A Time to Die (7 page)

Night was again approaching as Julio used a small metal bar to reach between the slats of the cattle car and break the seal, allowing the door to slide open. The pair with their precious cargos slipped to the ground and made their way north. Security was haphazard at the moment and they found a gap in the chain link fence. Again with the help of the metal bar, Julio widened the gap and the pair managed to slip through and into America.

Behind them, hours before dawn, the cattle in their abandoned car finally rose from their paralyzed state and looked around at their surroundings. One curiously examined the open smuggling compartment while others gazed out the door. It was over a meter to the ground, far too high for a normal cow to ever consider jumping. In a minute all forty of the animals had jumped out. Eleven sustained serious leg and hoof injuries in the process. None made any sound or cried out in pain.

A short time later a CBP Suburban came around a line of rail cars and skidded to a halt in the gravel. Its spotlight swung around to illuminate the assembled mass of cows, which turned their heads as one to examine the new arrival. Customs officers climbed out of their truck and started jogging towards the cows. Now seeing the open car, they suspected they’d found what they were looking for. They were already in the midst of the cattle when the first one started biting them.

Chapter 10

Wednesday, April 18

“We can control this.”

“Why am I less than convinced?”

“Intelligence out of Mexico has been shut down. That reporter, Kathy Clifford, is still at large.”

“That’s the second feed she sent out. The conspiracy sites are going nuts with it.”

“Yeah, but GNN panned it, even though the second feed was from their own God damned drone. Who the hell allowed them to penetrate a drone into Mexican airspace anyway?” No one in the circular room offered any ideas. At the two exits, heavily armed Secret Service agents stood guard, with even more outside

“What about that unauthorized intel flight over Mexico we heard about?”

“We’ve traced it to a pilot from the Riyadh base, one of Colonel Sommers’ pilots named Tobin. A lieutenant — nobody really. He got back into a plane for the sandbox before we could intercept him. We’ll close that box when he lands.”

“Who the hell gave him authorization?” someone from the intelligence side of the group demanded.

“No one,” the answer came right away, this time from the president’s side. “We suspect elements within the military.”

“Don’t blame my staff,” the JCS representative snapped. “We’ve been playing ball all along!”

The President’s man gave a dismissive gesture. He knew it wasn’t any of them.

“Look,” chimed in the Surgeon General, the only actual cabinet official present, “we can control this,” he insisted again. “My people with the CDC assure me. We just have to keep a lid on it long enough to avoid a panic.”

“Intel is suggesting another outbreak in Australia this time,” someone from that side of the room said. There was a buzz of angry conversation that the SG tried, and failed to quell.

“We’re running out of time,” the President’s chief representative demanded. “Other nations are demanding to know what we know.”

“Another two days?” the Surgeon General asked, almost sounding like a child wanting more ice cream.

“That might be the most we can offer,” the Joint Chiefs man said and consulted a computer. “The wave from Mexico is going to hit the border in about forty hours.”

* * *

Andrew had just stepped off the bottom rung of the ladder to his fighter when someone grabbed his elbow. He pulled away and turned to see a pair of MPs standing there. “Lieutenant Tobin?” one demanded.

“That’s what it says on my flight jacket.”

“Please come with us, sir,” the younger of the two said. The both carried M9 pistols in holsters and the older man, a buck sergeant, had an M4 on a single point sling.

“I formerly request your orders, Sergeant.” The man chewed his lip and reached into his pocket for a piece of paper. It was a properly signed arrest warrant for Lieutenant Andrew Tobin, 332nd Fighter Wing. The charge was AWOL and disobeying a direct order. He had his flight orders in his pocket, so he knew both charges were bogus. But it was a legitimate warrant. He’d have to deal with it from inside the stockade. “Very well,” he said and allowed the sergeant to take his holstered Sig.

