Plague of the Dead (27 page)

    The balance had definitely tipped in favor of the Morningstar Strain.

    Anna tried to keep her mind off the living hell outside in the streets. She assisted Julie in taking her dose of antibiotics, tipping her head back and chasing the pills with a sip of water.

    “How is she?” Mason asked, sitting with his back to the two women at the computer terminal, punching keys absentmindedly as he scrolled through screen upon screen of recent reports.

    “I’m fine,” coughed Julie, scowling at Mason’s back.

    “I think it’s in remission,” said Anna, referring to Julie’s pneumonia. “We caught it just in time. Any longer in that dungeon and she’d be a lot worse off.”

    “Good,” Mason said, nodding.

    “What are you reading?” Anna asked, closing the box of medical supplies she’d been using.

    “Action reports,” Mason told her, tapping the screen with his finger. “We’ve got casualty tallies, safe zones, hot zones, quarantine areas, recommendations, plans, and orders here. Pretty much anything we’d like to know about what’s going on out there that can be written down. Funny.”

    “What’s that?”

    “How the world can be crashing down all around us, and people are still filing reports, like the higher-ups are still going to be reading them Monday morning.”

    “Force of habit.”

    “Force of stupidity,” scoffed Mason. “Look at this. A post-action report filed by a battalion commander in Florida detailing the amount of ammunition expended and the estimated cost of the action, in dollars, rounded up. As if the dollar is worth anything these days.”

    Anna stopped for a moment, struck by a thought. She’d filed hundreds of reports to her higher-ups at USAMRIID detailing each day of her research. There was data in those reports that might be very useful to a group of people working to stay safe from the Morningstar Strain.

    “Can you tap into the USAMRIID database from here?” she asked, walking over to stand behind the agent.

    “Yeah,” Mason said, looking over at the doctor. “If you’ve got an account I can use to access it. I’m no hacker.”

    “I have an account,” Anna said. “But will it still work? I’ve kind of been arrested the past couple weeks.”

    “I bet it will,” said Mason. “They probably figured you wouldn’t be near a terminal to even try to access the database. They probably left your account open. Why? Got something you want to look up?”

    “Yes. I’ve been thinking: Before I was arrested, I was working on the Morningstar Strain, trying to figure out how it works so I could, basically, reverse-engineer a vaccine or a cure. Same basic principle we’ve used dealing with Lassa and Ebola and any number of other nasty bugs. Maybe I can download my research and get back to working on it now that I’m free again.”

    “You actually believe you’ll find a cure?”

    “By myself? Without my lab and staff? Not really. Even with that, the chance is slim. But there
is
a chance.”

    “Okay, I’ll buy it,” said Mason. “Here, give it a shot.”

    Mason slid out of the seat and let Anna take his place. As she had a thousand times before, she brought up her login screen and typed out her username and password. She hit enter, and waited while the computer talked to the database.

    
›ERROR: Invalid username/password. Please try again.

    Anna growled. She re-typed the password, being certain each key was hit in the correct order, and hit enter again.

    
›ERROR: Invalid username/password. Please try again.

    “Damn it all,” Anna mumbled. “They got me.”

    “Let me have a shot at it,” Julie said from behind the pair. She came walking over, a wool blanket draped around her shoulders, looking weak but determined.

    “What are you planning on doing?” Mason asked.

    “You might not be a hacker,” Julie said to Anna, “But I sort of am. Used to be an investigative reporter before I got my anchor position, remember? I can hack into that database.”

    Anna didn’t have a ready answer, but she was impressed. She merely blinked, nodded, and slid aside, giving up the chair to Julie.

    The reporter sank into the desk chair with a heavy sigh, slowly cracking her knuckles.

    “This may take a while,” Julie said. “Get comfortable,”

    She began typing.

    “Handy,” grinned Mason.

    “Bet your ass,” Julie managed, biting back a cough. “Glad you brought me along now?”

    Mason chuckled. “I’ll be more impressed if you manage to get in. Remote access has been tightened up since that kid hacked the Pentagon in the nineties. If you can, though…”

    “I’ve got to earn my keep somehow, huh?”

