A Plague on All Houses (6 page)

“But
why
cover it up? Why not just tell people what's going on so they could deal with it if it happened again?”

“I suppose it's because some things are too horrific to cope with without losing their sanity. The concept of the living dead would crack the walls of reality for many people.”

“Or maybe it's because there's always somebody making the decision that people don't need to know,” I snapped. “Pretty arrogant, if you ask me.”

“You're absolutely right,” said Simone. “But some things will never change. And the infantilizing of the masses by those in power is one of them.”

“It sucks,” I muttered.

“It does indeed,” Simone agreed.”But on the other hand, imagine the ensuing panic, especially amongst extremely superstitious societies, if it became known the dead walked. People would have died needlessly and any effective containment efforts would have been nullified by panicking citizens. No, better to get the situation under control as quickly and quietly as possible, spin a plausible story for the survivors, and avoid the chaos of mass hysteria.”

“So what's the cover story for this outbreak?”

“Er… a virulent outbreak of a new Ebola strain.” She actually looked embarrassed as she continued, “Caused by an infected laboratory monkey.” I looked at her and she hurriedly added, “It wasn't my idea.”

I finished my soup, thinking about what she'd said. “But what if there's an outbreak that gets out of hand? No volcanoes or whatever they did to sink Atlantis.”

Simone's gaze darted to the side for just an instant before she replied, “So far humans are the only viable host, which is a blessing. If it could be spread by another vector, the ways fleas spread the bubonic plague … well, seventy-five million people were claimed by the Black Death between 1347 to 1351.”

“No offense, but that doesn't really answer my question.”

“No, I suppose it doesn't.” Simone leaned back in her chair, pushing her hair off her forehead as she massaged her temples.

I glared at her. “So stop infantilizing me.”

“I'm sorry, Ashley.” Simone looked sincerely repentant. “Habits of a lifetime are hard to break. I'll try to answer your questions as best I can.”

I nodded, somewhat mollified. “So what happens if there's an outbreak that can't be contained? Nuke time?”

“I hope not.” Simone stared at me grimly. “Special units trained to deal with this were mobilized immediately after the first sighting. But—” She paused, a frown furrowing her brow. “Something's different this time. We haven't located the source of this particular outbreak. It's showing up in pockets of isolated populations spontaneously, but so far tests have negated the possibility it's mutated to an airborne pathogen.”

“So you don't know why it's spreading?”

“No. And to make things worse, the symptoms start out very much like a bad case of the flu. Specifically Walker's.”

I stared at her, horrified. Zara's eyes had shown the same yellowish, bloodshot whites. I wondered if my roommate was still alive or if she'd died in blood-soaked agony only to reanimate as a hungry, walking corpse.

The door opened and Gabriel dashed in. “Professor Fraser, Alpha Team found another pocket in a tourist stop ten miles up the road. It's definitely spreading.”

“Any more symptoms amongst the teams?”

Gabriel nodded reluctantly. “Four more Alphas are showing initial symptoms. I've quarantined them.”

Simone took a deep breath and then let it out slowly. “Damn. This isn't good. We're running out of manpower far too quickly.”

“I know. But I think we may also have another Wild Card. He has a nasty bite wound on one leg, but seems to be shaking off the infection just like Ashley.” He nodded at me, gaze skittering away when I made eye contact.

Simone immediately brightened. “That
is
good news! I'll be along to see him after I've finished briefing Ashley.”

Gabriel nodded and left the room.

“Briefing?” I tried to laugh, but it came out more like a feeble cough. “That sounds awfully military.”

Simone sighed. “It is, Ashley. Which leads me to the reason you're here.”

I waited for her to elaborate. She didn't disappoint me.

“You are part of less than point-zero-one-percent of the population who can survive being bitten by a zombie. You are what we refer to as a Wild Card.”

I could hear the caps on that.

“Not only does some genetic predisposition enable you and other Wild Cards to survive a bite without becoming one of the walking dead … well, the virus also enhances your natural strength, speed, and reflexes.”

I couldn't help but laugh. “So, what? I'm like, bionic or something?”

Simone shook her head. “I'm quite serious. Wild Cards are hard to kill and heal fast. Surely you've noticed your wounds aren't nearly as bad as they should be so soon after the initial trauma. And with a fever and infection as extreme as the ones you had twelve hours ago, you shouldn't be able to sit up on your own, let alone subdue a zombie.”

I glanced at her, surprised.

“Oh yes, Gabriel told me about your quick thinking with … well, with your boyfriend. You're quite a remarkable young woman, Ashley. And not just because of your immunity to the zombie virus. You're exactly the type of person we need.”

