Omega Pathogen: Mayhem (16 page)

The infected woman goes limp. "Get her off me, please,” Jim says, trying to catch his breath as he looks up from the floor and back at Jeremy.

After getting to his right knee, Jim looks at Jeremy and, between breaths, says, “Bleach, please,” and points to his backpack with his thumb. Jeremy retrieves the bottle of bleach and water they all carry now, and washes the saliva from his dad’s hand and forearm.

Taking a few extra minutes to catch his breath, Jim then rises to a crouch and, looking at each of his sons, says, “You guys couldn’t have done it any better. We can talk about it more if you want, but you guys both did great. Now let’s get this shit over with.”

The rest of their search goes well. They find almost everything they could think of needing in the way of equipment and medications. They find eight more bodies inside, either killed by the infected woman in the restroom or by others. They are all chewed on to varying degrees.

They gather in the MRAP and decide now is as good as time as any to start their long trip to Florida.

Chapter 27

Present

They make one more stop to be sure to top off their diesel tanks, but it takes little to fill the tanks after filling the day before. They begin their journey with the intention of circumventing the larger populated areas as much as possible. The plan is to restock supplies when opportunity presents.

They head north, staying on smaller back roads paralleling the 99 toll road. As they travel through areas of more population, more homes, and neighborhoods, they see an increase in the mayhem that’s apparently spreading. More people having been in an area equals more signs of infection and destruction.

Some buildings are gutted by fire. Others seem to be untouched. Many give the feeling of being watched from within as they pass by in the MRAP.

They see people along the way. Some wave at them. Some aim weapons and hide behind vehicles or other cover. They stop and talk to some. Some are disappointed, but understand that they have no more room to take them along, and thankfully accept medical supplies and some water.

Others curse them for not taking them. Some throw objects in anger. A few shoot at the MRAP but although it’s unnerving, their rounds are not of large enough caliber to penetrate its thick armor.

Mostly, they see surprisingly few people. Standing sentry in the turret, Jim sees the familiar sight of distant helicopters circling the city of Houston. The patterns are unpredictable, but their shapes are unmistakable. They’re Apache and Cobra attack helicopters. Intermixed in the swarm, flying higher than the helicopters but lower than normal over a U.S. city, are fighter jets. Their numbers aren't as many as the rotor-driven birds of prey.

Crossing 290 and traveling between Tomball and Conroe, two more suburbs to the north of Houston, they come to a stop. Jim, looking behind them for threats, starts to ask Arzu why they’ve stopped as he turns to the front and sees his answer.

Just visible around a bend in the road to the right, and slightly elevated on an incline, is a roadblock of two armored HUMVEEs flanking a Bradley armored personnel carrier in the center of the road. Judging by the several soldiers aiming M4s and large vehicle-mounted 50 calibers at them, they’ve obviously been seen as well.

“Stay still, everyone,” Jim says as he slowly releases his AR-15 from its sling and then unholsters his Glock and sets it on the small workstation nearby.

“I’m going to go say hi,” Jim says quietly as he slowly climbs out of the open turret and onto the roof. He raises both hands and waves. Pausing with his arms in the air, he then slowly lowers himself down the windshield to the hood and then hops to the pavement.

He pauses to make sure they register his hands raised in a display of capitulation before slowly walking toward the roadblock. As he approaches and can better make eye contact, he sees that the faces seem to relax as he gets nearer.

He stops about twenty-five yards from the roadblock, with his hands still raised, and he slowly makes a complete turn, showing his back and then continuing until he faces them again. He exhales a breath he’d been holding when he hears a southern male voice say, “Stand down, gents.”

The men, and two women he notices in the group of about twenty soldiers, lower their M4s and rest them across their chests. The large 50 calibers are aimed slightly upward, above his head and above the MRAP behind him.

“You can lower your arms and relax, but go easy, son,” the male voice with the southern drawl says. Jim lowers his arms and shifts his eyes around to see who’s been speaking to him, and likely the man in charge.

