Plague of the Dead (18 page)

    “This building isn’t supposed to have power outages,” Mason added. “The systems are redundant.”

    “Perhaps the grid suffered a brownout,” Sawyer offered.

    “I hope there isn’t trouble out there.”

    “Once again with the worries,” Sawyer admonished. “The military is in position if civil unrest reaches a boiling point and they are more than well enough equipped to deal with anything a shotgun-toting civilian could throw at them. Power is a valuable commodity at the moment. A brownout, nothing more.”

    “I hope you’re right,” said Mason.

    “For the last time, Agent Mason, we are the most secure building in the most secure city in the most secure nation in the world,” Sawyer retorted. “If anything is going to happen, it’ll happen to us last. There’s no reason to get our hackles up over a power fluctuation.”

    “And as to the business at hand?” prompted Derrick, gesturing at the monitors.

    “Oh, yes. I’d almost forgotten over Mason’s constant worrying,” Sawyer said, smiling grimly. “We’ll increase the frequency of interrogations in addition to the modification of the dungeon environment. Let’s begin to throw in items she doesn’t know we’re aware of yet-maybe that will help throw her off-guard.”

    “How about a little good cop, bad cop?” Derrick said. “Classic, but we haven’t tried it yet.”

    “We’ll need to enlist outside help,” Mason replied. “She’s far too familiar with the three of us to buy into any overtures of sympathy.”

    “Oh, at last a helpful suggestion from you, Mason. How kind,” said Sawyer. “You’re right, of course. I’ll contact some people.”

    “What about our other guest?” Derrick asked. “Do we have any further use for her?”

    “No, she’s given us what we wanted with little protest,” Sawyer said, tapping a finger on the tabletop. “Still, we can’t just set her free.”

    “And we can’t keep her here forever, either,” Mason pointed out.

    “But for the time being, we can,” Sawyer replied. “Discontinue interrogations, but keep Dr. Demilio under guard. She may still be of some use in the future.”

USS Ramage

January 11, 2007

2122 hrs_

    General Francis Sherman knelt beside a crumbled infected corpse in the halls of the USS
Ramage,
grimacing at the sight of the gruesome head wound that had killed it. Around him, soldiers swarmed through the belly of the ship, double-checking rooms and preparing corpses for removal. The firefight below decks had been swift and decisive. Once the soldiers had reacted to the threat, it hadn’t taken long to put down all the infected on board-but the victory was hollow. The corpses of victims lined the bowels of the destroyer.

    Sherman grunted softly, voice muffled behind the surgical mask on his face.

    “How many so far?” he asked, pulling a pair of latex gloves over his hands and snapping them tight.

    “Twenty-three, sir,” answered a grim-faced Sergeant Major Thomas. “Seventeen refugees, four soldiers caught unarmed, two went down fighting.”

    A camera flash went off, followed by the thin, thready whine of the bulb charging for another shot. Sam Denton crouched beside Sherman, face also obscured behind a surgical mask.

    “How do you think it got started, Frank?” Denton questioned, snapping off another photo of the body in front of them.

    “One of the civvies brought it in,” said Sherman. “Only found one body without any bite wounds. Had to be the original carrier-It took a few rounds to the chest and two to the head later on that put him down.”

    “Twenty-three dead because of one carrier?” Denton said, voice filled with awe and a hint of dread.

    “We saw it back before Suez,” Thomas said. “A good bite turns you in a few minutes, maybe an hour or two, tops.”

    Sherman nodded in agreement. “The original host onboard probably got everyone in his compartment before he was discovered. One became six or seven within a few minutes.”

    “
Jesus Christ
,” Denton whispered.

    “No,” Sherman said, turning his head to shoot Denton a bemused glance. “Quite the opposite, actually.”

    A soldier in thick, stained MOPP gear and mask came walking up. He addressed General Sherman with an edge in his voice.

