by Byrd, Daniel
That sounds more like the word you would use to describe creating the monstrosities yourself.
"It would be interesting," the doctor muttered to himself. Jackson was becoming impatient with the doctor's anti-social behavior. Well, that and the whole talking to himself part.
"Doc? Answer me."
"Hm? I'm sorry, what did you say?"
Jackson's brows furrowed. “I asked, how are you today?"
Hamilton shrugged. “Seeing as though the very fate of mankind rests in my hands, pretty fair, actually."
"Wow, this is almost nostalgic," Max muttered under his breath.
Jackson snickered and turned his attention back to the doctor. “At least we get the easy part. I can't say the same for you, doc."
"Believe me, Mr. Jackson, if anything so far has been easy, your standards for a global pandemic are rather…shallow."
"It could be worse?" Jackson asked him. “Enlighten me, doctor, because zombies spreading across the globe seems pretty damn apocalyptic to me."
"This is still minuscule compared to what it could be. No, this is systematic. Whoever these people are, they're following a plan of action…”
"What?" Jackson asked.
"Sorry, I shouldn't have said that; classified. You're just the delivery boys, and I'm supposed to be nonchalant about everything," Hamilton replied.
Jackson couldn't believe this guy. “What the hell are you talking about? You're probably the weirdest person I've ever had the fucking displeasure of being forced to deal with. You know that, right?"
Hamilton waved a hand dismissively. “Just following General Houseman’s orders."
Jackson thought on that. “Are you supposed to report back on us to him?"
Hamilton shook his head. “No, why?"
"Because fuck his orders, that's why. What were you talking about?"
Hamilton knew he couldn't say anything. Not just because of his orders, but because he didn't care to explain himself to the chaperones. He had more paramount matters racking his head. Besides that, he knew there was no getting along with these two; they blamed him for this, just like the rest of the world would if humanity made it through the plague. Part of the deal he made with Houseman was that he'd be offered amnesty for his role, but he wasn't counting on it. The only thing he actually expected was malice. It wasn't hard to believe, since so many had lost so much, and if the world knew he was a culprit, albeit a minor one, he'd be a scapegoat equivalent of a lightning rod. At least hate brought people together.
Just like here about seventy years ago…
"So doc, tell me," Jackson began, "do you feel anything, knowing that you're responsible for the deaths of millions?"
Angry that you're bugging us. Do you really need these two?
"I mean, being the man that engineered the likely cause of the end of the world, is that something to be remorseful for," Jackson said, meeting Hamilton’s eyes in the rear-view mirror, "or are you proud?"
You could just kill this guy. I'm pretty sure you're capable of driving to the destination yourself.
"Doubt I could kill a trained soldier over a deadman," Hamilton muttered to himself. “He's more fit than me anyway.”
"Well, are we getting an answer?" Jackson pressed on. “I'm sure Max here would like an explanation as well.”
"You've both lost something to this, haven't you?" the doctor asked them. Both noted just the smallest hint of sincerity in his voice.
"Friends," Jackson answered hastily, anger being compressed into the white knuckles on the steering wheel.
"And family," Max added.
Hamilton looked at a couple standing outside of a bakery, smiling and enjoying each others' company. The sight made him sick. “You know, I lost something too."
"Is that supposed to make us feel pity?" Jackson asked without making eye contact. Hamilton propped his elbow on the door to hold his head up as he gazed outside.
"No, just that even though you probably label me a remorseless monster, which you'd be right in doing, I've known the same pain."
"Hard to believe," Max replied. Jackson didn't think it like him to hold a grudge, but considering everything he had lost as well, he didn't blame the kid. The guy in the backseat was just an unwanted burden that both of them wanted to be rid of; a present reminder of everything they'd lost.
Hamilton was rubbing his knuckles on his chin. To continue with this would compromise his personal life; something he wasn't fond of doing. It had already been forced out of him a few times during his debriefing. Then again, the odds that he would be dead soon were very likely to him, so he figured, why the hell not? Might as well try socializing a bit more before he was gone.
