Dead Again (2 page)

It was strangely silent again, and Peterson looked at the remains of the girl and her mother.

And then, as if on cue, his beeper sounded once again.

CHAPTER TWO

Peterson rode in a UH–60 Black Hawk helicopter as it cut through the air, its fiberglass, four-blade main rotors pumping, vibrating the passenger cabin. Peterson was wearing his out-of-place civilian clothing amongst the three other soldiers in the cabin, all dressed head to toe in full combat gear.

Peterson checked his watch, and realized something wasn’t right.

He spoke into his headset, and had to shout over the noise: “You’re heading in the wrong direction, pilot! I’m going to special Command Warfare Center.”

“Sorry sir, you’re being routed,” the pilot hollered back.

“Routed? To where?”

“Confidential sir, sorry.”  

Peterson sat back, beaten. He had an angular face, chiseled out of years of combat, his eyelids were tired and heavy, making his eyes intense blue slits. He knew the routine, but it still annoyed the hell out of him. It didn’t matter how much blood and sweat he’d sacrificed for his nation—in the end of the day, he knew, you either give orders, or you follow them.

The irony was that policymakers were almost always wrong. Peterson’s instincts demonstrated he knew a hell of a lot better than most of his superiors, no matter their rank.

One of the soldiers, an 18-year-old kid, leaned over, yelling over the chopper’s noise.

“What force are you with, sir?”

The kid was a cherry, or he never would’ve asked. Peterson just shot him a sideways glance.

“National security,” Peterson said in a flat voice, not inviting further conversation.

But the kid wouldn’t give up.

“What do you make of what’s going on sir? Do you have any more information?”

“If I did son, wouldn’t I know where we were going?”

As the chopper sailed over the Virginia landscape, Peterson took advantage of their bird’s eye view. Interstate 95 was congested with bumper-to-bumper traffic, and state trooper sirens lit up as they attempted to make headway. Peterson was mesmerized at the never-ending line of vehicles. It just didn’t seem real.

Peterson closed his eyes and willed himself to believe that this was all just a bad dream. His fantasy life had become more vivid lately, at times, even overwhelming. He drew on it. He saw himself in a sailboat, docked in clear blue waters. He envisioned a beautiful woman, carrying his child.

A second chance at life.

The young soldier, though, interrupted Peterson’s thoughts.

“The news reports said it was a viral infection, sir. Do you think that’s true?”

“It can’t be viral, because I heard it’s not contagious,” chimed in a voice.

It came from a soldier, in the back of the cabin, a twenty-year-old black man, chewing a cherry cigar, with a tattoo of a dragon on his right arm.

“The TV said that it’s spreading fast. How can that be if it’s not contagious?” the young soldier snapped back.

“All rumors, man. Can’t believe a word they telling us,” the black man said, speaking with his hands.

“I heard the infected don’t have heartbeats,” the young-faced private retorted, “that they
 
aren’t breathing, but they’re getting up, rising, and attacking people.”

Sitting quietly in the back of the cabin was an overweight soldier. He unwrapped a candy bar. His hands were trembling.

His voice was so soft that Peterson could barely hear him: “I saw it.”

“Saw what?” the young private yelled over the thumping rotors.

With a surprising anger, the heavy seat soldier screamed back, “I SAW IT!”

“Saw what, fat man?” the black soldier jabbed.

The heavyset soldier’s anger turned to fear.

“My friend, Patricia May. She was as dead as can be. She was scrambling cross the street and then I saw her get hit by an ice cream truck. It just damn nearly cut her in half. Her innards were all over the cement, god shoot me down. I tried to help her, but she was long gone. No pulse, no nothing.

“Then, a few minutes later, she opened her eyes again. Her mother, Mrs. May ran over and touched her. But then Patricia did something awful. She turned around and bit her poor momma’s arm! Oh, my good lord. She was dead. I swear she was dead!”

The men in the chopper fell silent, as the overweight soldier wiped tears from his eyes. Abruptly, his voice changed and was replaced by a terrible wisdom, as if he were placing a curse on the world:

“Hell has emptied and the devil is coming our way.”

*

Peterson hung on as the Black Hawk took a sharp turn, its pumping motors taking them at high speed to some destination. Peterson wanted to see what the TV broadcasts were saying. After his incident in that white-washed suburban neighborhood, he’d had no time to pause. At first, he felt as though he had seen enough, had gotten the picture. And the picture terrified him.

