LZR-1143: Infection (17 page)

There were more than twenty people, all in various states of sleeping, sitting, talking or playing cards. They all looked up as we entered, Fred first, then Kate and the other woman, finally me. Recognition lit the eyes of several passengers as I sat down on an empty bunk to the left of the door, resigned finally to allowing myself to be outed. Kate sat down next to me, not speaking. The lady from the docks-Nicole, I believe she had said-had moved into the crowd, talking and gesturing in my direction. None approached, but I could see various degrees of awe, admiration, judgment and disgust as they passed across weary faces.

I felt for the first time the heavy stigma of the criminal, of the outcast. Until now, I had focused on flight and survival, forgetting in the maelstrom of confusion and otherworldly events that I bore the burden of the criminally convicted and the feloniously insane. I had tried to hide my identity with Kate, more out of what seemed necessity than aversion to being recognized. But because of her peculiar background, and forgiving personality, that had worked out fine. Overall, though, I doubted that most would be so understanding. Judging by the looks being direct toward me in this small world under the deck of a ship, I was right.

Even as society disintegrated and hell on earth asserted its claim as the new status quo, I wore the mantle of insanity as plainly as if the first zombie has never risen. I need look no further than the looks directed at me as I sat quietly on the firm bunk staring at some sailor’s poster of a model laying on a sandy beach. While it is true that some evidently discarded my criminal record for my civil fame, it was clear that fully half of those in the room remembered nothing past the final pass of the gavel and the perp walk into King’s Park.

The hatch opened, groaning slightly as the metal was exercised outward. Lieutenant Hartliss’s face appeared through the open crack, looking around and finally finding us and smiling. Although I recognized him from before, I was able to pay more attention to him now, in the light. He was a young man, maybe no more than thirty. His black hair, cut militarily short, framed a longish, handsome face with a crooked grin. Blue eyes flicked from me to Kate and back again.

“Cap’n would like to see you both,” he said. “Every newbie gets to be debriefed, standard stuff.” He stepped back as we rose and walked past.

“Besides,” he said confidentially, smiling again as he shut the hatch, the heavy door clinking heavily against its frame “he’s never met a movie star before.”

Kate smiled at me and put her arm out as if to say “after you”. I shook my head, following Hartliss as he walked briskly down the narrow corridor, up a narrow, low staircase, and through two more hatches, emerging into a medium-sized office.

Tastefully paneled in dark wood, and with a large desk against the far wall, it was reminiscent of a study that you might find in any mid-nineteenth century, New England colonial home. Various seafaring memorabilia and nick-knacks lined the walls, each apparently screwed or otherwise fastened to the shelving. A pair of evenly spaced portholes looked out over the bay, the statute of liberty a briefly inspiring sight that prefaced the entrance of the Captain.

He was a tall man, a slight paunch protruding over his belt line, but powerful shoulders evidencing that he came by his post after a lifetime of hard work. Cold, dark eyes trained on each of us, his large frame pausing in the doorframe before he extended his hand to Kate.

“Captain James, ma’am. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance,” he bowed forward ever so slightly as Kate took the offered hand.

“Dr. Kate Whitmore,” she replied, reminding me again of her vocation, and causing his eyebrows to rise slightly.

“I was unaware that you were a physician,” he said, crossing to his desk and sitting heavily in his chair, gesturing as he did so to take our seats in the two chairs across from him. “Your vocation could be a quite a boon to us, under the circumstances.”

“I’m a psychiatrist,” she replied. He nodded, turning toward me.

“And you, sir, need no introduction,” he affirmed, now looking at me, expressionless.

“Is that in a good way, or a bad?” I asked, genuinely concerned.

“That, I believe, is yet to be seen. Tell me, if you will, how you came to be travelling with this lovely woman, and how you managed to be on the rooftop of a high school, surrounded by zeds, and, forgive me for saying, but all around bollixed if not for the good Lieutenant here,” nodding to Hartliss, who smiled as he stood at ease, hands clasped behind his back, staring at the far wall, “who chose to ignore my last order and bring you in anyway.” Hartliss’s grin didn’t fade, as James’ face bore a hint of vexation but no animosity.