Standing between the Bradley vehicle and the HUMVEE to his right, a Hispanic man about six-four begins walking toward him. As he approaches, Jim notices the Eagle with a shielded chest with arrows gripped in its talons, recognizing the rank as a Colonel, a ‘Full-Bird Colonel’.

The man approaches and looks Jim over from head to toe. Stopping about three feet away, the Colonel extends his right hand and introduces himself, “I’m Colonel Jose Salas, United States Army.”

“Jim. Jim Matthews,” Jim says as he takes the offered hand and shakes it. “Colonel Salas, what the fuck is going on?” he asks with a small shake of his head.

“If you’re referring to the recent and rampant spread of infection that causes those infected to act like a rabid fuckin’ animal, then I can give you some information,” the Colonel says with the unexpected southern drawl.

“Yes, sir. That would be the question,” Jim confirms.

“I’ll tell you what I can. First, you can have that rig you came in pull up here near us. We have extra food and water if y'all need some,” Colonel Salas offers.

“Thank you, Colonel. That’d be great, we need whatever we can get,” Jim says and then calls Arzu over his comms set to bring the MRAP closer.

“Where’d you get that thing?” the Colonel asks.

“I found it abandoned at a hospital near our home in Katy. I think the SWAT team responded there and was overrun by infected,” Jim recalls.

“That’s happenin’ a lot, Jim,” the Colonel says in a lower voice than he’d been using.

After introductions are made, Jim and Colonel Salas head to the back of the Bradley vehicle while the rest of Jim’s family and Chelsea take the opportunity to stretch their legs, take bathroom breaks and eat and drink.

“Well, Jim this is what I can tell you,” the Colonel begins. “You saw this shit storm spread on TV, I bet.” Jim nods and takes a drink of instant coffee. The Colonel continues, “It was a terrorist act. They planned it well and were able to have multiple operatives spread this shit throughout the world. They concentrated on the larger cities. The bigger the city populace, the bigger the shit storm.” The Colonel pauses, seeming to know Jim has another question. “What is it?” Jim asks.

The Colonel clears his throat and takes a sip of his own coffee. “It’s some type of rabies. But our scientists haven’t seen it before. It’s similar, but not the same. Right now they’re trying to find out if it’s just been an unknown form to us, or if it’s been genetically engineered, or both, the Colonel finishes.

Chapter 28

Present

“So by what you’ve said, I’d be safe to assume that there’s no vaccine or cure?” Jim asks.

“No. There’s no known cure or vaccine right now. From what intel I’ve been given, the brain damage is also irreversible once infected. It fucks up your brain bad,” the Colonel says, pointing to his head. “I’m not telling you any national secrets here. But what I tell you is so you can protect yourself and your family and friends. This world has turned to shit, Mr. Matthews. We, the U.S. Military, have our hands full. There’s little to no law enforcement left. Hell, even some of my men and women have deserted to try to reach their families, the same as a lot of law enforcement. Can’t say I blame them though. Martial law has been declared for the entire United States and its Territories. Every country that hasn’t completely collapsed has done the same.” He stops and takes another sip of coffee.

Jim then learns that the Speaker of the House, James Brannon, is now leading the U.S. Government, being next in the line of succession after the President was killed when Marine One crashed for unknown reasons, and the Vice President became a victim of the infection after being attacked by his granddaughter.

Not much else of any importance is discussed. The Colonel doesn’t seem to be holding back. He just doesn’t seem to know any more.

Jim, Colonel Salas, and three Sergeants in the back of the Bradley make small talk and finish their coffee, saying their goodbyes and wishes of good luck. Colonel Salas calls out to Jim, “Hey, you wanna know what they’re calling this virus?” Jim stops with his left leg on the rear step of the MRAP, turns and answers, “Yeah, I guess. It’s not just called rabies?”

“No, Jim. The virologists call it the SCAR virus.” Before he can ask, the Colonel spells it. “S.C.A.R., it means Siberian Cannibalistic Aggressive Rabies. Somehow they know it was first discovered in Siberia. I’m not privy to how they know that.”

