LZR-1143: Infection (16 page)

From the outside of the vehicle, a loudspeaker, apparently hooked into the com system on the helicopter, ordered simply “Get down!” and the two instantly flattened themselves obediently on the dock.

An angry hornet, the helicopter moved forward and down threateningly, now hovering ten feet from the deck, close enough to see the first line of creatures which was perhaps ten wide. They shambled forward, hungry and unafraid toward the cockpit. The leader of the pack was a man dressed absurdly in the outfit of a yachtsman, blue cap still fixed in place over a gray and bloody face, sunken red eyes highlighting the lack of skin over his jaw. The stump where his left arm had been was a rotten, brown mass, and his brown loafers shuffled forward, twenty feet away from our hovering form.

“Bloody gits,” was the pilot’s calm comment, almost under his breath, as he opened fire again, the turrets mounted on either side erupting in a vicious deluge of flying metal and flashing light. He slowly rotated the vehicle from left to right, using the movement of the helicopter in mid-air to train the 20 mm cannons and ensure the widest possible swath of fire as he adjusted the constant stream of heavy rounds to head level.

The skipper went first as the front row of creatures simply evaporated. They didn’t collapse or fall; they didn’t stumble backwards or crumple to the dock floor. They just disappeared.

A red and brown mist interspersed with chunks of clothing and gray flesh sprayed back into the following ghouls, who, having lost the cover of their front-running companions, similarly disappeared into a cloud of bloody debris. Chunks of wood dislodged from the planking of the pier by errant rounds flew into the air and settled on the oddly peaceful surface of the water below.

Those in the rear echelon stumbled and fell over the parts and piles before them, slipping on the now-wet and splintered surface. Their progress slowed as the fire from the guns became less accurate, the distance to target now variable. The cannons now severed legs and arms and bisected creatures at the waist and chest.

Incredibly, these were not killing blows, as the unique physiology of the zombies prevented death from these wounds. But it slowed them down.

Their progress delayed for at least thirty feet and the guns now empty and clicking hollowly against their housings, the pilot reversed and rose, over the two survivors and ordering the ladder down. A young black woman rose first. She was dressed in a business suit and sneakers, eyes wide and body shaking, powered by the dual stimulants of adrenaline and fear. She collapsed on the floor of the chopper as the ladder was lowered again.

A small Indian man followed, and as soon as he was safely on the ladder, the pilot moved the helicopter back over the water, turning toward the Bay before he was even up. Out of the side window I could see creatures that had reached the end of the dock right as was lifted up were now crashing off the end into the dark water, the weight of bodies from behind pushing each subsequent creature into the dark water of the bay. The forerunners were forced into the water over the edge, those in the rear not appreciating the peril of pushing forward. I chuckled to myself and looked back as the man made his way into the cabin, blue jeans covered in blood and windbreaker matted with dirt.

“That’s it, we’re back to the Liverpool,” came the somehow lighthearted voice from the flight deck. “We’re bingo fuel and ammo. Captain’s gonna shit when he sees we have five more.”

As we banked to the West again, the woman looked at me, headphones adjusting awkwardly over her head. She cocked her head and stared at me. I looked away, trying to hide my face.

This should be interesting. Maybe they didn’t get my movies in England.

As her face lit up in recognition, and she revealed my secret identity to everyone over the intercom, I somehow doubted it. Why didn’t Superman ever have this problem?

The glasses. That’s it. Maybe I needed a pair of glasses to pull off the incognito gig.

Kate turned to me and smiled, reaching over and patting my leg in mock conciliation.

“Tough being famous, huh?”

The bay came into sight, and the large gray form of a warship rose imperiously from its calm waters. I looked at her for a moment, her still smiling, beautiful face reflecting the mischievous glint in her eyes, and sunk my head into my hands, staring at the floor.