Now, however, he was hungry for more information. He also needed to drown out his fellow passengers bickering. He took out his iPad from his satchel, plugged in his earphones, and tapped the CNN icon. “Internet connection weak,” read a pop-up window.

The satellites must be overwhelmed
.

Finally, CNN came up. The headline read: “Take Shelter.”

But Peterson didn’t want to read—he wanted to view. He tapped the screen, enlarged the window, and a female journalist appeared, reporting from the field, a microphone in her hands with a CNN logo. She was pale, frantic, her head darting from side to side, alert for danger. She was sweating as she reported into the camera:

“This is Betty
Baretta
reporting from the small town of
Winsbur
, Michigan. Here at CNN, we believe in the freedom of the press, and we believe that the federally-mandated media blackout is unconstitutional, and we are devoted to continuing our coverage. My cameraman and I are bringing you uncensored footage of the situation here in this small Michigan town.”

Through the eyes of the video camera, Peterson watched pedestrians run frantically in the streets. A small fire burned from the second story of a grocery store, its black smoke darkening the sky. A mob of people appeared and someone smashed the front window of the grocery store with a brick. The crowd yelled and charged inside.

“As you can see, panic has overtaken this town. There is wide-spread looting of food and water. Also, an out of control fire burns, with no firefighters in sight.”

    Behind the anchor woman, a police officer appeared. He drew his pistol and opened fire, shooting at something outside of the camera’s view. The image shook as gunshots rang out. Then the camera swung and focused on a man, covered with blood, limping towards the cop. The cop fired three rounds, hitting the man in the chest.

The bloodied man was halted for only a brief moment, though, and then continued to walk toward the cop.

The anchor woman spun around to watch: “As you are seeing….we are seeing….there is an infected man in our vicinity,” she said, her tone filled with fear and naïve excitement.

The cop pulled his trigger again, but his gun was empty. The camera zoomed in on the infected man. He was mauled, part of his face torn, exposing cheek bone and muscle tissue. Peterson stared in amazement: it was seemingly impossible that this man was on his feet and walking after taking three bullets to the chest. His skin was the color of a corpse, and eyes almost black, soulless.

The cop snapped a new round of ammo into his police-issued 9mm pistol and opened fire with only feet to spare before the infected man reached him. He fired a spray of bullets, and they tore through the infected man’s neck, spraying blood. Then, one hit the head. The back of the infected man’s head blew open, sending out chunks of brain.

Betty
Baretta
screamed at the site. Out of the camera’s view, Peterson heard more shrieks, and then a yell: “There’s too many of them—too many!”

The camera spun and showed a frightening image: closing in on Betty
Baretta
were three infected.

Suddenly, the iPad screen went blank: “Internet connection lost. Unable to connect to a server.”

Peterson immediately wished he hadn’t watched. Somewhere in the back of his mind there had been a voice telling him that everything would be all right, that what he experienced really couldn’t be happening everywhere. In the far reaches of his mind he had hoped beyond hope that this phenomenon was simply not real.

But CNN brought the situation home, and, finally, Peterson realized: we were at war.

CHAPTER THREE

Peterson held on as the Blackhawk rose over the horizon, banked a turn, and descended rapidly. It swept over what appeared to be a bunker. Only a cement roof was visible. He looked down and saw soldiers with assault rifles guarding the perimeter.

The chopper drew close to a landing pad, its blades thumping, the sound of its powerful turbines overwhelming. It lurched forward, kicking up a tornado of dust.

Peterson looked out and saw, waiting for them, a squadron of soldiers standing on the rooftop, with a single figure standing out before them. General Moore. Fifty years old, with austere, cropped graying hair, his rigid uniform and rows of stars classified him as a man not to mess with—and Peterson knew that was the case. Wind from the chopper whipped his Moore’s face, but he seemed to barely notice. Moore’s squadron of armed soldiers bore assault machine guns and stood in formation around the landing zone. Someone shouted commands, absorbed by the thumping blades of the chopper.

Peterson felt more under-dressed than ever as he jumped out of the chopper in his civilian clothes. He briskly approached Moore, giving him a smart salute. Moore gave a hard stare back, and saluted.

*

Peterson, Moore and several soldiers stood in a large, steely elevator as it descended quickly, Sub Level 2. . .Sub Level 3. . .Sub Level 4. They stood silent, Peterson was uneasy by Moore’s side.
 
He respected Moore, but knew him to be an unforgiving bastard who only saw things one way: his. He knew it better not to initiate small talk, unless he wanted to be chewed out.