    “General, we’ve finished securing the area. We’ve found two more bodies. One civvie, one sailor, down in the engine room. Looks like they made a stand-blood that ain’t theirs is all over the place. They didn’t make it, though,” said the soldier, accenting the obvious at the end of his short report. The soldiers, in their ever-dwindling numbers, were getting accustomed to death.

    “Thanks, private,” said Sherman. “Secure the bodies and take them topside for burial.”

    “Yes, sir.”

    Denton watched the private as he hurried away, then turned back to Sherman and Thomas.

    “Twenty-five now,” he said. He got a mute nod from Sherman as a response. “Think they’ll find any more?”

    “I doubt it,” Sherman said as a pair of soldiers hefted the corpse up off the floor and onto a gurney. “We’ve got everyone accounted for now.”

    A shout came from the direction of medical. Instantly, hackles rose and rifles were trained on the doorway. A soldier backpedaled into the hall, wearing a surprised look on his face. He noticed the rifle barrels trained on him, and raised his hands up quickly.

    “No, it’s alright, he’s strapped down!” he said, gesturing into the room in front of him. “Just startled me, that’s all.”

    “What is it?” Sherman asked, striding over to the soldier and looking into medical.

    “The body-it just started moving again,” said the soldier.

    Inside medical, strapped securely to another wheeled gurney, was a sheet-covered body, twitching randomly under the thin cover. The metal bars of the gurney squeaked here and there as it rocked back and forth under the weight of the reanimated corpse.

    “Soldier, dispose of that carrier,” Sherman ordered, pointing at the gurney.

    “Yes, sir,” said the soldier, stepping back into medical and drawing his sidearm.

    “No!” Sherman barked, holding up a hand. “You’ll just get more hot blood all over the place. We don’t want anyone else getting infected. Take it up topside first.”

    “Yes, sir,” said the soldier, sheepishly holstering his pistol and grabbing the gurney to wheel it out.

    “Frank,” Denton began, coming up alongside the general. “Are you saying
any
exposure, even to dead blood, can trigger an infection?”

    “That’s the idea,” Sherman replied, glancing askew at the photographer. “Standard virology. We don’t know how long Morningstar lives in exposed blood. Basic stuff. Didn’t you learn any of that in college?”

    “No, I know that. But what about the soldiers who cleared these rooms? They weren’t wearing any masks,” Denton said, eyes widening.

    “It’s been taken care of,” Sherman said, staring hard at Denton.

    Denton felt his face fall slack. “You don’t mean…”

    “Yes,” said Sherman. “As of an hour ago, they’re all under quarantine.”

    Elsewhere on the ship, grim determination was being replaced by bewildered indignation.

    “Let me the fuck out of here, man!” Brewster shouted, pounding on the bulkhead with the flat of his palm. He, Decker, Darin, and a few other soldiers were all locked in a barrack belowdecks, under armed guard. They weren’t allowed out for any reason until further notice. “This is bullshit!”

    “Give it a rest, Brewster,” Decker said, lounging on one of the bunks in the room, idly puffing on a cigarette and staring at the ceiling. “They’re not going to open the door. That’s why they call it a
quarantine
.”

    “Fucking quarantining what, man? I’m not sick. None of those fucks bit me. I’m right as the fucking rain, chief.”

    “They’ve got to have their reasons. Maybe they’re just waiting to check us for bites,” Darin said from the corner of the room, where he sat glancing through a ragged Sports Illustrated he’d found under a bunk.

    “Nah, we’ll be here a while, I think,” Decker replied. “They’ll want to see if any of us get sick. That could take a few days.”

    “
Days?”
Brewster mouthed, pounding again on the bulkhead. “I’m trapped in this tiny fucking room for the next few days? That’s great, man, that’s just A-list material right there. Let me clear my schedule and get ready for the fucking tedium.”

    “But what other reason would we have to be infected if none of us were bitten?” asked another private first-class named Scott.

    “Maybe it’s airborne,” someone offered.

