by JE Gurley
“Apparently less than twenty-four hours. The first symptoms are irritability, coughing, and then sudden rage.”
Relief flooded over her. It was possible that she and Tomas were safe. “I’ve seen men with no eyes.”
A few people stared at her in disbelief, but Benoit nodded. “Yes. Eventually the fungus growth covers the eyes, ears, mouth, and, er, other orifices while it eats away at the brain. These blind creatures hunt by sense of smell, but mostly by hearing. By the later stages, they are nearly dead, mere flesh repositories for the maturing fungi. They instinctively seek out a high place and become immobile. The mature fungi burst from their bodies and spew spores that travel on the wind.”
One woman bouncing a young child who refused to nap on her knee asked, “How long will they keep us here, if we’re not infected I mean?”
Benoit looked at her. Sympathy flooded his features as he answered, “They won’t let us leave until the Cordyceps Plague is over. As yet, there is no cure and no vaccine. Without our masks or a sealed environment, we will invariably become infected.”
His statement silenced everyone. Like Rita, most thought their stay only temporary. At worst, she imagined they might be transferred somewhere free of the fungus threat. If, as Benoit had said, the plague was in many cities, where could they go? She glanced down at Tomas, sleeping in her lap. Would he be forced to wear a mask for the rest of his life? What kind of life could he lead as a perpetual prisoner? Her heart became so heavy that she had difficulty breathing. She imagined each breath she took teeming with millions of tiny spores, finding moisture and growing in her body.
She shook her head. No! I will survive. So will my son. They will find a cure.
Conversation died. Slowly, the adults drifted off to their assigned cots to join their children, either in sleep or in quiet talk. Rita wasn’t sleepy. She strolled to the edge of the fence and stared out the sixty-feet-tall glass wall. The light of the setting sun reflected from the glass through a smoky haze, casting a red aura over the city outside. The quiet was peppered by sporadic gunfire, as infected people approached too close to the fenced perimeter of the stadium. One more convoy arrived delivering a handful of people to the refugee camp. She watched them as they lined up to enter one of the enclosures. Two people failed to pass the inspection. They struggled hopelessly as armed guards forced them out of the line. They disappeared into one of the openings beneath the outfield.
She wished she could look up at the stars in the night sky, but knew they couldn’t open the roof. She and Ricardo had often sat in the bleachers in Riverside Park at night and studied the night sky. She found the multitude of colors of stars and their infinite numbers amazing, a gift from God. Staring at the stars had been peaceful; a reminder that man was just a speck in God’s universe but chosen by him as special creatures worthy of his love. She dropped her gaze from the closed roof back to her surroundings. The pervasive smoke and haze would have blocked her view of the night sky anyway. She sat that way for several hours, afraid to go to her cot, knowing that when she did she would be committing herself and her child into the care of others. If it were she alone, she would try to escape, make her way far from Miami, but it wasn’t. She was a mother with a child, and the world had suddenly become a very dangerous place.
12
July 6, MIA converted Gulfstream Hangar, Miami, FL –
After evacuating the Miami-Dade County Courthouse, Kyle, Ginson and his men left the convoy and returned directly to the airport. Rita had said her goodbyes to him before joining the other exhausted evacuees in the trucks. He hated to see her swept up with the others. She had saved his life and he was grateful, but in all reality, he could do nothing for her in return. She was safer at the FEMA camp than at the airport. The zombie attack the previous day had proven that. He had given her his card, but doubted that she would ever use it. He tried to erase her plight, multiplied by countless tens of thousands of other people in the same position, from his mind. He couldn’t save them one at a time. Marli and her people had to find a cure. Nothing else would stop the spread of the Cordyceps Plague.