"When you say family, am I to assume that your parents were killed by those reanimations?" Hamilton asked. Max didn't turn around to answer.
"My dad wasn't killed by those things. Well, he may have been, but I'm willing to bet it was something else."
"Wait," Jackson interjected, "what do you mean? I thought-"
"No," Max replied, "I found out that he survived Florida and escaped the quarantines. I don't know how, but he did. He made it to Austin…but…you know the rest."
Jackson didn't know the rest. The bombings, sure, but what did Max know of his dad’s fate? “How do you know?"
"I only just discovered this about three weeks ago. Not even Katie knows. I was going through the Red Cross databases set up for public use, looking for any signs of our families…and saw that my dad had been looking for me in Austin. The 'missing child' post was put up the day of the bombing…my dad actually made it out of Florida and reached a Haven, only to be blown up by our damn military!" Max punched the dash of the Humvee for dramatic effect.
"I see…" Hamilton muttered. He then looked at the back of Jackson's seat. “And the soldier of fortune? I know you're the one who shot a colonel. Was that related to all of this?"
"He fucked me over, I repaid the favor," Jackson answered coldly. “That's all.”
Hamilton understood that. Just in case though, forget what I said about murdering this guy. It seems dangerous now.
"Noted."
"So what about you, anyway?" Max asked as he turned around in his seat, "What did you lose from your own mistakes?"
Hamilton looked to his stub on his hand, "Fine, since I probably won't be coming back anyway, I suppose I'll-"
"Wait, doc," Jackson cut in, "are you really not coming back?"
"That's a strong possibility. I stopped half of the problem. The way I see it, the second I give a location back to your brass, I will have served my purpose. Who really knows what will happen next? The terrorists might just kill me on arrival."
"Half of the problem?" Max repeated, "That reminds me, what exactly did you do to stop the outbreak in America? General Houseman mentioned that, but didn't go into detail. What's the story there?"
The doctor shook his head. “I'm afraid that's classified."
"Does that actually hold you, doctor?" Jackson asked over his shoulder.
They've only spoken with you for a day at most, and already know how you work. Interesting.
"I don't really care. Even if it were not the case, I have no reason to explain anything to you two."
That drew a snarl from Jackson. “You're starting to piss me off."
Max was stuck on another thought, and turned around in his seat to address the doctor. “I honestly don't see what a guy like you has to lose. You're just the crazy scientist who does whatever is asked of him for money, is that it? You've lost nothing, but you've caused so much loss?! Is that it?! Answer me!"
"Max!" Jackson grabbed his shoulder and shoved him into the door. Max looked like he wanted to strike him, but after a few seconds of rational thought breaking through, he calmed down and faced the road ahead.
Hamilton's hands curled into fists. He was staring out of the window again while his mind was going back over every painful moment three months prior. The kid had no idea what loss looked like. Hamilton�
��s conscience was so covered in blood and guilt that he only kept it in check by smoking, and since he'd chain-smoked so quickly after leaving the hospital, his tolerance was already too much to cope with.
"I lost the two people on this planet I had any care for," he replied calmly after a deep breath.
"Is that right?" Jackson inquired.
"Yes, it is. One was the only person I ever called a friend. The other was…" Hamilton shook his head. “Forget I mentioned it."
"Someone closer than a friend?" Jackson guessed. Hamilton only nodded silently, and Jackson left it alone. Max however, didn't.
"I'd have sympathy, but you've caused that same pain for millions. They've all had to see loved ones die."
Hamilton was sick of hearing the brat. “Tell me then, do you think that any of them had to see the one person that ever gave a damn about them hooked up to life support machines, kept in cold storage, and monitored frequently as a high-profile experiment for the bastards that were really behind the American outbreak? Do you think they had to hunt that person down along with the rest of the undead experiments and kill them to ensure the safety of what’s left of our country? Do you?!"
