Z Plan (Book 2): Red Tides

by Lerma, Mikhail

  “What’s going on in here?” Amun asked the men, as he entered the room.

  The men fell silent and looked at the floor, and Cale realized the respect the man commanded.

  “Are you in charge?” Cale asked.

  Amun ignored the question, and issued an order to the enlisted men. One of them acquiesced and exited the room.

  “We’ve cleared some space for the two of you. You’ll find that your new quarters are a bit more, how do you say? Acceptable?”

  Amun repeated the news in Arabic for Naeem. He issued another order to the two remaining guards, who saluted him. The lieutenant commander ignored the salute once more. Their club wielding captors then pushed the duo out of the room.

  Cale had been blindfolded when they’d brought him in, and so had no idea where on the vessel he might be. They were led through a series of corridors that all looked the same, until they came to what appeared to be a group shower.

  “Remove your clothing,” Amun ordered.

  “Why?” Cale asked, his tone mutinous, even though the answer was obvious.

  One of the guards hit him in the gut with his club. Unprepared for the strike, Cale fell to the floor, gasping for breath. The other guard laughed, but Amun stood in silence.

  “Remove your clothing,” Amun said again.

  Naeem helped Cale to his feet, and together the pair began to strip. When they stood completely naked, they were forced under the nozzles of the shower. The water was turned on, and Cale jumped away from the freezing spray. He was pushed back into the flow. The men shivered as they wiped at themselves. They were handed bars of soap, and Cale wasn’t sure if the water was warming up, or if he was just acclimating to it, but he was soon able to wash his body thoroughly. The cheap bar of soap made his skin feel waxy, but he was glad to wash the stench of death away. Naeem clearly shared his enthusiasm. After the two of them were clean, the water was shut off. Unknown to them, Amun was observing their bodies for avenues of infection. Cale’s knife wound had scarred over and didn’t look to be an issue. Naeem was covered with scars of various types, cuts, abrasions, and burns.

  Little did Amun know, but Naeem was a trained killer. He’d been recruited by a rebel army at a very young age. By the time he was twelve, he’d killed many men, women, and even children. They were kills which deeply troubled him, and Naeem remembered every face, and the look of fear each victim displayed before his or her untimely end. He wasn’t given a choice in the matter, they swore they’d kill his family if he disobeyed or tried to flee. It wasn’t until much later, at the age of nineteen, that he’d discovered his family had been executed long before. The worst part was the tragedy that had befallen his little sister. She’d been raped, beaten, and tortured before they killed her, and so all the people he had killed for a cause not his own, had been in vain.

  Naeem was only twenty, but he looked much older. He’d used the infection as a smoke screen to escape the rebels, only to be caught by a scavenging team and their handler as he headed north. He’d been in quarantine for twenty-four hours before the American had been brought in.

  Lieutenant Commander Amun motioned them to follow as he walked back into the passageways of the submarine. They were paraded through the deck completely naked; Amun hoped it would establish their status.

  The metal floor felt cold, and water dripped from their bodies as they walked.

  The officer took them to a door where a guard stood outside. Cale speculated they were being put into another brig, but the door opened to reveal a small two-man room. Bunks with flimsy pads to serve as mattresses extended from the wall. The space was maybe the size of a walk in closet. A single light bulb illuminated the little nook.

  Amun waved his arm, gesturing them to enter. On the bottom bunk were two bags; Cale immediately recognized his tan jump bag with its black leather bottom. The other was a small black book bag; the plastic arm straps cracked from use.

  “Welcome home,” Amun said in English. “You will remain in this room for your quarantine period.”

  He then repeated the statement in Arabic so Naeem knew what was going on. They entered the room and the door closed behind them.

  Naeem and Cale exchanged awkward glances for a second, and then reclaimed their respective belongings. Cale opened his tan bag and discovered that it had been looted. He had one uniform, a pair of socks, and his hygiene kit. They’d taken the clothing he’d risked his life to gather. He checked every pouch, ensuring that he hadn’t missed anything. To his relief, he did find the green cloth soldier, and his red, white, and blue charm bracelet. It was identical to the one his wife and daughter wore. A search of the rest of the pockets revealed they’d taken everything else. Zach’s notebook was missing, along with Cale’s iPod. Naeem’s expression was similar; no doubt they’d relieved him of some his belongings too.