While they were cuffing him, he turned to the ground chief. A senior airman, who just so happened to be the same one that buttoned him into the ship two days ago. He caught the man’s eyes, looked at the photography pod hanging under the center of the fighter, and back at him before nodding. The airman winked and Andrew sighed. The crew chief would make sure that it made it to Sommers. It had to. The film was nothing short of spectacular. Some sort of plague was underway in Mexico, and it was heading for the United States as fast as legs could carry it.

Three hours later he was still sitting in one of the airbase’s tiny cells. He’d been given a bottle of water a few degrees cooler than lava and a stale croissant to keep him company. He’d been nursing the water, but the croissant had been declared a battle casualty and left for dead. He was just eyeing the less than comfortable looking bunk when the door opened and a pair of guys in Army ACUs stepped in. He noticed right away that they had no unit insignias and both wore a sidearm in a detention area.

“Military intelligence, eh?” he said as they closed the door behind them.

“Where’s the photo pod, Lieutenant.”

“I don’t know who you are or what you are talking about,” he replied and kept his seat. Their uniforms were bereft of rank as well. “Until I see some ID or at least proper decorum, you two can go fuck yourselves.”

The two looked at each other and the one on the left shrugged. The one on the right stepped forward and put a forearm into Andrew’s face.

He went over backwards from the blow, caught completely off guard, and hit the concrete floor head first. He was about to roll over the get to his feet when the other man’s knee landed on his neck, pinning him painfully to the floor. “We need your cooperation, Lieutenant Tobin.” He spat something that could never be considered cooperative and felt someone step on his artificial leg where the ankle would be. “One leg not enough for Uncle Sam?”

The weight lifted. His attackers had obviously been taken aback. “We just want that intel, Lieutenant.”

“Does it look like I have it?!”

“We went and checked your plane after you landed—”

“Fighter,” he corrected.

They both glared at him for a moment then the one who’d done most of the talking nodded. Andrew smiled from the floor and they turned on their heels and left. An hour later he was informed that his commanding officer had been relieved of his command and that they were both to be transported Stateside for formal charges.

* * *

Vance had shuddered just to look at the computer. He’d stare at it for a few minutes then go get some coffee, then stare at it some more. He was sitting in the kitchen watching the quiet computer down the hall from his chair when Ann came home. She looked at him from the kitchen door and frowned. She’d stayed with him since he’d returned from the hospital in the hopes that her presence would bring him around. It hadn’t worked.

She started dinner and went into the living room to watch the evening news. The lead story was an investigative report of disturbing video images coming out of Mexico. She stopped halfway back to the kitchen and spun around as the high-definition images came on of what the network was calling the ‘Highway of Death’ between Mexico City and Monterrey.

The government was refusing to comment and the original feeds were no longer available, but a small amalgamating service had put the images up hours ago and they’d been copied by a thousand smaller web services before the alamgamating service could be taken off the air. She dropped to her knees in front of the TV as analysts tried to make sense of the crazed minutes of footage. Vance’s stories of the horrors he’d seen in Mexico City on the web seemed to out of the realm of the possible only days ago. Now here was proof that he wasn’t unhinged by some outlandish conspiracy.

“Now do you understand?” Vance asked from the other room, obviously hearing the reports over the TV.

“I think so,” she replied.

“We better call Tim and Nicole, tell them to head this way.” She turned around and saw that most of her boyfriend had returned to her at last. “We might not have a lot of time.” She nodded and headed for the foyer to make the call. ”Oh, and Ann?”

“Yes Vance?”

“Will you marry me?”

* * *

Later that evening, just before they closed, a small chapel outside San Antonio that specialized in ‘quick weddings’ got a couple of visitors. The pastor, defrocked from the Roman Catholic Church for improper relationships with a nun whom he was now married to, had been ordained as a priest of a small Christian sect in Texas and now made his way performing marriages and unconventional religious services. He was in his office and just thinking of closing the door when the late model pickup pulled up to a stop in the parking lot.

