began to shudder and creak as it encountered more air.

  “I hate that we can’t see,” Lance Corporal Carlyle said loudly to Gabe. Carlyle and Gabe had become friends on the long two-month journey. He was responsible for operating the M-777 auto cannon, which fired the standard plasma-tipped rounds but at a high rate of fire. The M-777 was mounted onto the combat suit with a separate arm that swiveled.

  Gabe turned his head and replied, “Me too.”

  The Hen dropped and violently shook.

  “Fuck,” Gabe muttered.

  “You’re not looking so good, Conrad.” Corporal Raines laughed seeing Gabe’s face turn white. Raines was Gabe and Carlyle’s fire team leader.

  “I’m fine, Corporal,” Gabe replied to Raines.

  “Just don’t puke. If you fucking puke, you won’t have to worry about getting killed on the ground, I’ll kill your dumb ass.”

  Gabe hadn’t puked during training flights, but this was different and the thicker atmosphere wasn’t helping either.

  The radio came to life.

  “Ten mikes out,” Grant barked over the headset.

  Gabe’s guts suddenly felt like they were going to pop out of his mouth as the Hen nosed down. This was a typical maneuver for active combat landings. Once the Hen had safely transited the upper atmosphere and the threat of burning up was gone, they needed to get to the ground as soon as possible.

  “Don’t you fucking do it,” Raines bellowed, giving Gabe a hard look.

  Gabe didn’t reply. He needed to focus on his breathing and needed to soothe the nausea that had gripped him.

  “Do you think it’s like what they say?” Carlyle asked.

  Gabe again didn’t reply.

  “Five mikes out,” Grant roared in the headset.

  The Hen leveled out.

  The heavy jolts and shudders quickly diminished.

  Gabe swallowed hard and took a deep breath.

  “You’re a lucky motherfucker,” Raines said, reminding Gabe that if he had vomited, his life would be hell if he survived the landing.

  “Thanks for your concern, Corporal,” Gabe mocked.

  “You talking shit, boot?”

  “No, Corporal,” Gabe replied.

  “Two mikes out, stand up,” Grant ordered.

  The Marines slowly rose and grasped a thick metal bar that spanned the length of the Hen.

  Gabe looked down and did a final inspection of his equipment. The thick belt that served to connect the upper torso and lower body armor together also functioned as a utility belt holding extra hundred-round magazines filled with the new plasma rounds for their M-11 rifles, a half dozen plasma, smoke and old-fashioned high-explosive grenades and finally the cherished TKL sheath knife. The TKL, which stood for tactical knife long, was the standard knife given Marines upon graduation from infantry school. Long since considered obsolete by the other United Earth forces, the Marines believed that a warrior should be skilled and carry all weapons available, as one never knew what scenario could befall them. TKL, or as the Marines lovingly called it, T-Kill, had become something as special as the old Eagle, Globe and Anchor. It set them apart from the others and a Marine would never be caught without it.

  “How’s my back connector look?” Carlyle asked, referring to the titanium coupler that connected the deployment line to the back of his upper armor plate.

  Gabe looked, and to make sure Carlyle was good, he physically pulled at it. “Looks good, and me?”

  Carlyle returned the favor. “You’re solid, bro. Um, so what do you think it’ll be like?”

  “Combat?” Gabe asked.

  “Ah, no, below, do you think it looks like the pictures?”

  “Don’t know. No one has been there in years, and the thick clouds make it impossible to see anything.”

  “I hope it is,” Carlyle said, a grin gracing his face.

  “One mike,” Grant hollered.

  “I guess we’ll find out soon enoug
h,” Gabe said, knowing the bottom of the Hen would be opening soon. He could feel the ship slowly going down.

  One thing that was absent was any sound of fire. In fact, the gunners weren’t engaging anything.

  “It’s quiet,” Gabe said, voicing his thoughts.

  “Yeah, I thought we’d be getting hammered.”

  “Lower your visors and seal up,” Grant ordered.

  Gabe did as ordered and lowered the shatterproof visor until it clicked into the lower mouthpiece. His head was now completely encapsulated in his helmet. Within seconds a bright green display turned on. He squinted, as it was too much for his eyes. “Damn, I thought I adjusted this before,” he said. He lifted his left arm and opened a panel on his forearm. There a small screen turned on. He found the controls for his helmet and turned down the brightness of the visor screen. He then turned his radio to double band so he could communicate with Carlyle separately. “Carlyle, radio check.”

  “I hear you, lickin’ chickin’.”

  “Are you scared?” Gabe asked.

  “Fuck yeah.”

  A heavy feeling came over Gabe as he thought that his life might end very soon.

  “Stand by,” Grant barked.

  Doors below them opened. Cold air whipped through the Hen.

  “I can’t see shit,” Carlyle said.

  “Turn on your night vision,” Grant ordered.

  Gabe went to the same screen on his left forearm and turned on his night vision. As if someone had turned on the lights, he could see below him now. It wasn’t perfect and it certainly wasn’t like walking around in the daylight, but he could make out the surface.

  “I only see water,” Carlyle said.

  “Countdown from ten,” Grant barked. “I’ll see you on the beach; gather to my signal when you touch down.”

  The Hen slowed then came to a hover.

  A bright red light began blinking numbers from ten, nine, eight, seven.

  “This is it!” Carlyle said nervously.

  “Where are they? Why aren’t they firing at us?” Gabe asked. He looked down below him and saw a beach but nothing else.

  Six, five, four.