Finally, the elevator came to a halt and the two of them stepped out.

A controlled chaos greeted them. Glass-plated partitions separated super computers, and a display of strategic images flashed on immense glass screens. It was like the whole world was electronically dancing around them. Military personnel moved urgently, typing frantically, working the phones, yelling to each other.

Peterson was in his element, instinctively connected to these high-tech military surroundings.

Peterson followed Moore as they strutted through the war-room, down a long corridor, and past an armed guard, who snapped to attention and saluted.

They reached a door which read “Authorized Personnel Only,” and Moore placed his hand on the wall and a light scanned his palm. The door slid open, revealing a modern, white hallway which seemed to stretch forever.

As they entered, the door swooshed closed behind them.

“In God’s name, what’s happening?” Peterson finally asked.

“God has nothing to do with it.” If Peterson didn’t know General Moore better, he’d almost sound as if he were frightened. “We are doing our best to understand the situation.”

They reached the end of the hallway and another door slid open, and there, leaning with his back against the wall and rotating a pencil in his hand, stood Dr. Washington, an African American male, around thirty five years old. Maybe it was his eyeglasses, or maybe it was his dated suit, but to Peterson he had the look of a liberal, 1960’s equal rights activist. Peterson disliked him already.

Moore provided a quick introduction: “Commander Peterson, meet Doctor Jamal Washington.”

Doctor?
thought Peterson.
What the hell was he doing here?

Neither stepped forward to extend a hand.

Moore, wasting no time, turned and marched down a hallway, Peterson and Washington quick on his heels.

“What has the Pentagon reported?” Peterson asked.

“The infection is spreading,” Moore answered, the scratchy sound in his voice signaling fatigue.

Peterson struggled to stay respectful. “Infection? General, I saw a dead little girl get up and bite her mother’s face off. What type of infection can do this?”

“You seem shaken,” General Moore stated, sounding disappointed  

In a too-calm voice, Dr. Washington spoke up: “Permission to speak very frankly General.”   

“Go ahead,” Moore snapped, clearly in no mood for formalities.

“Why should we trust you, Commander Peterson, as shaken as you are?” Dr. Washington was overly self-assured.

Peterson swallowed his ego and took a deep breath. “I’m not shaken, Doctor. I’m simply trying to put the pieces together.” He was lying. Shaken was exactly what Peterson was. What was strange is that Washington wasn’t.

Washington’s eyes drilled a hole in Peterson. “What do you think is happening?”

Peterson was stumped, and didn’t know how to respond. “I’m not certain, Dr. Washington.”

“I understand how you’re feeling,” said Washington, speaking to Peterson as if he were a fifth grader, “scared, confused, as is the rest of the U.S. public. But you have to look at this with logic. There truly is no other rational explanation for this event, this phenomena, except that it is some sort of viral infection which has simply been unseen before. Therefore, we crack the biological nature of this infection, we find answers, and we find an inoculation. Situation over.”

“We have a mission,” Moore interrupted, as he stopped walking. He inched closer to Peterson. “Once you commit, there are only two ways out of this. Do you understand what I am saying?”

Peterson had been cautioned this way only once before in his career. The mission he’d accepted then was unlike any other before or since. He’d operated outside of constitutional law, beyond levels of national security classifications.

The only two ways out were success or death.

“You can bow out right now, Commander, and I will not hold it against you.”

“I am ready to move forward,” Peterson said sternly, as if insulted that Moore would question his courage.

“No matter what it might entail, Commander Peterson?” Washington chimed in, twirling his pencil.

Peterson never took shit from a non-commissioned officer, or from a Doctor for that matter; but he never turned down a mission in his life and was never passed up. It was a record he was proud of, and he wasn’t about to change it. It was embarrassing to have to answer to Washington, but with tight lips, he said, “No matter what it involves, Dr. Washington.”

Moore tensed up, and Peterson could sense that he was pissed that Washington overstepped his boundaries.

“Listen up Peterson,” Moore said. “I’ve already been briefed by the NSA, the CDC, and the Pentagon. I’ve put together a good team for you—actually, the best. They are preparing now. At zero one hundred you will all be briefed.”

“Sir,” Peterson said, about to ask a question.

“That is it, Commander,” the General cut him off. “Prep your team ASAP.”  

Peterson knew the routine, but he had so many burning questions he’d wanted to ask, as Moore and Washington marched off down a different corridor, leaving him standing there alone.

You either give orders, or you take them.