Plague of the Dead (13 page)

    “What are you trying to do, suicide by gangrene?” she asked, pulling on a pair of latex gloves before gingerly unwrapping the bandage.

    “Yeah. Thought it would be better than catching the virus,” he replied.

    “So debilitating, blinding pain that slowly spreads throughout your whole body while you watch your arm rot off piece by piece is a more appealing fate?” Rebecca asked, dumping the used bandage into a sterile container.

    “No, actually. Think you can save me, doc?”

    Rebecca laughed.

    “I’m not a doctor. I’m not even a nurse,” she told him as she cleaned the wound with hydrogen peroxide. He winced as she poured the liquid over the slice.

    “You have a doctor’s touch,” he uttered through gritted teeth.

    “It can be a lot worse,” Rebecca said with a grin. “I could dump the whole bottle in there.”

    “I’ll pass,” he said. “What’s your name?”

    “Rebecca.”

    She smiled at him. He smiled back.

    Then his grin had faded as she held up a needle and thread.

    “That’s a nasty cut,” she said. “And I think it could use a few stitches.”

    Decker taught her a few new ways to swear before she finished re-binding his wound.

    The truck hit a rock and the occupants in the back were jostled roughly. Rebecca managed to use a few of those new swear words before the truck bed settled and the passengers had rearranged themselves. She wondered if the driver was even qualified to be operating the large vehicle.

    In the truck’s cab, Denton rubbed the back of his head ruefully.

    “Fourth massive boulder in an hour, Brewster,” he said. “Let’s not go for five, eh?”

    “It wasn’t a fucking boulder, it was a little rock in the road. A boulder is big. That was little,” Brewster said. “Besides, the truck in front of us hit it and they didn’t fucking bounce like that.”

    “What’s it going to take? Are you going to have to see someone come flying out of the back of that truck before you decide they’ve hit a rock too big for your tastes?” Denton asked.

    “Yeah, man, pile it on. We’re five miles out. You can bitch and whine about my driving only for a few more minutes. Then it’s boat time.”

    “If the destroyer is even waiting for us. I’m starting to learn to expect the worst.”

    “It’ll be there,” Brewster told him.

    They were to meet the USS
Ramage
, an Arleigh Burke-class destroyer, in the waters outside of Sharm el-Sheikh, inside the hour. The ship was all that the Naval battle group could spare, but it would be more than enough. There were a little over two hundred soldiers and refugees coming out of Sinai. It would be cramped quarters onboard the destroyer, but it would suffice.

    The trucks bounced and rumbled into the deserted town, chugging towards the harbor. The plan was to take a few civilian vessels out to the destroyer, since there weren’t any docks large enough to accommodate her at the city’s shoreline.

    “It’s creepy,” Brewster said, peering out the side window at the empty streets. The people here had fled weeks before in fear of the disease. “Like a ghost town or something.”

    “Desolate,” agreed Denton.

    “Did every single person leave or something?” Brewster asked, furrowing his brow.

    “No,” Denton said. “I doubt everyone left. There’s probably someone left somewhere here.”

    “Where are they? Aren’t they curious about this huge fucking column of trucks going down main street?”

    “I don’t know,” Denton said, eyeing the buildings they were passing. There wasn’t a single sign of life anywhere.

    The trucks rumbled on for a minute, and both men were silent. They were growing closer to the harbor.

    The shortwave radio in the cab squawked and a voice spilled through.

    “All vehicles, this is Sherman. We can see the docks. Looks like plenty of civilian craft are available. On arrival, secure a vessel and await further orders. Sound off, over,” said the general, voice slightly distorted by static.

    “Truck two, roger, over.”

    “Truck three, roger that.”

    “Truck four, I copy.”

    Brewster plucked down the handset from the overhead radio and clicked it on. “Truck five, wilco, over.”

    “Truck six, roger.”

    Brewster replaced the handset and spun the wheel to follow the leading trucks down a side street.

    “We’re close-I’ve been here before,” Denton said, pointing out on the street. “I ate at that cafe once.”

    Suddenly, a muffled thump sounded from ahead of their truck, and the convoy ground sharply to a halt. Brewster stopped his truck and leaned his head out the window, trying to see what was happening.

    “See anything?” Denton asked.