Ginson had lost two men at the courthouse, both raw recruits, and the loss had hit him harder than his own injury. He had brooded in silence during the entire return trip. Of his original squad from the night Kyle had first met him at the roadblock, only two remained. Kyle understood Ginson’s dilemma. Kyle didn’t know if any of his fellow SIS officers remained alive or if he was on his own. He had worked alone before while undercover, but this was different. Then, he knew that his squad had his back. Now, he had only Ginson. Ginson had shown his mettle numerous times, but he was still an unknown factor and Kyle hated unknowns.
Ginson roused from his lethargy long enough to say his goodbyes at the decontamination tent.
“We’ve got to resupply.” He winced as he held out his hand for Kyle to shake. He glanced down at his bandaged wound, still seeping blood. “I guess I had better go see a medic about this. I have to see if I can pick up some replacements and give these new guys some additional training.” He made a fist and slammed it against the dash of the Humvee. “Damn it! I can’t keep losing men.”
“It’s inevitable,” Kyle said. “It’s dangerous work.”
Ginson shook his head. “That’s no excuse. When I was a corporal, I just followed orders. Now, as a sergeant, I have to lead. So far, I haven’t been doing such a great job in the leadership department.”
“Look, beating yourself up doesn’t solve anything. It’s a new situation, one that’s not in the manuals. It’s a slow learning curve. You just have to get through it as best you can. Train your men, but stop selling yourself short. They can sense your doubt.”
Ginson looked up at him. “You seem cool and collected.”
“Believe me, I’m not. Inside, I’m shitting bricks.”
Ginson’s short, sharp laugh forced a grin to his face. “You and me both, brother.” He waved his hand at the driver. “I’ll be back as soon as the doc fixes me up. Give your girlfriend my love.” The Humvee took off before Kyle could respond. He watched the vehicle speed across the silent runway toward the terminal.
Once more, he subjected himself to the indignity of the decontamination procedure at the hangar. He was beginning to hate it. At least this time he had fresh clothes waiting for him. He donned another of the outfits Ginson had picked out for him, garish plaid shorts and a Bahama Mama t-shirt. His blood-soaked sports shoes had to be discarded with the rest of his clothes. The new ones were black and white checkered. He swore silently that Ginson chose his wardrobe to embarrass him. If he wanted anything nearer his own taste, he would have to find it himself.
The laboratory had taken shape during his absence. Most of the crates were unpacked and the remaining ones had been stored on a platform on top of the office structure. The extra space was now a sitting area with tables and chairs that appeared more comfortable than the folding metal ones they had been using. A vase with artificial flowers sat on one table. Real flowers would not have survived the decontamination procedure. Slowly, the hangar was becoming homier but not home.
Marli was in the office making notes at her laptop. She stopped working when he entered and jumped up to greet him with a hug.
“You’re safe,” she said.
Surprised but pleased by this unexpected show of emotion, he returned her hug. She felt good in his arms. “I said I’d be back.”
“I’m glad.” She glanced around and realized some of the others were staring at them. She pulled away. “What’s it like out there?”
“It’s bad. We killed a lot of fungus heads, but we rescued some people from the courthouse and picked up a few more along the way. Most are staying in their homes afraid to venture out. The convoy transported them to Marlins Park.”
Marli’s eyes went cold. “Marlins Park,” she spat. “Sometimes I think the military are complete fools.”
“Why?”
“They’re keeping everyone together, using a useless visu
al scan for the infected. They’re not enforcing the mask rule or using any sterile procedures other than scrubbing everyone down with a topical fungicide. The only thing they did to secure the stadium was to close the roof. It’s no better at the other facilities. Fools!”
“Did you warn them?”
“Of course I did. They ignored me. They said it would require allocating too many valuable resources. They might as well have left them where they found them.”
He worried for Rita and her child. “Doesn’t FEMA know better?”
She sighed. “FEMA might, but they’re spread too thin. Most of the FEMA facilities are under military authority. They run them like a prison.”
Sensing her frustration, he changed the subject. “Any progress on a cure?”