  The two of them dressed in silence, and Cale reflected upon his current situation. Granted, it beat dying alone on a boat in the middle of the Mediterranean, but he wondered what he’d gotten himself into. As he lay on his bunk, staring at the ceiling, Cale wondered whether things would be different if he hadn’t recommended to Zach that they split up. Zach would still be alive, but maybe not in this place. He imagined himself with Zach, Adam, and Matthew cruising across the open water, with the warm sun shining on their smiling faces, and Cale started to cry. The angry growling of his stomach interrupted his train of thought, and Cale wiped his eyes and leaned over his bunk to look down at a sleeping Naeem. Now that the lighting was better, Cale saw the scars that covered his face and arms. He wished he’d taken more time to learn Arabic with the Rosetta Stone program. Not that it mattered; Naeem spoke a different dialect of it, but at least there would have been a small channel of communication. He lay back again, staring up at the metal ceiling. For a while, he cursed himself silently for trying to hail for a rescue. If only he’d stuck to the original plan to stay on land all the way into Eastern Europe. His whole journey thus far had been filled with mistakes that haunted him.

  The metal door groaned and screeched as someone lifted the latch and swung it open. A man dropped two pairs of boots on the floor, along with two brown plastic bags and two bottles of water, before closing the door once more. Both inmates jumped up to grab their first meal of the day. Cale looked at his beef stew, and Naeem held an imitation pork rib. Naeem pointed to the words printed on the bag, and looked at him. Cale wasn’t sure what he was wanting but took a stab at it anyway.

  “Food,” he said, as he pretended to eat an invisible item from his hand.

  Naeem already knew it was food, but he wanted to know what it was. He nodded at Cale and flashed a smile; opening it was the only way he’d find out what its contents were. Each of them ate their meals cold. Cale didn’t want to waste the water to utilize the chemical heater, and Naeem didn’t know what it was, so he discarded it as Cale had. Cale tried not to chug too much of his water, but couldn’t help it. He was thirsty, extremely thirsty. After dinner was done, their attention turned to the boots that had been left for them. Neither of them had footwear, since theirs had been left in the shower room. Cale realized one of the pairs was his; they’d been washed off and were soaked. Naeem’s boots were in the same condition. Their captors had been nice enough to wash away the brains and blood they’d acquired stomping out the infected.

  The new and unlikely friends sat together in silence. Cale enjoyed the company, but given the language barrier wasn’t sure what to say. As a boy, Naeem was taught to dislike westerners, but given the situation, he didn’t mind the man he shared a room with. Despite his upbringing, Naeem gave everyone a chance; he observed them, and then judged their intentions. Cale, so far, shared both his enthusiasm and survival skills. He couldn’t deny their ability to kill the infected as a team, how they’d pulled them through one at a time and dispatched them.

  It had been a long day for both of them, and they settled into their bunks. Naeem had the bottom and Cale the top. Cale reached for the drawstring hanging fr
om the bulb that lit the room. He looked down at Naeem to see if he needed the light for anything, and Naeem shook his head, signaling that he too was ready for darkness. With a click, the light was extinguished and the pair settled in. The pulsating hum of the turbines lulled them to sleep.

  5.

  Quarantine

  Cale sat in his Humvee, G112, and observed the civilian traffic take to the dirt and parallel the road as they headed south on MSR (main supply route) Tampa. The dust they kicked up covered his goggles, which he periodically wiped. The weight of his body armor hurt his back with each bounce the vehicle made, and the .50 caliber machine gun wobbled on its mount. His turret may look like a mess to anyone else, but he knew where everything was. To his right were his pen flare and personal weapon, and on the left were the signal flares and laser pointer. Below him and to the rear, were the rest of his ammo cans. Sunlight filtered back and forth through his desert-colored cloth canopy. McGregor and Zach’s voices played through his headset.

  “Are you kidding me?” McGregor asked.

  “I’m sorry, I drank a lot of water,” Zach replied.

  “Can you wait ‘til checkpoint fifteen, alpha?”