Always wary of the locals who sometimes didn’t appreciate the city slicker sort-of pastor, he checked to be sure his pistol was in his pocket before going out into the chapel proper from his office. He found an older man, slightly overweight and balding, with a younger lady on his arm. She had that all too obvious glow of a pregnant woman on her face and was also obviously overjoyed.

“Can you marry us quick like?”

The pastor nodded. “If you wish, son. Why the hurry?”

“Zombies are coming, Father!”

“Okay then. Step on up here and fill out this form.”

A half hour later Vance slung gravel out of the parking lot and set course for the discount big-box. There was just time for a quick stop before heading to the gun store.

Chapter 11

Thursday, April 19

The Coast Guard cutter USS
Boutwell
(WHEC 719) was at station-keeping 200 meters from the modified oil platform. After responding to the SOS more than three days ago her crew had assisted in repairs to the facilities basic electrical and sea water desalinization system which were reportedly the results of pirates.

“You understand, Dr. Breda, that the command authority in San Diego is going to be quite alarmed that a pirate attack happened so close to territorial waters.” Lieutenant Junior-Grade Grange consulted her notes as she waited for the doctor to reply, absentmindedly tucking a loose curl of hair under her cap.

“If you ask me, they were narcotics traffickers.”

“We have you down on record with that opinion.” The doctor nodded when Grange glanced up from her notes before continuing. “We’ve reviewed our radar logs and verified that a boat approximately the size of a Boston Whaler departed your facility about an hour before our arrival.”

“What direction did it head?” the doctor asked.

“Towards the mainland.”

An hour later, Lieutenant Junior-Grade Grange departed with the last of the Coast Guard mechanical specialists. Dr. Breda never even met the ship’s commanding officer. She’d spoken once to him via radio, but only for a minute. He’d informed her that Lieutenant Grange would handle the investigation and offered his condolences for her lost personnel. He promised the government would follow up on the raid, likely with the FBI in short order. She had her doubts.

Back inside the main building she was met by one of the few surviving research assistants. “Have you confirmed the number?” she asked.

“Eleven, Doctor, including you and me.” the man said after consulting his tablet.

She nodded and sighed. Seventy-two men and women had been on the installation before the insanity began. Fifty-one people she’d known and worked with for almost a decade were gone. And, forced into it by the panic call from a scared tech to the coast guard, they’d all gone down the trash chute to the sharks. “You deserved better than that,” she silently told their ghosts. But, considering what she’d found…

“Is the team in the lab?”

“Waiting for you,” he said. She nodded and he climbed into the lift with her. Like most of the rest of the facility it stank of bleach. They’d used almost five hundred gallons of the stuff, working in respirators to wash down the halls. Lisha told the Coasties that it was because of their research work. Luckily for her, he’d bought it.

The main lab, the level that had once held the oil platform’s dining hall and offices, had been enclosed with glass and segmented into the project labs. As she walked in the survivors all turned to look at her. There was a mixture of shock, pain and anger on their faces. Outside, the USS
Boutwell
was just finishing coming about. Foam roiled behind her transom as power was applied and she began to sail away.

“I know some of you are mad,” she said and instantly saw who would cause trouble. “And I know others are scared. Even the preliminary data we’ve gotten from the infected is enough to scare the shit out of even me.”

“Why didn’t you ask them for help?”

It was Adam Viterri, the only surviving French on the team. Two of his friends had gone to the sharks after they’d went insane, along with his girlfriend.

“You really think that would be a good idea?” she asked. He nodded emphatically. “So we call them and say we were attacked by some kind of a fucking zombie plague brought by pirates? Sure, let’s do that. This is a biological research installation involved in work many consider to be on highly questionable ethical grounding. Tell me, Mr. Viterri, what do you think will be the results of this? Do you think we’d ever see the light of day again?”

“It isn’t our fault,” he responded, sounding doubtful now.

“Maybe they’d figure that out, after a few years of research. We’d have to spend that time in a Level Four biological containment facility while they figured that out, of course.”

“Unless they just shelled the installation and burned it instead,” another scientist said. He’d worked for the CDC years ago and his words sent a chill up her spine. Dumping the bodies had been his call. 