“Who is ‘we?’ Some kind of secret government zombie squad?”

Simone gave an indelicate snort. “Zombie squad, indeed. As good a name as any, I suppose. Although it sounds rather like a Disney movie.” She shook her head and continued. “The government
is
involved in that this squad has members amongst all nations at the very highest level. Black ops doesn't begin to cover the level of secrecy involved.”

“Let me guess. Since you told me, now you have to kill me?”

She smiled, shook her head. “On the contrary, Ashley, you are now one of the world's most valuable assets. You see, because of the random spread of infection, the increasing frequency with which our teams are developing symptoms, and our current inability to pinpoint the cause, we are dangerously shorthanded and could easily lose control of the situation.”

“What about bringing in more military from the outside?”

“Until we figure out what's causing the spread, we can't risk bringing in any more people. You Wild Cards are our last best hope of containing this infection.” She hesitated, then continued. “More than that, your blood, and that of other Wild Cards, coupled with modern technology, potentially holds the cure to a scourge that's threatened mankind for centuries.”

I didn't like the sound of this. “So I'm some sort of guinea pig now?”

“Of course not, but—”

“But you
are
an American.” A loud, brusque voice cut Simone off.

Simone and I both looked towards the door, now opened to reveal a lantern-jawed man in a military uniform, stripes, stars and assorted medals dripping off the shoulders and above the left breast pocket. Striding into the room, he was straight out of one of SyFy Channel's “original” movies. You know, the ones where a cast of assorted good-looking twenty-somethings is stuck on an island with one has-been name actor? And they have to battle a giant snake/komodo dragon/spider/dragon/alligator created because of science gone terribly wrong, while making their way to a helicopter on the far side of the island, racing against the clock because the military dude responsible for the experiment wants to blow up the evidence? Well, this guy was the military dude with the itchy push-the-button finger.

He stopped at the foot of my bed, legs planted firmly apart in what I'm sure he thought was a heroic stance. He had the total middle-aged Charlton Heston thing going, all craggy features and stern expression. This guy looked like he'd blow up an island in a heartbeat and I didn't trust him at all. From her expression, he wasn't on Simone's list of favorite people either.

“General Heald.” Simone's voice was flat.

“Professor Fraser.” He nodded briefly, as if conveying a favor.

Wow. Condescending much?

He turned back to me, steel gray eyes glinting with patriotic fervor beneath thick, unruly eyebrows.

“So, Miss Drake, are you an American?”

No, I'm a Commie pinko bastard
, I thought, remembering one of my dad's favorite expressions from some seventies sitcom. But I didn't say it out loud. I had the feeling it would get the same results as making jokes about bombs in the airport security line. Instead I gave General Brasshole's question the answer it deserved and said absolutely nothing.

He harrumphed, one of those throat-clearing noises that can mean almost anything. “Miss Drake, as Professor Fraser has said, you are a very special young lady. Your enhanced physical abilities and immunity to the plague make you the ideal warrior to help control this outbreak. As such, you are to be trained and put back in the field as soon as possible.”

WTF?

I stared at him incredulously. “Do I look like Rambo-ette here?”

Another harrumph. Then, leaning forward, the General tapped me on one blanket-covered knee. “Young lady, when we're done training you, you'll make Rambo look like a pussy.” He gave me a conspiratorial smile. I wasn't buying it.

“What if I don't want to make Rambo look like a pussy?”

“Harrumph?” Okay, he didn't really say “harrumph,” but close enough for (heh) government work.

“No one's asking me if I want this training. You're just telling me what I'm going to do. It's my choice, right?”

General Heald's bushy eyebrows shot up. “Miss Drake, it is your patriotic duty to do what you're told.”

Simone shut her eyes. “Oh, that's helpful,” she muttered under her breath, not quite loud enough for the General to hear clearly.

I folded my arms across my chest and looked at him. “I bet you can see Russia from your house.”

He glared at me. “Just what are you trying to say here, Miss Drake?”

“That you're a jingoistic idiot.” Yeah, I said the quiet part loud. I blame the pain meds.

Heald's face purpled with rage and the harrumphs came so fast, they blended into an incoherent growl. I thought for a second he might hit me—and realized I didn't care. No way I was having this medal-heavy moron tell me what my duty to my country was without giving me a chance to make up my mind.

“America, land of the free, remember? That means I get to choose.” I looked at Simone. “Last time I checked we didn't have a draft going on for a zombie squad, am I right?”

“We are not yet taking those measures, no,” said Simone.