    “Then
everyone
would be infected, dumbass,” came a retort.

    “The
blood
,” said Darin, suddenly, sitting up straight and dropping the Sports Illustrated onto his lap. “It’s in their blood!”

    “What? Well, thanks, Captain Obvious. Have a bronze star,” Decker said.

    “Sergeant, we practically waded through it. Oh, shit-the sailor who shot himself! I know I got his blood on me! It was aerosol! Oh, shit, I might have it!” Darin ranted, breathing heavy. The soldiers seated near him subtly began to edge away, eyeing him cautiously.

    “Oh, for fuck’s sake, Darin, calm down,” Brewster said. “That guy had barely been bitten. It couldn’t have been all through him by then. You probably just got some old-fashioned regular blood on you.”

    “But I didn’t,” Decker said, looking down at his bloodstained boots. “I got some on me when I finished those bodies in one of the bunkrooms.”

    “Only on your boot!” Darin protested. “I breathed it in, man! Breathed it in! I’m fucked!”

    “Now, for shit’s sake, keep your head!” said Brewster. “Jesus, any one of us could’ve slipped up and put our hand in a little blood. No need to go freaking out or anything; we’ll just sit tight and wait. Look, Darin, like I said, that guy barely had any virus in him when he shot himself. You’re fine. I fucking guarantee it. Decker, you only got it on your boot, so I guess you won’t die a painful fucking death. Sorry.”

    “Eat shit, private,” Decker retorted.

    Brewster ignored him. “No one else remembers getting any blood on them?”

    No hands were raised; no voices piped up.

    “Good. Then we’ll all be out of this fucking tomb in a few days. Now…,” Brewster began, pulling a chair up to the room’s small table. “Seeing as we’ve got some more time on our hands, anyone play Texas Hold-Em?”

PART SEVEN: HOLOCAUST

2203 hrs_

    IT OBVIOUSLY WASN’T enough that their numbers had dwindled to less than half of what they started with-it wasn’t enough that radio contact with the continental states was on the fritz-it wasn’t enough that a killer virus was sweeping half the globe.

    
Just one problem after another
, thought Sherman as he surveyed the scene in engineering. The two people found within had put up quite a fight before they had been brought low, but their dignity had come with a price. Bullet holes pocked the walls. Damaged equipment sputtered in protest as it fought against failure.

    “They ruptured the fuel pumps,” Franklin said over the noise of the engines. “Lost pressure in the lines to two of the plants.”

    Sherman grunted, resting his fists on his hips, and asked, “How’s that translate?”

    Franklin glanced askew at Sherman and replied, “Middlin’ impact at best, so far. We’re trying to patch the pumps now, but we’re still managing about seventy-five percent of our maximum drive.”

    “I thought these ships were more resilient than this, Captain,” Sherman said, disappointed at the loss of speed they were going to experience in their long steam towards home.

    “Well, usually we’re attacked from the outside, sir,” Franklin said with a chuckle. “Just bad luck on our part.”

    “Yes, well, we seem to be having an awful lot of it lately,” Sherman replied. “I think we’re overdue for a little good fortune.”

    The fuel pumps chose that precise moment to cough, sputter, and die, leaving the engineering compartment in what suddenly felt like dead silence. The men working on the pumps cast it a disgruntled stare. One threw down a wrench in disgust and kicked the dead pump with a booted foot.

    “So much for good fortune,” Sherman sighed.

    Franklin turned to the men gathered around the pump and asked them, “Can you get it running again?”

    The detail’s leader let his eyes slide over the fuel pump and slowly shook his head. “I don’t think so, Captain. Reuters is the usual mechanic for these pumps. I’ve only dealt with them a couple times. This could take a specialist, or maybe just a lot of time and effort.”

    “Where’s Reuters?” Sherman asked.

    “He’s dead, sir. He shot himself after he was bitten.”

    “Keep on it, sailor,” Franklin said. “Do what you can.”

    “Aye aye, sir.”