Chapter 15

We landed in a vicious cross-wind, the tail swinging sickeningly to the side at the last minute before Hartliss pulled the vehicle straight and then quickly down, somehow accomplishing a perfect three point landing as the tires bounced slightly with the gentle lateral momentum of the ship. Crewmembers shot out from the hanger, securing the helicopter to the flight deck and making incomprehensible hand gestures to the crewman at the door as the engines were throttled down. The conning tower and massive radar and communications assemblies towered above us, the faces of seamen appearing and disappearing behind thick glass and dull gray metal. The flight deck was located at the very stern of the ship, and we were separated from the cold black water by a lower deck and a simple railing. Deck guns stood at attention on either side, their cold lethality useless against humanity’s newest threat.

Disembarking, we were routed directly to a portion of the hanger cordoned off from the remainder of the vessel. Hartliss and the crewman waived as they entered a hatch on the port side of the hangar, followed by an armed marine. Large white curtains further divided the space we entered, and the women were directed to the left, the men to the right. A small, fine featured man in the uniform of a sailor but wearing a doctor’s coat met us at the entrance, looking at each of us and scratching on a clipboard.

“Okay, gents. Let’s lose the clothing and step this way. Line up against the far curtain and put your arms behind your heads,” he said in a detached, almost bored voice. “Can’t have that nasty bug coming aboard our little slice of paradise, now can we?”

Gladly shedding clothing that had again been covered in various bits of blood and gore, the evening chill of the outside air touched my skin as the last article dropped to the floor. Self-consciously, I walked to the indicated position, covering myself until ordered to put my hands behind my head and face front. I admonished myself not to drop the soap as banjos dueled in the back of my mind. I smiled to myself, quickly straightening my face lest my mirth be misinterpreted as Fred was lined up to my left, the Indian man from the dock on my right.

The doctor-I assumed as much given the coat-carefully scrutinized Fred. He started at the toes and worked up the legs, examining thighs, groin, buttocks, stomach, back, chest and very closely surveyed the arms and fingers before moving to a cursory glance at the face and ears before scratching on his clipboard again and dismissively gesturing to Fred.

“Clear,” he said, finishing his notes, and moving to me. Over his shoulder, “You may put your clothing in the bin against the starboard bulkhead and you will be issued soap for the shower.”

“Uh, Doc?” he looked back to me, paying attention to my face for the first time, “He’s not quite there upstairs-best to let me show him when we’re done.” He glanced at Fred, who was unconcernedly looking around the room, examining the pipes and ventilation tubes running the length of the ceiling while shivering violently in the crisp air.

“Right, then.”

He stared at my face again, and then the obvious question. “You know, you bear a striking resemblance to… ”

I sighed. “Yeah, let’s just short-circuit the inquiry. I am him and he is me. We’re both getting a little chilly here, so if we can get this intimate little appointment over ASAP, I’d like to mitigate the shrinkage as much as possible. I do have a reputation to uphold, after all.” My teeth were chattering in waves, and I caught the marine watching the door chuckling.

The doctor smiled. “I was going to ask you to repeat that pithy line of yours, but I see you lack the patience at present. Perhaps later.”

He began with the toes, and gave me the same once-over as he had Fred. Finding nothing, he waved me on, scratching on his paperwork as he spoke. “You and your friend will be escorted to the showers, where you will be issued a bar of soap and strict orders to disinfect. You will be monitored, and believe me when I tell you that we expect you to be thorough or we will assist in the process.”

He looked at me from the clipboard, not lifting his head. “We’re not as gentle as your mum when we help you wash, so make sure you pay special attention to a comprehensive scrub.” That sounded ominous. Like if you missed a spot, a large man with a jumbo Qtip was going to batter you senseless with a foamy bludgeon.

From the other side of the curtain, I heard Kate’s voice suddenly rise. “Whoa, that’s cold! You keep that in the freezer, asshole? Jesus! At least buy me a drink first!”

At least Fred and I weren’t alone in our five star treatment, I thought, smiling.

I turned, following the second marine to a box of towels, which we were permitted to wrap around our waists as we were escorted to the door in the far bulkhead. As we reached the door, the sound of a commotion drew our attention back to the deck. The Indian man was waving his arms, shouting at the doctor, as the physician moved back in apprehension. The marine watching the far door moved toward the man, lowering his weapon menacingly.