General Heald took a deep breath, then another as he fought for, then regained his composure. “Yes, young lady.” The sarcasm dripping off the word “lady” was as thick as honey. The kind you have to microwave before it's even remotely pourable. “You do indeed have a choice. Allow me to show you what you stand to gain if you say yes.” He glared at Simone. “Bring her to the lab so she can see the holding pens.”

Simone started to protest. “I must insist Ashley rest up before—”

“Just do it, Professor Fraser.” He stalked back to the door, stopping to look at me with dislike. Guess I couldn't blame him. “If she's too weak to walk, use a wheelchair. But I want her there in five minutes. We don't have time for this liberal bullshit.”

“Commie pinko bastard bullshit to you,” I muttered as he slammed the door behind him. I turned to Simone. “Is he for real?”

Sighing, Simone said, “Despite his clichéd and archaic attitude, quite real. And unfortunately, not without influence.”

“Why does he want me to see the lab?” I asked. “What does he mean, ‘holding pens’? I mean, what's he talking about, with what I ‘stand to gain’ by joining up with this Z team of yours?”

Simone looked me straight in the eyes. “Ashley, I think you're a very strong person. And you're going to need all of that strength in the time to come. So—”

The door opened and Gabriel walked in. “Sorry to interrupt, Professor, but General Heald wants the two of you in the lab. He said Ashley might need some help.”

Wow. I was
so
not touched by General Brasshole's concern. Judging by the look on Simone's face, she was equally unimpressed. She nodded politely at Gabriel and said, “Thank you. It probably wouldn't hurt to have some extra support for this.”

Hidden meaning much?

Gabriel didn't look at me. Something seemed different about him since before all this shit had hit the fan, before he'd gotten sick, in fact. Grimmer, maybe.

Of course, having a zombie apocalypse hanging over our heads was enough to make anyone less than optimistic, so maybe I shouldn't read too much into Gabriel's current downer demeanor.

“Ashley, are you ready?”

For what?
I thought. But I just nodded because ready or not, I had to go the lab. But first—

“Is there some kind of robe I can put on so I'm not flashing my butt?”

I felt rather than saw Gabriel's discomfort. Heh.

Simone procured a set of drab green scrubs for me in record time. Not as cozy as a warm terrycloth robe, but better than the breeze-up-my-ass hospital gown. Gabriel turned his back to me while I slid on the pants and top, baggy enough to fit me half over. Little sock slippers went with them. It felt oddly comforting to have something between my feet and the floor, even if it was just a layer of poly-cotton.

I stood, feeling a
Groundhog Day
sense of déjà vu as far as how many times I'd woken up, stood, passed out, then repeated the cycle the last few hours. Hopefully I'd avoid the passing out part this time.

“You gonna be okay?” Gabriel asked gruffly.

“I think so,” I said, and I meant it. “But I swear, if I friggin’ faint again, I'm gonna change my name to Satine.”

“Huh?”

“
Moulin Rouge
,” said Simone. I looked at her with pleased surprise.

To my further shock, Gabriel gave a small sound that might have become a laugh had it lived a few more seconds. I wonder how many of those things he'd suffocated at birth?

None of us was smiling a few minutes later. We had to go through the med ward to get to the lab. Gabriel marched grimly ahead, while Simone stayed by my side as I tried my best to keep my gaze straight ahead towards the door at the other end of the room (okay, I actually focused on Gabriel's undeniably nice butt), but the smells and sounds were unavoidable. A line from my favorite Johnny Depp movie,
Ed Wood,
kept running through my head: “You've got to get through that door.” Maybe there'd be mad scientists with cashmere swatches on the other side.

Out of the corner of my eyes I caught sight of a couple of empty cots, blood, and black bile-soaked sheets the only sign of their former occupants. I stumbled over a twisted sheet trailing off the end of a cot and Simone steadied me with a hand on my elbow.

Gabriel immediately dropped back to my other side, ready to catch me should I faint again. “Are you all right?”

I nodded. “Just tripped. Let's just get out of this room, okay?” This time I set a rapid pace until I got through those doors, into another hallway.

Gabriel took the lead again, heading through a door and down a stairwell on our immediate left. Our footsteps clanged on the metal stairs until we reached the next floor. This door was locked, with a little access pad on the wall next to it. Gabriel pulled out a lanyard from around his neck where it'd been tucked into his shirt-front, revealing a plastic card key attached to the other end. One swipe of the card and we were through the door and in what looked like a very sterile antechamber, with a double door in front of us. This one had a number pad set on one of the doors, butted up right to the middle.