  “Uh…” Zach pondered the distance for a second. “I don’t think so.”

  McGregor sighed with frustration as he sent a message to command on the Blue Force Tracker. The pen hitting the screen could be heard through their headsets. McGregor fumbled with the toggle to broadcast a message to the convoy.

  “Golf One and Two. Prepare to stop; my driver has to pee—again. Over.”

  Golf One and Two both replied with ‘Roger’, and the convoy stopped.

  “Make sure you’re doing your five and twenty fives,” McGregor ordered the convoy.

  ‘Five and twenty fives’ were what each truck had to do before dismounting a vehicle on the MSR. You checked around your vehicle at five yards to ensure there were no improvised explosive devices, and then you looked out to twenty-five yards for triggermen or insurgents waiting to ambush the convoy.

  “You’re clear,” Cale said, as he rotated his turret.

  It was his responsibility to ensure the safety of his crew when they disembarked. Cale grabbed his rifle, exited the turret, and stood on the top of the vehicle. He then relieved himself over the edge, being sure to piss from the back of the truck so he wouldn’t hit McGregor or Zach with his stream. The cord for his headset tugged him back when he moved too far away. He buttoned his pants and turned to get back into his turret.

  “Holy shit. Look at that,” Zach said, as he pointed at a fast approaching sandstorm.

  “Let’s get back in the truck,” McGregor suggested.

  Cale looked down at the two of them. Neither wore their body armor.

  “What the fuck are you guys doing?” he asked.

  He observed them closer; Zach was pale, almost ghostly white. His eyes were dull and glazed. A bullet hole adorned his forehead. The wound oozed black goo, and a fleshy substance dripped from the exit wound in the back of his head. McGregor was the same color, and his throat was bleeding profusely. A chunk of flesh was missing from it, and the blood soaked his uniform.

  “Oh my God!” Cale yelled.

  The cord to his headset suddenly pulled him back into the truck, and he fought to remove it but failed. Cale grabbed the truck’s radio antenna and fell flat on the top of G112. His hands faltered, and he was violently dragged into his gunner’s hatch. Inside waiting for him, were the undead faces of Zach, McGregor, Cacy, Travis, Matthew, and finally little Adam. Cale screamed as they chewed the flesh from his face. He felt them tug at and tear away his skin. It felt like a hot iron had been pushed into his flesh when the air touched the exposed nerve endings.

  “No!” he screamed.

  Cale sat up, sweating in the darkness of the room, on what would be day two of quarantine. Naeem snored on the bunk below him. He no longer had a watch and couldn’t check the passage of time, but Cale speculated that it was the major downside of serving on a submarine, never knowing if it was day or night in the world above. Cale listened as the vessel creaked and groaned under the pressure of the water, knowing its structural integrity was being tested. He lay back down and tried to force himself back to sleep, alternating between drowsing and wakefulness.

  Naeem cleared his throat and sat up; they could hear voices outside their door. Cale reached out for the string and turned the light back on. It was blinding, and Cale squinted, waiting for his eyes to adjust. The door opened, and in stepped the lieutenant commander and the fat man. Cale recognized him as the one who’d held him captive while the other men raided the Freedom Runner.

  * * *

  Amun had informed Ensign Pashet just an hour before their arrival that he would be the handler for both the American and the man from Sudan. Pashet, of course, objected.

  “Sir, that’s a job for the enlisted men.”

  “None of the enlisted speak English,” Amun explained.

  “Sir, Binra knows a little…”

  Amun interrupted him before he could continue. “I’ve picked you, ensign. Do we have a problem?”

  “No, sir,” Pashet answered, like a dog with its tail between its legs.

  They stood in front of the refugees, and Amun began the introductions.

  “This is Ensign Pashet. He will be your handler.”

  He then repeated the information in Arabic. Cale looked at Pashet, critically analyzing him. The fat man was much shorter than himself. Cale remembered the glare he’d received from those dark brown eyes, and it was obvious that Pashet didn’t want any part of this. Cale looked at his stout belly, his belt barely keeping it inside his pants. There, on his belt, hung Zach’s knife.