“Look, we’re all on the edge here, but we need to work on this. We’re not in some B-rate movie on the SyFy channel. Zombies don’t exist! Some sort of pathogen is at work here, and this is the best group of scientists to figure out what’s going on. Even badly reduced we’re better than a lot of what you find at universities on the mainland.” She saw some heads nodding in agreement. 

Lisha talked with them for a few more minutes, answering questions as best as she could and alleviating some of their fears. She knew it didn’t get them all the way there, but it had to be enough. As the meeting broke up the last two senior technicians followed her to the rear of the lab where she entered her code and opened the door.

Inside was what had been a large storage room that now served a different purpose. A Plexiglas shield and half wall was hastily installed but carefully sealed. Biological filters kept positive pressure in the front part of the room on the other side from the wall. As Lisha closed the door she could hear the growling on the other side of the shield. By the time she turned around, the occupant was throwing himself against the protective wall like a football player trying to break a block.

“He never stops,” one of the technicians noted and then reached for one of the protective suits hanging from the wall. The other tech began donning the other suit without comment as Lisha opened a medical bag. Inside was an air gun, darts, and tranquilizer.

“We better get to work,” she said as she loaded the gun. Grant Porter drooled down his dry blood encrusted clothing and stared hatred at her through the glass as he banged on it with bloody hands over and over again.

* * *

Jeremiah gritted his teeth at the insistent hammering of the helicopters rotors as they cut across the hill country of South Central Texas. The thirty year old jet Ranger was one of a fleet of four he’d managed to get with a check that wouldn’t cash, and a promise that was worth what the check was. Now he was praying that he scored on this mission, or he really was truly screwed.

“Sector 11 is clear,” the noise cancelling headphones relayed a distant voice so clearly it was like having someone whisper in his ear.

“Acknowledged,” he said and made a note in the tablet locked into a frame. The rear of the chopper was his command center. They were looking too, but he ran the operation from there. He’d originally planned on five copters with one as a dedicated command. The leasing agent had balked at five. “Switch to Grid #19.”

The distant pilot acknowledged and Jeremiah turned back to the screen. More than two thirds of the map had been covered with his magnetometer equipped copters.

Two hours later, the afternoon sun closing in on the horizon, Jeremiah was considering how to best wrap up the operations for the afternoon and thinking about a cold beer when they struck pay dirt.

“Copter Two, we have a signal.”

Jeremiah looked up in surprise. The dreams of a cold beer went poof, but the possibility of a paid gig expanded greatly. “Relay coordinates,” he ordered and the data arrived. It was actually in the Big Bend Park, within shouting distance of the Rio Grande River.

“The signal is strong,” the pilot told him, “we’re vectoring in on it now.”

“Roger that,” Jeremiah said and tapped the pilot on the back of his helmet. The man glanced back at him and Jeremiah pointed emphatically in the general direction of the southern horizon. The pilot had been listening in on the channel and he nodded in understanding, shaking his head at the lack of coms from his boss.

In a few minutes they were flying in formation with one of the other aged jet rangers circling a copse of stunted trees near a low hill. The much taller hills of the parks southern region were just off to the south as well as the river dividing the United States and Mexico.

“Do you have a precise location, Copter Two?” Jeremiah asked over the radio.

“Let me see if I can lase the target,” the other pilot said.

“I don’t think he has to,” Jeremiah’s own pilot said.

Jeremiah looked up and saw the pilot in broken formation and circling tighter, banking the craft heavily to the left and pointing out his window. There, about two hundred feet below them, several of the little trees were shattered, their branches thrown about. Jeremiah cocked his head trying to make sense of it until the copter came around and he saw what had caused it. A black scorch mark on the ground cut right through the trees and came to a stop again the largest in the group.

“I think we have a winner,” Jeremiah said. “Set her down,” he ordered.