“Pretty tight security for a college campus,” I said.

Simone nodded. “You'd be surprised at what you'll find behind the scenes in a lot of places … and not just colleges.”

“I don't think much of anything would surprise me about now.” I felt pretty cynical as Gabriel punched in a lengthy numerical sequence, certain I'd seen it all.

Yeah, not so much.

When the doors opened the smell was the first thing to hit me: a nasty-ass stew of diseased blood and rotting flesh, similar to the stink in the med ward. In the lab, however, the odor of death was wrapped up in a falsely reassuring layer of bleach and antiseptic. Like, “yeah, there's really bad shit going on here, but we're cleaning it up, so it's okay.”

I'm here to tell you there was
nothing
okay about what was going on in this lab.

A large room, the size of a lecture hall in square footage, but no theater-style seating. Metal tables, all holding groaning, moaning, teeth-gnashing zombies strapped down at the wrists, ankles, and neck. Tubes and needles stuck into their bodies at various points. Fluids pumping in and out of rotting flesh. Hazmat-suit-clad techs all wearing sidearms, cutting away thin slices of flesh like Dad carving the turkey at Thanksgiving, those strips then put under microscopes or into carefully marked containers for future study.

I recognized both the African-American kid and the woman who'd asked me to help her from the med ward, all remnants of humanity gone from their faces as they writhed against the straps holding them down, unmindful as the tough canvas rubbed away patches of skin.

At the far end of the room were cages, thick iron-barred contraptions with the bars spaced close together. In those cages were more of the living dead, all jammed up against the bars, trying to shove their hands and arms through the narrow gaps to reach the Hazmat-wrapped meals walking around the room. Those had to be the holding pens.

“What the hell is this?” I whispered to no one in particular.

“Research.” Simone kept her volume low as she answered my question. “Regrettable, but necessary if we're ever to isolate the root cause or, more importantly, find a cure.”

“So all the people you rescued … they're just research animals?”

“The ones who don't make it, yes.”

“So if I wasn't one of your friggin’ Wild Cards, I'd be strapped to one of these tables getting pieces parts carved out of me, right?” For some reason, this horrified me more than anything else so far.

“That's right, Miss Drake.”

Great. Even through the weird, tinny filter of a Hazmat helmet, I recognized General Brasshole's pompous tone as he strode into the room and looked at me through his Plexiglas helm with what I can only describe as triumph. “And this is what will happen to your former boyfriend if you don't cooperate.”

WTF?
That's what I thought, at least. Out loud it came out, “Are you kidding me?”

“No, Miss Drake, I am not kidding you. If you join the team, your boyfriend will be given a swift and humane death.” He smiled and it was
so
not a nice smile. “Or to be accurate, a final death. As far as we can tell, zombies don't feel pain the way humans do.”

“And if I don't cooperate, you'll use him as a zombified lab rat.”

He smirked. “She's not stupid.”

This condescending remark was directed to Simone, who looked at the General with clear dislike as she replied, “No, she's not.”

Gabriel stayed silent throughout all of this, a slight tic in his right cheek the only sign of emotion.

The General's attention shifted as one of the zombies snapped at a tech reaching across its face to adjust something on the other side. Its teeth caught in the tech's glove before he could yank the hand away. The zombie worried the glove like an attack dog. The tech smacked the zombie on the head with his other hand and tugged the glove free, immediately inspecting it for rips in the fabric.

General Heald harrumphed in disapproval. “That kind of carelessness is what gets a man killed in battle, soldier!”

“With all respect, I'm not a soldier, sir.”

“No excuse! It's civilians like you who cost me good men!” General Heald began taking the tech to task in a monologue I immediately tuned out.

Something occurred to me, though, as the General shook his gloved finger in the tech's face. I turned to Simone and Gabriel, catching the former with a look of eye-rolling exasperation. Gabriel was expressionless like a good soldier should be, I guess. “Question,” I said quietly. “If this disease isn't airborne, then why are the suits necessary at all?”

Gabriel broke silence to answer me. “You've seen the amount of blood and vomit an infected person generates, right?” I nodded. “If it spatters on your skin or clothes, you'd be fine. But get any of it in an open sore of any kind or accidentally swallow it … you might as well have been bitten.”

“And as I mentioned earlier,” Simone added, “during previous episodes the zombie virus was spread solely through contact with bodily fluids into mucus membranes or open wounds, mainly via bites, scratches, or hot blood. But this time … several members of our team have come down with symptoms without any such contact. Not enough to convince me it's gone airborne, but still … it's worrisome.”