We recounted our story together, told of our flight from the Park, our loss of companions, our attempt at the docks. He nodded along, surprised at some points, interested at others.

“Bloody good for you that you weren’t able to pass through that town to the docks. The marina is the nastiest place of the bunch. When this thing started, people crowded onto the highways, toward the marinas and airports, government buildings and police stations.” His voice was somber, his gaze distant. As if he had been there, remembering it all.

“All it took was an accident, an attack inside a car, whatever, and the highways were jammed up within the first few hours, beltways around Washington and Philadelphia reportedly bumper to bumper cars, with growing packs of zeds moving from car to car, highway to highway. Marinas went the same way, crowds of people sinking boats in their drive to board anything that floated, fights breaking out between armed groups vying for transport. Police opening fire into civilians that were trying to get into the stations and government buildings. Add zeds into the right mess the humans were already making of it all, and it was a regular pandemonium. Nasty business.” He turned to a cabinet beside him, drawing out a bottle of scotch and three glasses, not bothering to offer.

“I’m sorry Captain, but the crewman on the chopper and now you, you’ve said ‘zeds’-I’m assuming your talking about the zombies?”

He tilted his head back and laughed, pushing our glasses across his desk toward us. “I suppose if I had said aluminium you would have deduced what I was saying? Zed is what you yanks call “Z”. We’ve dispensed with the ‘zombie’ nomenclature. Makes it too unbelievable. We’ve reduced them to zeds. Takes away some of the… oddity… of the situation.” He glanced at Hartliss and back to us.

“I’m going to be honest with you now, Mr. McKnight,” he said, looking at me seriously across his desk.

Uh oh. Here it comes.

“I’m not overly fond of the idea of harboring a convicted criminal on my ship, especially one that just escaped from an institution for the criminally insane,” he said slowly, holding his glass of whiskey in one hand.

I stared back, no clever response coming to mind.

He continued in a slightly softer tone of voice. “But I’m also inclined to believe that no one who was truly criminally insane could have made it as far as you did, while winning the respect of an honest doctor,” a nod to Kate, “so I am going to permit you to remain and we will allow you passage to England with the remaining refugees.”

I nodded thankfully as I geared up my courage for the next comment, which I knew might be inconsistent with his expression of confidence in my sanity. My conclusion earlier made in the helicopter ride to the ship was weighing heavily on my mind. I had thought about this over the last few hours, and was more confident than ever that it was what I needed to do. While I thought it might not hurt to ask, I suspected I would find little support from this venue. But I had to try.

“Thank you Captain. But I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you one last favor,” I gulped and pressed forward. He cocked his head inquisitively, eyes slightly curious, questioning.

“I’m going to need a lift back to shore.”

He stared at me, then at Kate, then back to me. Believing, perhaps, that this was a joke that he had not yet been let in on, he smiled suspiciously. Suddenly, he erupted in deep, body shaking laughter.

Chapter 16

It was the laughter of disbelief. He paused, seeming to believe for the first time I was serious. Still smiling, he leaned forward, dark eyes severe and unblinking.

“Mr. McKnight. Do you fully appreciate what has happened here? Do you know why your arse is sitting on a British destroyer instead of an American Coast Guard ship or Navy vessel? Your country is disappearing, sir. Your military is stretched too thin, and half of the armed forces left in your country were caught in the initial wave. Bloody hell, man. Your entire Navy is on its way to Florida! We may be the only operative combat vessel left in the Northeast!”

“Florida?”

He stood up, moving to a map on the wall. Our eyes tracked his hand as he pointed at New York City. “First cases, New York, Philadelphia, Boston, D.C.” his finger punctuated each city name, pointing to each in turn.

“Infection spread from there, very quickly. Moved out from the cities, into the suburbs, then into the rural areas.” He traced a wider arc around each city. Moving his hand to the Western borders New York and Pennsylvania, he continued.