USS Ramage

1834 hrs_

    Brewster drifted in and out of a fitful sleep. He couldn’t get comfortable. He tossed and turned in the narrow bunk he lay upon, throwing off the blankets in exasperation.

    “
Fuck it
,” he whispered, clasping his hands behind his head and staring at the bottom of the bunk above him. A sailor had pinned family photos to the underside of the mattress, and Brewster let his eyes play over them.

    A knock came on the door. Grateful for the distraction, Brewster glanced over.

    “What is it?” he asked. No answer came. “Stop fucking around out there. What’s going on?”

    The door began to swing inward, creaking loudly.

    “Who’s there?” Brewster asked. The door finished the long swing, coming to a stop against the wall. Framed in the doorway was the stooped silhouette of a soldier.

    “Who are you?”

    “Don’t remember me?” the soldier said, stepping forward into the light.

    “Darin?” Brewster asked, sitting up in the bunk. “
What the fuck?!”

    “Don’t remember your old buddy?” Darin repeated, walking slowly towards Brewster. “Don’t remember the guy you killed?”

    “
I had to
,” Brewster protested, drawing back. “You were infected.”

    “That’s right,” Darin said, flashing a feral grin. His teeth were coated in blood. As Brewster watched, the blood began to fill the corporal’s mouth, running out across his lips and down his face, dripping to the floor with a steady
plip-plip-plip
. “I was infected.”

    The corporal’s eyes seemed to glow with an inner light, and Brewster felt terror welling up in his chest.

    “Stay back, man,” Brewster told him, recoiling.

    “You killed me without a second thought,” Darin said, voice distorted behind the blood in his mouth. “I’m here to return the favor!”

    Brewster noticed for the first time that Darin held a pistol in his hand. The corporal raised the weapon and aimed it directly at Brewster.

    The blast was deafening.

    Brewster came awake in a flash, sitting upright and slamming his head on the bunk above him.

    “Fuck!” he yelped, wiping a hand across his forehead. It came away covered in sweat. The nightmare had been incredibly real.

    Another knock sounded at the door. Brewster remembered the gunshot in the dream and realized it must have been the knocking.

    “Up and at ’em, soldiers!” came a voice from outside. “We’re about to make landfall. Quarantine’s over. You’re cleared to leave.”

    The other soldiers in the room with Brewster whooped with joy, slapping high-fives and grinning. Brewster ran a hand through his close-cut hair, heaving a massive sigh. He was relieved to be allowed out of the room-but more than that, he was relieved they were about to get off the ship. Before he had even tried to sleep, he’d made his decision. The first chance he got, he was going AWOL. He had no idea what the situation would be like on land, but he bet if it was anything like the other infected areas of the world he’d have plenty of opportunities to get away.

    The door to the quarantine room swung open and the soldiers gratefully piled out into the hallway.

    “Assemble on deck in five minutes,” ordered Sergeant Major Thomas, who stood against the far bulkhead directing the half-dozen freed soldiers. “Gear’ll be issued shortly, then General Sherman wants a word with you all.”

    Grateful to have something to do besides sit around in a bleak room, the soldiers made their way through the winding corridors of the destroyer to the deck, with Thomas trailing behind them.

    Brewster was now even more dead-set on making a break for it once they hit land. He was still a bit shaken up from his dream as the soldiers walked out into the sunlight for the first time in a week. Still, Brewster couldn’t help but stare at the view in front of him. The ship was coming up on the west coast of North America, and the rocky, tall shore sat off in the distance, partly concealed in thick, cottony fog.

    “
There it is
,” Brewster murmured. “
Home sweet home
.”

    “Fall in!” came the order from Thomas, who had pushed his way through the soldiers to stand in front of them all. “Fall in!”

    The soldiers scrambled to obey, forming straight rows, standing at attention. Brewster found himself in the front row with Thomas no more than a few feet away.

    “Dress right-dress!” Thomas ordered. The soldiers’ right arms shot out to the shoulder of the man next to them, and the lines evened themselves out into even neater rows. “Ready-front! At ease!”