    Brewster didn’t answer for a moment. Then he swore, slammed the vehicle into park and swung down and out of the cab. Denton climbed out slower, nursing a bruised knee he didn’t remember getting at Suez. The passengers in the back of the trucks were peering out cautiously, curious as to what was happening.

    “What the fuck, Darin?” Brewster said, spreading his arms wide as the driver from the truck in front of him shrugged.

    “Don’t know. We just stopped,” Darin replied.

    “Let’s find out, eh?” said Denton, walking past the two soldiers toward the head of the convoy. After looking at one another, the soldiers followed him.

    Denton waved a hand at the figure of Sergeant Major Thomas as he approached.

    “Sergeant! What’s the holdup?” Denton called out.

    “Minor snafu,” said Thomas. “Lead truck hit a civilian. Jumped right out in front of them at the end of the street.”

    “
Shit
,” Brewster mumbled under his breath.

    The three men walked around the front of the convoy to survey the scene. General Sherman, Colonel Dewen, and the distraught driver of the lead truck were crouched around the prone form of a civilian, who was gasping for breath. He was covered in sweat, and didn’t focus his eyes on anything.

    “Shock?” Denton asked.

    “I didn’t hit him that hard! I was slowing down for the turn!” said the driver, holding a hand over his mouth.

    Sherman was crouched at the man’s side.

    “Hold on, son, we’ve got help on the way,” he told the man, checking him over for open wounds. The general turned his head and shouted, “Medic! Let’s get a medic up front!”

    Sergeant Major Thomas marched to the back of the first truck, yelling back along the street. “Medic up front, pronto!”

    In the back of Brewster’s truck, Rebecca heard the distant call.

    “Oh, crap,” she said to herself. “That’s me. What’s happened?”

    She levered herself up from the rough bench in the back of the truck and dropped lithely to the ground below, snatching her bag of ever-dwindling supplies. She didn’t know what good they would do her-all she had left were a few antibiotics, some bandages, and a couple painkillers-but it was worth a shot.

    Denton and Thomas met her at the rear of the lead truck, talking fast as she jogged towards the wounded man. Denton rattled off, “Lead driver hit a pedestrian-looks okay but he’s in shock, don’t think anything major is broken!”

    “Let me through!” Rebecca said, pushing between Brewster and Dewen to get to the wounded man.

    She knelt beside him and checked his pupils, then laid a hand on his forehead. She gasped and immediately fell back, scrabbling away from the man.

    “What are you doing?” Sherman said, glaring at her. “He needs help!”

    “He’s not in shock!” she blurted. “He’s burning up! He’s sick!”

    As one, the soldiers surrounding the man took a few steps backwards as fast as they could.

    “Morningstar?” Sherman asked, hand going to the butt of his pistol.

    “I don’t know,” Rebecca said, staring at the victim.

    “What do we do? Leave him?” Colonel Dewen asked, glancing at Sherman.

    “Fuck him, man, let’s get out of here. I’m not getting sick this close to a boat ride home,” Brewster said, and was promptly fixed with an angry look from Thomas.

    Thomas gritted, “Private, that’s the first and last thing you’re going to say at this point in time.”

    Brewster grimaced and shuffled his feet.

    Sherman sighed, folded his arms and took a long look at the man. He said, “No, he’s right, Thomas. We’ve got no choice. We have to assume he’s infected with Morningstar. I don’t know how the disease could have gotten here ahead of us unless he was infected much earlier in the outbreak. If we take him along and it turns out he
does
have it, we’re truly screwed. We’ve got to leave him.”

    Dewen nodded. “Right. Let’s move him out of the way and keep going. We’ve got rendezvous in forty minutes.”

    “Leave him some water and food,” Sherman said. “If he’s not infected, he’ll need it.”

    Sherman, Rebecca, and Denton returned to their trucks and waited for the soldiers to deal with the hapless man.

    Brewster and Darin pulled gloves out of their BDU pockets and slipped them on, then grabbed the victim’s legs and arms and hefted him between them. They set him down gently on the side of the street, and Darin unbuttoned one of his canteen covers, pulling the canteen free and setting it by the man’s hand. Thomas tossed him an MRE from the back of one of the trucks and Darin set it down beside the water.