Of course the other two were speechless. Hamilton figured that they were having a hard time processing whether or not he was telling the truth. Judging from the looks they were shooting each other, probably not, but when he caught Jackson trying to measure the weight of his words through the mirror, he hoped that his face had a stern enough expression to emphasize it. Jackson averted his gaze fast, so Hamilton was sure it had sunk in.
Max turned around again. “What happened?"
"I would rather avoid that conversation," Hamilton replied quietly.
"Let me guess," Max said, "classified?"
Hamilton shook his head, "Personal."
"Okay," Max turned back around and refrained from anymore questions. There were just some things you didn't press on about, and with the doctor's rumored kill streak it was best to just stop trying to provoke him.
Jackson cleared his throat. “Doctor, I have another question."
"What?" Hamilton replied, irritated.
"What are you doing now?"
Hamilton looked around inside the vehicle. “Well, if you really must know, I'm contemplating a plan of action just in case-"
"No, doc. I mean why are you doing this? Is it because they're forcing you, or…?"
The doctor rested his head back on his seat and stared at the ceiling, "I made mistakes; all of us on that team did. I'm the only one left who can correct them, and I've been left with a lot to deal with. Even more than I knew about apparently."
"So," Jackson said, "you're actually going about this for the right reasons?"
"I'm doing this for my own reasons, Private First Class Jackson."
Jackson grinned. He didn't like the guy, but he had to respect that. The crazy doctor had resolve.
"Am I right to assume that you are here for a similar reason?" Hamilton questioned. The soldier wasn't without sin himself.
"Sure, doc. We'll say that I'm repenting and leave it there."
Hamilton yawned and stretched out in the backseat. Jet lag was still being a bitch. “Shooting one officer versus being blamed for the deaths of millions…If it's any condolence, I'm sure that my sins far outweigh yours."
Jackson laughed. “You know what, Max? If I didn't know any better, I'd say the nice doctor back there was trying to comfort me."
Hamilton actually laughed. “Funny; I've never been one to bring comfort to people."
"Well, maybe it'd be helpful for your social development. Maybe pick up a religion or work on whatever current belief you have while you're at it. It might help you see a reason in helping others."
Hamilton laughed. “With death looming ever so near, I'd suggest you stick close to your religion, Mr. Dawson."
"You know," Max replied, fed up with the doctor's grim attitude, "some religions don't believe that death is the end. Reincarnation is actually quite common."
Jackson rolled his eyes. “Do any of them involve reanimation?"
Hamilton smirked. “Mine would."
Jackson glared at him in the rear-view mirror. “I know I've said this before, but you're a weird son of a bitch, you know that, doc?"
***
Ramstein Air Base was quite a distance away from Berlin, but that was fine with Second Lieutenant Ethan Stevens. He wanted no part of what was going on with that side of the country, so with that thought out of his head, he grabbed another crate and walked down the ramp behind more of his fellow soldiers as they unloaded the C-17's cargo for use on base. He was really glad he wasn't part of the ride behind theirs that carried the three Bradleys. These cargo planes were actually pretty spacious, but he liked the extra leg room, even if he had spent the flight strapped into his seat with people on both sides of him and almost directly in front of him.
It was too sunny a day for the start of the operation. He was used to the idea of nature being against humanity whenever it came to wartime. It even stormed on D-Day, as he had been told countless time in the recounts of his late grandfather. Of course, he wasn't really complaining; it felt much nicer than Nevada did three months before. With the undead everywhere and rising in numbers by the minute, that was Hell. This place was beautiful in comparison, albeit still militarized.