  “When will I be getting that back?” he asked, as he pointed to the replica British World War II combat knife.

  Amun only smiled.

  “It’s mine now,” sneered Pashet.

  Cale smirked. “I’ll be getting that back.”

  He startled himself with his tone; there had been an underlying threat in the statement. Pashet’s smile disappeared, and he readied his baton. Cale prepared himself for the hit, but didn’t raise his hands in defense.

  “You’ll learn to fear me,” Pashet said as he struck Cale across the face with his baton.

  Cale’s head rebounded from the blow. It hurt, but he wasn’t going to let it show. Pashet was already out of breath.

  “Easy, Ensign,” Amun ordered.

  Pashet puffed out his chest as far as he could, but his belly extended further. He collapsed the baton and placed it back in the holster.

  “Sorry about that sir,” he said in Arabic.

  Naeem wasn’t fond of the man either. His pompous demeanor was quite evident.

  Pashet was the product of a rich family, and, never having achieved anything himself, he used his father and his father’s money to intimidate people. Now that the world had ended, his influence had dissipated, but not his arrogance. Secretly, he couldn’t wait for the world to correct itself, so that he and his father could make some people regret how they had treated him. Amun was at the top of that list. He hated Amun’s obvious confidence when he told him he would be a handler. Pashet would play this game, but not for long.

  Amun explained what their choices would be, once they cleared quarantine. ‘Choices’ wasn’t exactly the right term, however; it was either serve them or die. Cale and Naeem both agreed to serve what remained of the Egyptian Naval Fleet, but secretly both men devised plans to escape.

  The lieutenant commander continued to brief them on their mission. The next day, when the quarantine was lifted, they and two other scavenging teams would be taken ashore to a hospital located on the coast. The three teams would then search the facility for medical supplies. Reconnaissance of the area revealed it to have plenty of medical supplies, which was good, but it also contained a high concentration of infected. This didn’t surprise Cale; he always imagined the hospitals would have been flooded with people hoping for a treatment
or cure. Either way, the next day would be an interesting and dangerous day.

  Amun and Pashet exited the room and left Cale and Naeem alone. Cale was anxious about the mission. There were bound to be hundreds of infected, a thought that terrified him. It might, however, provide the opportunity for escape that he needed. He wondered if his leaving would result in punishment for Naeem. He didn’t know him well, but didn’t want him held responsible. On the other hand, he couldn’t wait to take Ensign Pashet down a peg or two and retrieve his knife.

  “Fat fuck,” Cale said under his breath.

  They returned to their bunks, and sat in silence once more. Even though Naeem seemed like a good man and a handy companion, Cale felt alone. He missed Zach, and he missed Cacy and Travis. Most of all, he missed his wife and daughter, the daughter he feared he may never get a chance to know. He thought about his brothers and wondered whether they were alive or dead. Finally he cleared his thoughts, and just stared at the door. It was going to be a long day.

  * * *

  Pashet stomped his feet like a child as he followed Amun down the corridor. Amun ignored him, not wanting to dignify Pashet’s actions with a response. Pashet was disliked by the crew. He was a whiny complainer, and they couldn’t stand to listen to him. They thought it odd that he’d made it through the Naval Academy, since they all knew the fat little man hadn’t really worked a day in his life, but thrived on the wide spread fear of his family. It was fear that Pashet hoped would one day be restored. Amun stopped outside his quarters and turned to Pashet.

  “Use today to prepare for tomorrow,” he ordered in Arabic.

  “Sir,” he replied with a salute.

  Amun hated to do it, but saluted him anyway. Pashet watched as the lieutenant commander entered his private quarters. He felt that he too, should have private quarters, but instead he shared a room with another officer. Even though they worked opposite shifts, and only saw each other in passing, he thought it below him to share a room. At the Academy, his father spoke to the head of the school, and within twenty-four hours he had private quarters, while everyone else had to share a large bay. Recalling this caused him to smile, but it faded quickly when Amun closed his door. Pashet was in the present now, where he shared a room, took orders from idiots, and worked a job that was below him. An ugly frown clouded his bearded face. Even though he was discontent with his current state, he was more than happy to follow the lieutenant commander’s order to take the day off.