“Thanks, Colonel. You and your soldiers be safe.”

“And you and yours, Jim.” Jim steps up into the MRAP and then, after the Bradley backs out of the way, they continue on their journey with more knowledge about what’s happened. But the knowledge, unfortunately, brings no optimism.

Careful to choose his words so he doesn’t unduly stress Berk and Kayra, Jim explains his conversation with Colonel Salas and the Sergeants.

Berk and Kayra know things have changed and diseased people are everywhere, and are to be feared and avoided if possible. But Jim and Arzu also try to walk a fine line by trying to teach them this new reality to keep them safe and protect them while also trying to keep them from being overstressed.

They take turns. One person driving, one person manning the turret and keeping watch with the naked eye and binoculars. Others resting, napping, or occupying Berk and Kayra.

Once the gauge shows half a tank, they decide to look for a place to stop for fuel. Like before, they try to look out for other diesel-powered vehicles to siphon from. After a short time, they find a large Dodge pickup truck and decide to investigate.

Their routine is the same. They approach slowly and observe while they go over their plan. Everyone knows their job. Arzu and Jim will secure the area around them. Jeremy checks for fuel and, if any remains, will siphon it as quickly as possible.

Chris stops the MRAP beside the Dodge and Jim exits, followed by Arzu and then Jeremy. Chelsea is enlisted to close and stand by the doors. Jim and Arzu take up positions around the pickup. Jim notices a tarp in the bed of the truck as he passes around to the passenger side.

Arzu takes up a position near the front driver side. Jeremy approaches the fuel door on the driver side and opens it. He begins to unscrew the fuel cap. The tarp lifts up and catches Jeremy’s attention.

He’s met with the barrel of a sawed-off pump shotgun. “Stealin’ my fuckin’ gas, boy!” the man wielding the shotgun says as he rises. Jeremy freezes. Arzu turns and then lowers her AR-15 toward the ground.

“That’s right, woman. Now you drop that rifle before I blow this boy’s fuckin’ face off right here.” Arzu complies. She knows Jim is near and feels safe. Slowly she lowers the rifle to the ground and fights her urge to look over at Jim.

Having heard the exchange, Jim first crouches behind the truck bed and then carefully crab-walks toward the tailgate of the truck. He slowly takes a peek above the truck bed and sees the back of the man with the shotgun.

He sees Jeremy frozen near the fuel cap, and he sees Arzu lowering her AR-15 to the ground. The man with the shotgun then orders Jeremy to place his rifle on the ground, followed by his Glock.

Chris rises up through the turret and aims his AR-15 at the man’s head. Seeing this, the man lowers himself and yells for Chris to drop his weapon as well. Chris lowers it out of sight inside the turret but retains his grip.

The man, more sure of himself, rises again and has Jeremy back away. The man with the shotgun hops down from the bed of the truck. Still, his shotgun is aimed at Jeremy.

“Is that truck empty?” the man asks pointing with his head to the MRAP. Jeremy and Arzu remain silent. “It’s OK. I’ll check it myself. Them people inside will get out or I’ll shoot y'all right here,” he says, and then moves a little more to Jeremy’s right side so that he can better watch both Jeremy and Arzu.

Taking this opening, Jim slides his AR-15 to his left hand to steady it while hangs from its sling. He then unholsters his Glock.

Stalking silently toward the man, his suppressed Glock aimed at the base of his skull, Jim closes within three feet. Thump-thump. Two rounds to the back of the shotgun-wielding man’s head sever the connection of the brainstem to his spinal column. With the connection broken, the man falls in a vertical heap on the ground, then flops face down. Jim turns his attention to the bed of the truck, yanking the tarp up and looking for any other surprises.

Seeing no one else, Jim holsters his Glock and readies his AR-15. Scanning the area around them for threats, he glances at Arzu and Jeremy, who are gathering their weapons now.

“Come on. Let’s see if this thing's got diesel,” Jim says with no emotion as he semi-casually rolls the dead man under the truck with a few pushes from his boot.