“Your National Guard tried to draw the lines at the state boundaries, contain the zeds to the initial outbreak states through impromptu blockades outside cities and on major highways, but that idea was a no go. Like I said, large numbers of your military and police were either caught in the initial wave before they could even report, or overcome at their initial positions because their commanders didn’t appreciate, no one appreciated, how many they’d be dealing with or how fast.” He turned back to us.

My thoughts wandered to the news reports I had seen back at the hospital. The barricades over the interstates, the huge crowds of creatures approaching the small military forces arrayed against them.

“Not possible to control that many, not as fast as they were multiplying. So they fell back again, even as reports filtered in of new outbreaks in the Western states: Arizona, New Mexico, Utah, Texas. What you call your Midwest was already seeing large uprisings in some big cities, but there were some that remained relatively calm or that allowed the authorities more time to contain isolated outbreaks. Typically smaller cities that didn’t see as much air travel as the larger ones. This is your nation’s plan “B” so to speak. They’re fortifying the smaller Midwest cities, and attempting to isolate the outbreaks in the Western states, with very little success. And all in a matter of days.” He moved back to the desk, leaving the map unrolled as if to drive his point home.

“These things are everywhere, and they’re multiplying like bloody bunnies. Our satellites confirm that you have widespread fire, confusion and all out pandemonium in most, if not all, of the major cities on the Eastern Seaboard.” He sat down heavily again, picking up his scotch and taking a long drink.

“But you mentioned Florida? What does Florida have to do with Midwestern cities?” Kate asked, as I nodded along.

“Apparently, the Midwest idea was local. Came from some enterprising local governments that had managed their own evacuation and emergency response tactics as this thing unfolded. They were on top of the isolated outbreaks as they occurred and had the foresight to shut down their airports and train stations, barricade their incoming interstates, and initiate body checks, as soon as it was apparent what was happening. The whole time, your federal government was caught flat footed, still holding their wankers in their hands a full 24 hours into the infection.” He smiled and turned to Kate. “Forgive my British,” he joked as she smiled in return.

“So what did the feds do?”

“Finally someone got their head on straight, and remembered their primary school geography. Zeds can’t swim-at least not that we know of-and the outbreak started in the Northeast. If they could isolate outbreaks in Florida and cut them off before they spread… ”

“… then the peninsula would be the perfect stronghold against a Southward infestation.” I finished for him, understanding. “But that strip of land is huge,” I continued on, thinking out loud. “How the hell can they protect the whole strip between the two oceans?”

He shrugged. “Sounds impossible to me, but last I heard, they were moving all the military assets from Florida, Texas, Mississippi, Alabama, Georgia and Louisiana along interstate 10, and mobilizing all their air units from the state to patrol the I-10 corridor. I also heard a rumor that they were commandeering civilian cars and trucks to park on the interstate as a makeshift wall, but…” he drifted off and shrugged.

“We only get sporadic reports, and lately they’ve been fewer and fewer. I pieced together the picture I just painted you from com chatter, refugee reports and radio intercepts, as well as reports from fleet headquarters. But we have little direct knowledge from later than 36 hours after the outbreak.”

I tried to wrap my mind around such an extraordinary concept. The Eastern seaboard had been abandoned and overrun, government response was disjointed at best, hopelessly inept at worst. The zombies were in de facto control of almost half the country and threatened infestation of the other half despite our best efforts.

But it didn’t matter, I reminded myself. If there is hope for a cure or a vaccine, if Maria’s legacy was the salvation of mankind from the effects of Lazarus, I couldn’t sit back and do nothing. We wouldn’t be safe in Florida, or England, or even fucking Antarctica. This thing would take over the planet. It was just a matter of time. It had to be stopped.

“I still have to go,” I said into the silence that followed his last comment. “I may know of a cure.”

Now Captain James was interested. No laughing matter anymore. “How’s that?” I could hear Hartliss shift behind me.

“My wife. She was a researcher, a biochemist, at a government facility outside the city. A place called Starling Mountain. When she died,” I hurried past that point, “she was working on a project code named Lazarus. It was designed to reanimate dead cells. They had succeeded, apparently only to a limited extent, but were working to iron out the kinks.”