    The soldiers relaxed, folding their arms behind their lower back and spreading their feet shoulder-width apart. Brewster noticed Sherman for the first time. The General had been off on the side of the formation, talking with the photographer, and now came walking in front of the formation of men. Brewster followed him with his eyes.

    “Gentlemen,” Sherman began, “In less than an hour we’ll make landfall. The reason we’re having this talk is because when we hit land, you are all going to have something you don’t normally get in the service: a
choice
.”

    Brewster perked up a bit.

    “As many of you know, the situation on land is mostly a mystery to us. Communications have been disrupted. We’ve been receiving conflicting reports. But for all intents and purposes, we’ll assume that North America is indeed an infected zone.”

    The soldiers glanced back and forth at each other, but said nothing.

    “Captain Franklin has graciously decided to assist the quarantine efforts to the south. I, however, have a different plan of action.”

    Sherman stopped for a moment, gathering his thoughts. He then went on, “I’ve been in the service for a long, long time. There are few things I haven’t seen, almost nothing I haven’t done. But I realized that I don’t want to die trying to keep a dead city from falling. I’d rather live to enjoy a retirement. Therefore… I’m submitting my resignation.”

    The soldiers again shared a glance back and forth, and here and there came murmured comments.

    “That doesn’t mean I’m done here,” Sherman clarified. “I have a plan. I’ve been talking back and forth with an old colleague who happens to be one of the world’s leading experts on the Morningstar Strain. She’s trying to engineer a cure. It’s a long shot, but it’s better than sitting in a city waiting to be bitten by one of those godforsaken carriers. To that end, I’ve decided to head east-maybe find a nice unpopulated area in the Midwest and wait for news. I’m here now to ask you all which you would prefer: to go on with Franklin and help the defense efforts, or go AWOL with me. Measure your decision wisely.”

    Brewster somehow knew that the General wasn’t joking, but he still couldn’t believe his ears. He was being saved the trouble of running. Even more incredible was the General himself making the same decision a lowly PFC had-even to the point of their similar goals. It wasn’t much of a decision for Brewster. He’d already made up his mind, but some of the other soldiers were not so lucky.

    “Sir?” came a voice from the formation. “What happens if this blows over and we’ve gone AWOL?”

    “Then we’re in trouble,” Sherman admitted. “Anyone who goes with me runs that risk. That’s why I want you all to weigh your choices very carefully before you make your final decision. Personally, I’ve got to admit I don’t think much of the chance of this blowing over. I think the Morningstar Strain is here to stay. Perhaps the passing of time will prove me wrong. I hope it does. But I don’t think it will.”

Washington, D.C.

January 20

1845 hrs_

    The streets were mostly empty in the waning evening light.
Mostly
. Here and there an abandoned car sat with doors hanging open, and the dim sky was lit periodically by fires in the distance. The rioting that had been going on for days was long gone.

    A man sprinted down the wide, open avenue, gasping for breath, clutching his chest with one hand and wielding a pistol in the other. His hair was unkempt and he had a wild look in his eyes. As he turned onto the street, he stopped for a moment, brandishing the weapon and squinting into the darkness. Sighting nothing, he took off again, running full-tilt, dodging the abandoned vehicles. His eyes scanned the houses as he moved, reading the address numbers silently to himself.

    “
Christ, where is it?”
he said aloud, gasping as he managed each word. He’d almost run the length of the block before he stopped again, noticing a small, two-story house set back off the street. The windows and porch were dark, but the number on the mailbox was the one he had been searching for.

    The man’s run had been with a purpose. He’d been forced to use an old car on this journey and the junker had broken down a mile back. There was only one safe place nearby-the house he stood in front of now. It had been designed to be used in a situation just like the one he found himself in: A refuge for legal fugitives. A safe house. The agency took care of its own.

    The man didn’t approach the house with the same haphazard manner he’d run down the block. He knew that the place had its own defenses and it would do him no good to set off every alarm in the house and perhaps get himself ventilated with lead. He walked cautiously up the brick path to the front door, nervously keeping an eye on the shadows around him, worried that they might hold a carrier of the Morningstar Strain, or-
just as bad
-a civilian out for blood.