Seven Days To Brooklyn: A Sara Robinson Adventure (14 page)

“Ninety minutes, sir, but we could switch to an unsecured feed on a higher orbit.” Switching the screen in front of him, the operator clicks the mouse a few times bringing up another satellite page with civilian satellites displayed. “Here, sir, we have a news satellite that is in geosynchronous orbit, probably pick up a feed instantly, but it will leave us open to hackers.”
 

Edwards rubs his chin, between sips of coffee.
 

“Do it; we need to see where they are headed, until we get a team in place to intercept them.”
 

The operator starts the uplink, and a feed from the satellite comes into view. Inputting the last known coordinates into the computer, the image changes to the last position of the museum. The ground around the museum is laid in utter waste. No trace of the buildings is left within a thirty-block radius of the center of the blast zone. “I’m panning ahead, up the highway to see if we can pick them up. That is, if they made it, sir.” The video feed on the large screen moves from the front of the museum, panning up the road and north out of Roswell. “Nothing yet, sir.” The operator toggles the mouse on the computer, relaying to the satellite overhead to reposition the large lens for a high-resolution feed.
 

“Keep scanning north; let me know if you find her. I’ll be in the hangar, briefing the team.”
 

“Yes, sir!”

General Kenneth Edwards is the operations chief of the Strategic Acquisition Operations Command (SOAC) that was recently formed after the apocalypse and pandemic, following the influx and outbreak of the mutated form of the Ebola 27x virus. The Ebola 27x virus, although not as lethal as the original virus that initially started in West Africa during the 1970s, destroys most cognitive brain functions and replaces the thought process of the infected individual with a ravenous appetite for human flesh. As the virus established itself in the United States with the return of humanitarian workers from western Africa, most medical professionals were unknowingly re-infecting citizens after they had undergone treatment and quarantine and had negative findings for the original virus on their subsequent blood work tests. The mutated form of the virus, Ebola 27x, was undetectable for a minimum of forty days to six months, giving these aid workers a false sense of security. By the time the Centers for Disease Control was aware of what was happening, it was too late. The disease hit Dallas, Texas, the hardest with original estimates of 75,000 citizens infected within the first four months. As more and more citizens fell victim to the virus, the infrastructure and systems broke down within the city. Pandemonium and chaos followed, the disease and incubation shortened from over forty days to less than three days. In an effort to control the outbreak, the US government mobilized the regular army, air force, and marine corps into a containment role, isolating the city of Dallas initially by encircling the town with air cover, ground troops, tanks, and artillery. Major roads and highways were blocked off, bridges destroyed, and communication lines into the city severed. As the epidemic grew within the city, the last vestige and holdout was a tower with restaurant inside and a 360-degree view of the city. At 561 feet, it was the obvious spot to place a team of commandos from SOAC. The team of eight, with satellite communications, kept the government informed of the descending chaos. Two months after their placement in the tower, the first commando exhibited symptoms of infection. Twenty-two days later, communications with the group went unanswered. Twenty-four hours later, the US Government called in an airstrike, and the first nuclear bomb was delivered on a U.S. city. Unfortunately, the containment was not 100 percent successful. Infected survivors just outside the initial blast zone were able to leave the city and travel. City after city in Texas would fall victim to the same fate and outcome. Houston was next, followed by San Antonio, Austin, and then Roswell, New Mexico, in an attempt to crush the disease. Most rural residents fared well due to their early prepping and harboring in place.
 

Standing in the hangar just outside the operations center, General Edwards rubs his forehead as he wonders if the world will survive. A loudspeaker in the hangar pages an announcement, “Sir, we have the target.” General Edwards walks back into the operations center and looks at the video screen on the wall as he enters. On the screen is an overhead satellite view of the town just north of Roswell. Zooming the feed in, two people get on a motorcycle and start riding north on a highway out of town.
 

“It’s them, sir; they survived.”
 

“Yes, they have. Very resilient, aren’t they.” General Edwards rubs one temple as he looks at the screen. “Get the team ready to acquire the target.” He turns away from the screen and looks at his senior advisor. “What shall we do with the male after we have the girl, sir?”
 

“Terminate.”
 

Having failed in his first two attempts to rescue his friend and daughter along with the research and potential cure for the nasty virus, Edwards was prepared to do everything in his power to achieve his goal. After losing the first commando team during the extraction of Dr. Robinson and his daughter months earlier, General Edwards was weary of everyone around him and the incompetence of his forces. Walking out of the ops center and down a hallway to the briefing room, General Edwards enters a small conference room, and a commando team is waiting for him there. The men stand up as he enters, and he waves them off. “Sit down, men,” he says before handing the briefing over to his advisor.
 

The advisor fills the team in on their mission and target. Standing back up, Edwards gets ready to leave the room, but turns around and stares at the commandos. “Don’t fail. It’s not an option.”
 

In unison, the commandos answer, “Yes, sir!”
 