The two helicopters settled down on either side of the copse, just far enough way to avoid low branches that might have interfered with the delicate machines. The other occupant of Jeremiah’s craft, one of his hazmat technicians, was the first out. He had low level protocol protective clothing on, a clear plastic hood over his head and was holding a long tube on a pole as he stepped away from the copter and towards the scorch marks. On his back was a sensitive instrument taking constant air readings. It could detect a hundred dangerous gases, most types of radiation, and provide a running data track of all the recorded information.

“You picking up anything, Alex?” Jeremiah asked from where he was still sealed in the copter. Decades of working around space programs and the potentially hazardous fumes those craft could produce had given him a healthy respect for such things. While this was only supposed to be an unusual asteroid, he wasn’t taking any chances with his own skin.

“I’ve got some rare gases,” the man said over his suit radio as he examined his instruments, “and a little ionizing radiation.”

Jeremiah felt his sphincter tighten. “H-how much?”

“Just a little, boss,” Alex said and began walking towards the scorch marks in the desert ground. As he approached he slowed and used the probe to sample the air and taste at the ground. “Less radiation here,” he said he said as he got closer. “The sensor is getting some gases it can’t make sense of.”

“What does that mean?” Jeremiah asked.

“If the computer can’t tell, I sure can’t.” But Alex moved much more slowly as he stepped onto the scorch marks and examined them. “Whatever hit this was fucking seriously hot,” he said. “There is some glassification here.”

Came in pretty damn hot, Jeremiah thought. He pulled up the file his friend Theodore from NASA gave him on the meteors. This one had been tracked coming in on a 23% angle. That steep it should have plowed pretty much straight in. He leaned over as far as he could see out the helicopter window. The ground was a little angled here, though not much. He guessed the angle of impact as 5%, no more. Either NASA was completely wrong, or it radically changed course just before impact.

“There’s something at the base of that tree,” Alex announced as he moved along the gouge the meteorite had made upon impact.

Jeremiah felt himself getting excited and wished they’d landed a few yard to the left, then he could have seen along the crash line as Alex disappeared from view to investigate the tree. If the meteor was there, he would get paid. Then he remembered the other part of the recovery mission and keyed his mike. “Copter Three and Four, vector in on us and start a spiral search grid. There isn’t much concealment around here for a mile in every direction. See if you can spot this Ken Taylor. Redeploy drones too.” When he looked back, Alex was walking back toward the copter with his helmet under his arm and looking at a tablet screen. Deciding it must be safe, Jeremiah popped the door and met him. “What do you have? Is the meteorite there?”

“Frankly, I’m not sure what’s down there,” Alex explained. “But there is no contaminates that I can detect. There’s a dead fox and a lot of dead little animals, birds and stuff. Come on and take a look.”

Jeremiah paused long enough to grab his walking stick, legacy of a trick knee, and followed. He waved to the crew of the other copter and they began jumping out to join the group. The sound of more approaching helicopters was getting louder and a little UAV quadcopter shot overhead.

Just as Alex had said, the sandy, rocky soil crunched in places as a sign that some had been fused to glass from the heat of the meteor impact. Whatever it was had shattered a couple smaller trees less than six inches in diameter, further testament to how powerful the crash had been.

As they followed the burned debris trail Jeremiah noted the dead animals, just like Alex had described, and wondered what killed them. The man had detected no elevated radiation, after all. The burned gouge in the earth came to a stop against the trunk of a large tree, more than two feet across. By the time the thing had come in contact with the tree it was almost a foot underground, and still the impact had managed to mostly dislodge the root mass and shift the tree nearly two feet away from the direction of the impact. The trees truck was almost split in two and it had burned from the heat of the impact. It reminded Jeremiah of some lightning strikes, only with kinetics thrown in for good measures.

“It’s down there,” Alex said and pointed with a still suited gloved hand to the disturbed earth at the base of the burned tree. “Magnetometer’s peaked at that point there. It’s giving off a little more radiation too, but not much,” he added at a look from his boss. “We’d be safe for hours unless it goes up a lot.”