    “Poor bastard,” Colonel Dewen said, fanning himself with one hand as he stood in the relative shade of one of the street’s many doorways. “What if he really isn’t infected? Wish there was a way to tell.”

    “General’s right, sir,” Thomas said. “No way to tell. Maybe he’s just got a fever. But we can’t take the chance.”

    “Yeah. But it still stinks to-”

    Without warning, the door behind Dewen burst open, knocking him roughly into the sandstone-colored wall. He grunted in pain.

    Thomas reacted first, snatching his Colt from his holster and bringing the barrel to bear. “Sir, get down!”

    Framed in the doorway was another civilian, looking deranged and almost feral in expression. Before Thomas could fire, the carrier leapt on Dewen’s back, rearing back with her hands and striking the officer in the back of his head. Dewen lunged about, trying to dislodge the diseased woman.

    “Damn!” Thomas shouted, trying to draw a bead on the carrier. Dewen’s head and shoulders kept popping into his sight picture as the pair wrestled about. “I don’t have a shot!”

    Brewster came running over, rifle unslung, and slammed the buttstock full-force into the bridge of the carrier’s nose. Her head snapped back and her high-pitched gibberish was cut off with a yelp of pain. She fell off of Dewen’s back. That was all the time Thomas needed.

    The shot from the Sergeant Major’s Colt rang out clearly, and blood spray coated the doorway a gory red. The carrier went limp, falling in a heap on the doorstep. Dewen sank to his knees, clutching the side of his throat.

    “Colonel!” Thomas called out, running over to the doorway. Dewen looked up at him and tried to say something, but all that came through was a muffled gurgle. Bright red blood seeped through the Colonel’s hands and coated the collar of his uniform. The carrier had done serious damage. Thomas’ face went blank.

    “Shit, man, that blood’s arterial!” Brewster exclaimed, slinging his rifle and digging at the medical pouch clipped to his suspenders. “Get some pressure on it!”

    “No!” Thomas replied, holding up a hand to Brewster. “Don’t go near him.”

    Dewen managed a slow nod in agreement with Thomas. He was fading fast.

    “He’s infected,” Darin said, stepping back.

    The three soldiers watched, helpless, as Colonel Dewen lay dying at their feet. In the silence, they heard the sounds of feral, hungry moans drifting through the empty streets. Their eyes turned upwards, focused on the cityscape in front of them.

    “They must have heard the shot,” Thomas said, glancing at his pistol.

    “They’ll be coming,” Darin murmured. “They’ll be coming right for us, won’t they?”

    Thomas was silent for a moment, then turned to face the two men.

    “We have to get to the harbor. Get back in your trucks! Now! Move!”

PART SIX: WILDFIRE

Sharm el-Sheikh

January 10, 2007

1233 hrs_

    BREWSTER TRIED TO keep his thoughts in order as he sprinted for his truck. The convoy was in the middle of enemy territory. There were certainly carriers in this town-it had been overrun and the convoy was surrounded. A crude ambush, though not one planned by any sentient tactician. He had been in three firefights in his lifetime, not counting Suez, and one of them had been an ambush. It hadn’t been pretty.

    Brewster flung open the door to his truck and clambered up into the cab. Denton was on edge.

    “What the hell’s going on, Brewster?” he demanded. “I heard shots!”

    “We’re getting the fuck out of here, photo-jockey!” Brewster exclaimed. “Buckle up! We’re burning rubber!”

    He slammed the truck into drive and floored the accelerator. Denton was flung back in his seat and the passengers in the back shouted muffled protests.

    “Wait!” Denton said, pushing himself upright as Brewster took a hard left. “What’s happening?!”

    “This town’s a dead zone, man! We’re fucking surrounded by those things! They got Dewen!” Brewster shouted back, grimacing and shifting gears.

    “Colonel Dewen’s dead?” Denton uttered, surprised and dismayed.

    “As a rock,” Brewster replied. “Shit!”

    He swerved to avoid an abandoned car. The passengers in the back were thrown to one side and crashes could be heard through the cab wall.

    “Take it easy, Brewster! You’re going to throw out the guys in the back!”

    “No can do, partner. We’re bugging out, pronto!”

    Denton grabbed a firm hold on the dashboard and braced himself as Brewster threw the truck around another sharp turn. As he straightened out the wheel, the harbor came into view. It was below them, less than a mile.