Eaters (40 page)

As best she could tell, they were headed east now, but Private Verace wouldn’t tell her much about the fort they were headed towards. It seemed like he was just headed deeper into the desert, away from civilization. There was nothing but more cacti and scrub until they came upon something bizarre.

It looked like a graveyard. There were dozens of rows of crosses on top of mounds. Some of them had cowbells attached that clunked together in the breeze. Surrounding them were lots of mounds that were bare or had crosses that had been toppled over. Grinning skulls and bones lay bare on the sand, and Cheryl thought that it looked like the aftermath of some grim Day of the Dead celebration.

“What was that place?” she asked after they passed it.

“We were burying people out here, but there were too many N.E.U.s raiding it. You couldn’t bury them deep enough to keep them out, so we gave up. Now, you’re either cremated…or…or you donate your body to science. That’s what they call it, anyway.”

“Science?”

“You’ll see.”

* * *

Twenty minutes later, after passing through a security checkpoint at the wall of an enormous brick fence that made them look like Lilliputians in comparison, they reached the headquarters of Zone A.
Fort San Manuel.

Chapter Twenty Four

The fort loomed ahead on the other side of a maximum-security fence. It had fifteen feet of chain link with holes too small for footholds and was topped with a tangle of razor wire that seemed made to trap more than harm. There was a deep trench on the other side with tall spikes of rebar at the bottom. If anyone made it over the wall, they’d fall into it and be skewered.

The enormous adobe building beyond it looked like a prison. Cheryl guessed that it had been taken over by the military and re-fabbed as a shelter, but it wasn’t on any list of military forts in the southwest that she’d ever heard of, and the only local prison that Cheryl knew of was on the south end of Tucson, not out in the middle of the desert.

“How many survivors are here?” she asked.

“Lots. Maybe a few thousand.”

“That’s not that many,” Cheryl said, thinking that it was just a fraction of the half a million residents who lived in Tucson.

Private Verace parked in a circular drive in between a half dozen other Jeeps and military vehicles. Aidan pulled up beside them.

“Where can I park?”

The soldier didn’t answer. Instead he nodded to another man in uniform who was walking along the drive with a rifle strapped to his shoulder. He came over, took some information from Aidan, then folded the scrap of paper up and tucked it into his pocket. He radioed someone else to pick the motorcycle up.

Cheryl hoped they didn’t check the VIN number. The dusty Electra Glide Classic didn’t belong to Aidan; it belonged to some dead guy named Roach.

They were led towards a door with a big red sign that said:
Quarantine. Stop Here
.

Inside the brightly lit entrance they were greeted by a team of armed guards who passed out clipboards with forms to fill out. Cheryl and Aidan sat on metal folding chairs to work on them amongst a handful of other weary-looking people doing the same. A woman across from them, balancing a whimpering toddler on her knee, stared at their bloodstained clothes. Cheryl gave her a weak smile.

As they filled out the forms, Cheryl glanced over and saw Aidan write his last name as
Holzman
. It puzzled her.
Was that right?
She thought he’d told her a while back that his name was Aidan Dietrich.

When they turned in the forms, the attendant asked for their identification. Cheryl explained that she’d lost her purse when she fled the sandwich shop in Colorado. Aidan also said that he’d lost his, but she was sure that she’d glimpsed it in his wallet when he was looking for a credit card to use at a gas station.

They were told to wait until the other people, some who were elderly, were done with their forms. When they finished, two armed guards in white Hazmat suits escorted the group, one leading the way, and the other following behind.

After a walk down a long corridor, they stopped at a heavy steel door. Another guard punched a sequence of buttons on a pad on the wall, and the door popped open. Cheryl felt her heart sink as she looked at the tunnel-like view of cage after cage on either side.
Maybe they should have stayed in the desert.

After ushering the first man in line into a single cell, the guard slammed the door shut behind him. Then, he shoved the next person into a cell…then the next…and the next. Not all got a shove, only those who protested or had reluctant feet. Aidan walked into his cell without resistance, like he was admitting defeat, and she did the same, fearing that there wouldn’t be any benefit to behaving badly. Not all of the new arrivals remained as quiet.

“Hey! What the hell is this? We didn’t do anything wrong!”

The man’s shouts reverberated off the walls, and Cheryl tried to tune him out. Of course the solitary treatment felt like punishment, but she knew why they were doing it. If they had been quarantined in a pen with others, and anyone was infected and turned, the whole group could die.

Eventually, the man piped down, but there was a lot of irate chatter between the others.

“How long do we have to be in here?” Cheryl asked the nearest guard.

The woman with a voluminous egg-shaped figure reminded her of Scary Barry’s mother.

“‘Til we’re sure you ain’t one them flesh-eating bitches.”

Aidan was in the cell next to hers. When she pushed the cot to that side, he said, “Stay in the middle.”

“I want to be near you…”

He shook his head. “Stay out of reach of everyone, including me. Someone turns while you’re asleep, and you’re toast.”

There were no blankets or pillows on the cot, and it was covered with the long paper like you see in doctor’s offices. Cheryl found that it was the least uncomfortable to lie on her side, with her knees scrunched up, so she was out of reach of Aidan and the woman in the cell on her left.

* * *

Food came once a day slid underneath the bars on trays. It was an oatmeal-like gruel with a cup of water to wash it down. By the third day, she had to wrap Mark’s belt around her shrinking waist two times to keep her pants up. She began to wonder if their jailors meant to starve them to death to save on bullets and fit more bodies into mass graves. A chill went down her spine when she thought about the church that had been set on fire after it was suspected that there were too many infected people inside to save the rest. She told herself that her fears about that were irrational, until a guard took the third person away from the cellblock after they showed signs of infection. It made her wonder if they could all be doomed if it was determined they were a spoiled lot.