She sighed and lifted her arms. “Maybe. Some tissue samples arrived earlier. We’re studying them now, but this fungus is so unique, so virulent … It’s going to be extremely difficult to control.”
He had hoped for better news. “Is it impossible?”
She hesitated before answering. “It’s too early to tell.” Sensing that her answer was not the one he was hoping for, she quickly added, “We’re hoping for a breakthrough. We’re not the only ones working on the problem.”
“You have Roger Curry’s body. He’s what you call ‘Patient Zero’ isn’t he? Have you learned anything from him?”
“We now know that even the Primary stage of infection is contagious, though not as contagious as the last stage, the Tertiary stage, when the spores mature. They are the real problem, the immobile ones, spreading millions of spores into the air. The military needs to concentrate on them, not the crazies on the streets. People who don’t look infected or even know they’re infected can spread the plague. It will be impossible to quarantine entire cities. We don’t have the facilities or the manpower.” She lowered her voice so no one else could overhear. “I’m afraid the military might do something drastic.”
He understood her fear. “Like nuking a city?”
She widened her eyes and nodded. “It’s possible. They think that way.”
“Would it work?”
She stared at him. “I don’t know. They would have to sterilize the entire infection zone, millions of people, dozens of cities, but with the radiation, it could be as disastrous as the plague itself. It might be too late anyway.”
“Then we can’t let them, can we? We need a cure or a vaccine.”
Her shoulders slumped. “We’re trying.”
“Tell me what to do.”
She smiled. “You’re used to reading reports, sifting through data. I could use another pair of eyes.”
“I don’t understand technical jargon.”
“You’re a detective. You understand patterns, follow threads and investigate leads. Use your skills for me. See if we’ve missed anything. All our projections have proven useless. The spread is chaotic. We’re missing something. Maybe you can see a pattern we’re missing.”
He didn’t see how he could spot something that a trained professional couldn’t, but he had nothing better to do. “I’ll try.”
“Thank you. I’ll find you a computer and a desk.”
Kyle was familiar with paperwork. Catching crooks and getting shot at were just part of being a cop. After all the fun and games, there were the reports, hundreds of them. He didn’t enjoy it, but it was part of the game, and he put as much effort into the desk work as the rest of the job. As he sat staring at the computer screen hour after hour, the graphs and charts seemed to swirl on the screen, different colors for each city, different lines for each series of incidents. Most of the numbers meant nothing to him, but he was searching for patterns, not specifics.
Marli and her group had already determined that they could place the infected into three groups – Primary, Secondary, and Tertiary. The Primary cases exhibited initial signs of infection within twenty-four hours. They became irritable and angry, but with no outward indications of infection. Most didn’t know they were infected. Though not as infectious as Tertiary cases, they could still spread the infection. Roger Curry had passed through the airport as a Primary. He, like a significant number of people, had taken longer than the usual forty-eight hours to reach the Secondary stage. Kyle assumed that was why Marli had kept him on ice for so long, to be certain he was clear of infection. Secondary cases were those he had witnessed at the airport quarantine and on the streets, people driven insane by the fungus growing inside their bodies, their minds consumed by blind rage. Eventually they became what she had designated as Tertiary cases, immobile as Roger Curry had finally become. These people were ripe with mature fruiting bodies, seeking high places to spread their burden of spores. Even with the Tertiaries, times varied. Some remained Secondaries for days, slowly becoming covered by the fungi cilia, while others became immobile within seventy-two hours of initial infection. These time anomalies made quarantine difficult. Quarantine facilities such as Marlins Park were not sterile environments and still required people to wear masks. Any lapse of these protocols by individuals could result in more infection spreading. He didn’t envy the military or FEMA their positions of authority.
The screen began to blur. He rubbed his eyes but they kept burning. He realized that he had been working for hours. His muscles ached and his mind was Jell-O.
“I need some rest,” he said to himself.