It took him another whole month after the bombings to be reassigned to Seattle, but even then the two months he spent there had been unpleasant. He was a thinker, not a man meant to carry a gun, and having to be authoritative over so many people was kind of hard for him. It was only because he fucked up on the ASVAB that he was even stuck in his position. It was determined that he apparently wasn't suited for the intelligence branch. He had always wanted to be an intelligence analyst, but here he was, a grunt carrying heavy equipment across a landing strip in the hopes that he was being somewhat useful while the world was slowly beginning to fall apart around them. It really sucked that Wiesbaden Air Field wasn't even that far from them. America's intelligence command center in Germany, he really felt like something was just taunting him.
After unloading the last of the equipment, most of the unit was ordered to either barracks or to report for patrol duties. Unfortunately for Stevens, it was patrol. He readied his M16 and was stuck near the hanger a squadron of F-16s was being prepped in. He wasn't privy of their purpose, but the stepped-up security gave that aura of importance. As he rounded the corner of the hanger door and watched a C-130 approach for landing, he heard a deep and disgruntled voice from around the corner behind him. It sounded familiar.
"What's the word from Berlin?"
Stevens knew he recognized the voice, so he stepped around the corner of the hanger to get a better listen. He swore he knew who it belonged to, but he just had to get closer.
"The Inspector of the German Army has placed all personnel on high alert, and has informed me that the Federal Minister of Defense has agreed to lend us his full cooperation for the mission. The memorial site is clear of forces as requested."
Stevens didn't know the other voice at all, but the tone indicated that what he had just said was meant to be good news. He wanted to step out and look into the hanger, but he already looked suspicious as hell just standing at the corner of the structure leaned against the wall.
"I'm glad to hear it," the first voice said with a sigh. "Hopefully the Germans won't be our only allies in this…anything from the medical center on base?”
"I've been told that the 86th Medical Unit looked through the reports,” the other man said, “they think it's something in the water that's making people sick, and assured everyone that it's nothing to be alarmed about. That source has been shut off, so it shouldn't be an issue anymore, but it's going to take some time before some of the troops are ready again. It incapacitated a lot of people, both civilian and military. Beds at the Landstuhl Regional Medical Center are packed with people sick to their stomachs.”
There was a very audibl
e grunt of displeasure. Whatever the hell was around that corner had just made like a large animal establishing dominance, because the other guy had shut the hell up.
“How the hell did they let the base water supply become contaminated? Now of all times? Whoever is in charge of utilities needs to be replaced immediately. I'm disappointed in General Doe.”
Now Stevens was curious. He tried to nonchalantly round the corner, but he nearly tripped over himself when he saw who one of the men were. Feet away and looking right at him was General James Houseman. Stevens fumbled with his rifle and snapped to a salute. “Sir!"
Houseman paid him little attention as he nodded and turned back to the officer next to him. “I'm going back inside. Everything here is in working order, and the best of the best have been chosen to carry out the mission should it come to that point. I've spoken with Secretary Welch, and he has no doubt that these squadrons can perform the job.”
"Are we willing to strike this soon?" the officer asked him. Stevens noted the major insignia on his arm, but didn't recognize the man.
"We just need to be prepared. Be my eyes down here for me, Hampton."
Major Hampton snapped to a salute. “Yes sir!"
With that, Houseman left the hangar, walking right past Stevens. The General of the Army didn't even bother to look at him. Stevens actually felt disappointment. Just three months ago they had shared a discussion back in Nevada the night before Operation Megacorpse. It figured; the one man who could get him out of his dull position didn't even remember him. Stevens swore under his breath at the disappointment and looked back into the hanger. The Major was talking to another high-ranking Air Force officer, and a group of pilots were all standing around in a circle near the F-16 on the far right. One of the taller pilots was being especially loud. His gelled-back brown hair and straight jaw matched his cocky attitude he was giving the others. Stevens was amazed that he could almost coherently hear him over the testing of the jet engines by the maintenance crew. He was smiling while shouting at a smaller female pilot with red hair, who appeared more than irritated to be near him. As the engines died down, he could hear them more clearly. The red-head was letting the tall one have it.