The patient stopped gesticulating wildly, instead starting to inch toward the external curtain. Was he trying to escape? Where did he think he was going?

“I will ask you once more sir,” the doctor said firmly and loudly, clearly reiterating the question that had occasioned the ruckus, “Where did you acquire the abrasion on your ankle?”

I looked down, noticing for the first time a small, semi-circular reddening on the apex of the man’s anklebone. His eyes were wild, shifting continuously from the doctor to the marines, to me and back to the doctor. He looked at his ankle, jerking his head up abruptly as he realized what he was doing, his body language as incriminating as a verbal admission. Unfortunately for him, the doctor, having clearly processed many others, spoke that particular language.

“Gentlemen,” he gestured to the marines, casually stepping back and calmly writing on his clipboard. I saw him make a linear crossing gesture, as if he was crossing out a name. Just that quick, his fate was sealed. In the single horizontal stroke of a pen, the disease had claimed one more of a dwindling number of survivors.

The soldiers on either side of the man, each dressed out in full combat regalia, complete with Kevlar vest and helmet, stepped forward and grabbed an arm each, pulling the still-naked man between them. He struggled in vain against their brute strength, kicking his feet so violently against the deck that he drew blood, leaving a crimson trail behind him as he was dragged screaming and shouting while clearly cursing in what I could only assume to be Hindu, maybe Urdu. They roughly pushed the curtain aside and pulled him through, the screams echoing against the high metal ceiling.

The screams turned to pleading, now in English. From a distance, we could hear his pleas. Begging, he offered up money, property, servitude. It availed him nothing. The single, sharp sound of a rifle being fired was his only response, and then there was no more noise, no more resistance. No bargaining with this disease.

“As you can see,” the doctor read my mind, explaining in his now seemingly preternatural calm, “we maintain an infection-free status by eliminating the diseased carriers.” He pronounced it state-us. “No other way to go about it, and really,” he shrugged, “it’s much kinder to them in the long run.”

He turned around, gathering his med kit and moving toward the doorway where we stood, mute. Catching my gaze, possibly misinterpreting my stare as judgment rather than simple astonishment, he paused and explained further.

“All indications are that the mutation itself is painful, and we have no idea how much cognizance the mind of the infected individual retains in post-mutation form. If they were aware of what was happening, if they knew what they had become but could only watch, mutely and impotently from within the rotting prison of their own flesh as they became and acted as ravaging ghouls, feeding on the flesh of the living… well, it’s really a favor we’re doing them, yes?” he said unconcernedly.

Behind him, the marines walked back inside, faces blank. One picked up a hose, spraying the deck where the man had spread his infected blood prior to being removed.

He opened the hatch door, cocking his arm in front of his chest, making a directional signal and canting his head toward the hatch. His small eyes were sad but his face was stone; his countenance, if not his disposition, clearly affected by the difficult position forced upon him by his occupation and intervening circumstance.

I didn’t answer as I moved into the ship, stepping over the lip of the metal bulkhead and following him to the showers. I wondered: what do they retain? If their brains are the engine that continue to motivate the machine, wouldn’t it be possible that those brains would continue to operate, at least subconsciously, on some level?

It was a nagging concept that was too impossible to imagine. Indeed, it was hardly something you could believe if you were to survive. To believe that with each killing blow or gunshot struck or fired in self-defense was destroying an actual human conscience trapped in its own body…that was too much. Whether it was true or not, it wasn’t something I was ready to buy into. For my own sake.

We cleaned ourselves, as was suggested, quite thoroughly. My own actions were motivated by an extreme aversion to having several marines help me wash my delicates, and directed Fred to do the same, uncertain of how he’d react in such a personal situation. We were issued clothing and directed to the ship’s galley.

I had time to draw a cup of lukewarm coffee from the stainless steel pot, grab one for Fred, and sit down slowly. My stiff muscles protested against the combination of physical activity, cold air, and cold water, as Kate and our friend from the dock appeared. They were similarly dressed, long hair still wet from the shower, shoes squeaking slightly on the spotless floor. They were allowed to grab some coffee before we were all ushered below decks to a large room, clearly designated as a refugee holding area.