He left his desk, picked a bunk at random, and collapsed on it. The sheets felt warm and inviting, and the pillow was a woman’s soft thighs. His eyes had barely closed before he was asleep.
13
July 7, Marlins Park, Miami, FL –
Rita managed only a few hours sleep. The banks of portable lights dimmed for the night but were not extinguished. The perpetual near dusk bothered her, keeping her awake. From the sounds of heated conversations and quiet sobbing from the others, she wasn’t the only one having trouble adjusting to their new environment. The children rose early, eager to play. To them, each day was a recess. At least their guards had brought toys. Children played ball, spun hula-hoops, played jacks, or had their face buried in video games. To all outward appearances, they were normal, healthy children.
Not so the adults. A shroud of despondency had descended over the camp. Arguments broke out even before breakfast was served. One fistfight erupted between two men, quickly broken up by those around them. It only highlighted the sense of helplessness most were feeling. Breakfast didn’t help. The unseasoned scrambled eggs were cold, the toast soggy, and the hash browns both cold and overcooked. Rita took just a few bites before deciding that coffee would do.
Tomas slept peacefully on the blanket beside her cot. Rather than face the others, or become infected by their melancholy, she remained with Tomas. She tried reading a paperback romance novel delivered with the toys, but the words would not penetrate her awareness. Reading about unrequited love among the magnolias during the Civil War seemed to incongruous to present reality. Mostly, she considered her failures. She had failed in her attempt to leave Miami. Her husband was missing, perhaps dead. She had failed to protect her son. Now, they were at the mercy of the military in a FEMA camp with a thousand other refugees. If it had been a natural disaster – a flood or a hurricane – waters eventually receded and storms passed, but this plague continued to grow in strength. In the end, would she still have a home?
The hours of the day passed slowly. To take her mind from her problems, she joined the children in their games. The other parents seemed grateful for her help. She could see in their eyes that some had already given up hope. Many looked like images she had seen of war refugees in Third World countries, only this was a war with an invisible enemy who converted friends and family into rampaging creatures in an unstoppable army.
By lunchtime, her growing hunger overcame her reluctance to eat. The offering of roast beef or turkey on rye or white bread, Cole slaw, potato salad, and fruit reminded her of picnic outings with Ricardo when they had first married. The memories of such times
were bittersweet. She ate with only half her mind on the food. Logic dictated that Ricardo was dead, but her heart told her otherwise. There was an empty place in her heart for him, but no dark gaping hole as she imagined she would feel if he were dead. Her faith and her love offered hope, though all around her was chaos. Watching her fellow detainees eat, she could see the lack of faith, the acceptance of their fate in their eyes. She resolved to avoid that trap.
After lunch, several of the people gathered in front of the tent. Talk about the plague dominated conversation. As before, Benoit was looked upon as an authority.
“How long will we be here?” one woman asked. She had decorated her white coveralls with flowers hand drawn with a children’s blue crayon. Her disheveled hair was held in place using a plastic fork as a hairpin.
“I can’t answer that,” Benoit said.
Clearly, it was not the answer she wanted to hear.
“They can’t keep us here forever,” she cried. She attempted to regain her composure. She sat up straight and lowered the tenor of her voice. “My brother is on the city council.”
“Tell him I need some cigarettes the next time he drops by for a visit,” one blond-haired young man said. His wiseacre remark produced a sharp intake of breath from the woman, but Rita noticed several smiles and repressed chuckles in the crowd. He rolled his eyes at her. “Hey, I like to smoke. Maybe I’ll vote for him next time, provided we ever have a government again.”
Benoit decided to steer the conversation away from personals and back onto the plague. “I’m sure the CDC is working on this. They will find a cure. It’s going to take time. We just have to stick together and not give up hope.”
“I feel like a prisoner,” the woman said. She held out the fabric of her coverall punched between two fingers. “Look at this. I can only do so much with crayons.”
“Haute couture is the least of our problems,” the blond answered. “We can’t all …”