Aidan slept a lot, but he talked to her frequently in between naps. Most of the time, he was full of gloom and doom, urging her to keep her guard up around the guards and the residents. She was also entertained by her new friend, Yvonne, in the adjacent cell, who was from Minnesota, and talked her ear off about her dead husband who had been attacked on a golf course on their first day of vacation.

On day five, they got their Get Out of Jail Free card.

The guards reappeared and issued orders as they unlocked each cell. “Men to the left. Women to the right.”

“See you soon,” Cheryl said to Aidan as they were forced to go in different directions.

Inside the women’s room, six armed guards, all female and very stern, lined them up against one wall.

“Take off all items of clothing and jewelry and place them in the box on the table.”

All items?

She wasn’t shy about nakedness, but as she looked down at Mark’s camouflage shirt, she felt a pang in her heart. It wasn’t much more than a rag now. The nametag that said Breton was starting to come unstitched, the hem was ragged, and there were rips and holes in it. Still, she hated to part with it. It had been her security blanket through all the terrors she’d come through, and she hoped that parting with it didn’t sever the uncanny link she seemed to have with Mark’s spirit. She discreetly tore the nametag off and clutched it in the palm of her hand as they were led towards the showers.

After scrubbing themselves from head to toe with a foul smelling disinfectant soap, they were issued new clothing. It wasn’t as drab as prison garb, but the khaki shorts and plain white t-shirts weren’t far from it. She was more frustrated by her unanswered questions about when she could catch a ride into Tucson.

* * *

The next phase of their induction began in another room with metal chairs and a large movie screen where the men rejoined the women.

When the film started, a gruff man in a starry army uniform with a mowed crop of silver bristles on top of his head and angry red cheeks appeared on the screen.

“My fellow citizens, I’m Sergeant Dozer, and if you’re here watching me at this moment, congratulations.” He beamed, showing a mouthful of pearly whites. “You’ve made it to one of our secured military shelters and have graduated from quarantine. As you know, our country and significant portions of the world have been overwhelmed by an epidemic of apocalyptic proportions. I’m here to give you a brief overview of what we’re dealing with along with some of the rules for a comfortable stay in your new temporary home.

“I give my sincere condolences to those of you who have lost friends, family, and loved ones. That being said, I need to remind you that this is not summer camp. This is not a spa. This compound is a self-contained fortress where everyone works together to keep all aspects of it running. That means all residents must sign up for work detail. If anyone has a problem with that, we’d be happy to give you your walking papers and wish you the best of luck. Your unit leader will explain more about work duty and the regulations that help to maintain a tight ship.

“Now, you have probably heard many rumors about what this infection is and how it has spread so quickly. Obviously what we’re dealing with is not something as benign as some sort of flu or other common contagion. It is a vicious, fast-acting disease that kills and multiplies pathologically through its victims.

“It is not spread by mosquitoes as some rumors have suggested. As far as we know, it is a virus that may spread through particulate matter in the air such as a sneeze or a cough, but it is also transmitted directly by the bite of an infected person...”

Cheryl waited for some explanation of the origin of the disease, but it didn’t seem forthcoming as he rambled on. She thought about Mark’s story about the genetically altered dogs that had been trained to sniff out cancer and then bombs. It didn’t make sense that cells in their bodies could turn into an airborne virus and then cross into another species, did it? But then, she remembered a show that she’d seen on television once about genetically modified vegetable crops that had been created to withstand herbicides. It all started with a modified bacteria that had been inserted into seeds. Problem was, the pollen drifted in the air from those crops and infected other regular crops in the surrounding area.
Genetics gone airborne
.
Transmuted from one organism to another through an invisible vector.

She was no scientist, but Mark’s explanation didn’t seem impossible when she thought about the complexities of nature and the infinite variables that could occur from man tampering with it. So, why weren’t they hearing more about scientific theories? Instead, Sergeant Dozer began to talk about bioterrorism, insinuating that terrorists had something to do with spreading this disease, and it had gotten out of hand, infecting more of the world than they had intended. It was an easy explanation and seemed to appease much of the group as many heads nodded in solidarity against this supposed enemy who had attacked their country.

“Now folks, in stage one, a person may or may not realize that they are infected. They may have a fever or general flu-like symptoms or feel nothing at all. The time period between stage one and stage two can vary from a few hours to a few days or weeks. In stage two, the infected person’s heart stops and respiration ceases. At this point, the victim is clinically dead. Body tissues begin to decay at a rapid rate. The process is sped up even further in warm temperatures. The first physical sign of this decay is a gray pallor and peeling flesh. Though, some signs of this may occur towards the end of stage one.

“Stage three begins when they reanimate. Those of you who do not have a firsthand account of this happening may be skeptical about the ability for this to occur outside the realm of movie theaters, but let me assure you this is no goddamned joke. With no heartbeat and no circulation, these victims become mobile again. At this point, we call them N.E.U.s. That’s
Necrophagus Eating Units
. They are no longer alive. They are honest to God, walking dead, eating machines. They sniff out any disgusting, rotten, decaying thing, or human flesh, as a food source. They have a preference for human brains, but will eat just about anything alive or dead. That means road kill, rodents, raw meat, spoiled food, your leg, or your momma. Some people simply call them
Eaters,
which I think pretty much sums up their sole being once they’ve made it to stage three.