He leaves the room and walks back to the operations center. The commandos head over to the hangar and prepare their gear for the mission to acquire their target, manning themselves with MP5 machine guns, knives, and 9mm pistols as they slip into specialized parachutes for a high-altitude jump. Walking out of the hangar, the team boards a C-130 that is sitting on the small, uncharted runway of the compound. Taking seats on both sides of the aircraft, the team, assisted by the aircrew’s help, don full-face masks so they won’t suffer from the lack of oxygen when they jump at 25000 feet.

Mac and Sara are still traveling toward Santa Fe, New Mexico, and are unaware of the events unfolding above them. Traveling on the two-lane road, they pass sign after sign advertising businesses in town. Mileage signs count down their arrival into Santa Fe and eventually post single digits.
 

“We better stop here until daylight,” Mac says to Sara as he pulls the bike off the road and into the ditch.
 

“Okay.” She replies.

Mac shuts the bike off, and the pair sits down next to it on the ground. Mac looks over at Sara, who is rummaging through her backpack.
 

“So, what job did your dad do again?”
 

She pauses a few seconds before answering him. “He was a doctor.”
 

“Oh really, that’s cool. What hospital did he work at?”
 

“He did not work at a hospital; he was a medical research scientist.”
 

Sara continues rummaging through the backpack looking for something to eat, finding the jar of pickles. Twisting the lid off, Sara pulls out a large uncut pickle, biting off the end.

“He was researching the virus before all of this happened. Then he died. End of story.”
 

Mac looks over at his new friend and notices her wiping a tear from her face in the darkness. The full moon overhead illuminates her face just enough for him to see the sparkle.
 

“I’m sorry, Sara; it sucks now, but things will get better. Just wait; you’ll see.”
 

“My dad was close to finding the cure, before he died. I found him in the lab; I think he had a heart attack. When I found him, he was lying on the floor mumbling. I couldn’t understand what he was saying, but he was clutching the journal and said, take it.”
 

Sara reaches into her coat pocket and produces the journal. Placing a headlamp on her forehead, she switches it on and then starts thumbing through the pages. Besides the pages of maps, the interior section of the journal is filled with weird, scribbled formulas that she can’t understand. At the bottom of the last page of formulas are the words, “The cure is within.” She reads it aloud to Mac.
 

“Let me see the journal.”
 

Sara passes him the book and headlamp so he can read through the journal.
 

“This is interesting. For some reason, your father thought that the best place to combat the disease, or maybe the best place to survive the disease, would be in the Pacific Northwest. Is that why you are going to Brooklyn?”
 

“He told me to go to Brooklyn, just before he died. I’m not sure why.”
 

Sara sighs a little, then digs into her backpack and pulls out a can of sardines. Popping the can open and rolling back the lid, she pulls out a single slimy fish before popping it into her mouth.
 

“Look in the back of the book. There is a name in there, a Dr. Hunter, and the address is in Brooklyn, Washington.”
 

“Do you know who this Dr. Hunter is?”
 

“Nope, never heard of him.”
 

“Well, whoever he is, that’s where we should go. If your father thought it was that important to find him, it must be.”

With a sense of urgency and resolve that he did not have before, Mac decides it’s time to head north and risk going through town at night instead of waiting out on the highway for daylight to come. “We should go now. What you have in this book could be the end of all of humanity’s suffering.”
 

Sara stares up at him, eats the last sardine before tossing the can aside, then stands up. “My book.”
 

He hands her the book and then gets back on the bike. Kicking the bike to life once again, Mac knows the journey through the city will be fraught with unspeakable horrors and danger but knows there is no reason to stay out on the highway with this newfound knowledge. Sara climbs on the back once again, and they are on their way into Santa Fe.
 

Unlike most cities across the country, the town of Santa Fe did not experience the rolling blackouts, and they can see it lit up in the distance as they round a bend in the road. A few minutes and two miles later, they are on the outskirts of town. Although Santa Fe’s residents were infected with the virus, the actual accounting of survivors versus infected is still unknown. Buildings in the distance glow eerily in the darkness. Riding further into town, the streetlights change from red to green, then back to yellow, then red. Mac continues driving into the city, a city that is well lit but apparently devoid of civilization. Driving north through the city, the pair keeps a wary eye out for flesh-eaters. Street after street, block after block, the entire city of Santa Fe appears deserted. Riding deeper into the city, the pair travels north hoping to avoid confrontation.
 

Overhead, a surveillance satellite sends an image of the pair back to the remote base in Colorado. Looking at the large display screen, General Edwards crosses his arms and then turns to his advisor before speaking. “Is the team ready to launch?”
 

The advisor picks up a microphone on a desk, and then keys it up. “Timber Wolf, this is Watchman, over.”
 

A few seconds later a reply comes from the team inside the aircraft. “Watchman, Timber Wolf here.”

 
“Timber Wolf, you are go for launch when ready.”

“Good copy, go for launch now. Timber Wolf out.”
 

The advisor looks over at the general and is about to say something, before the general shakes his head no.

“They’ll make it this time.” Kenneth Edwards is confident with the airmen special operations team, even though his statement does not hold much merit.
 

“How long until the aircraft is in position?”

“Twenty-five minutes, sir.”
 

Mac makes a turn around a main boulevard and crosses the river in the middle of town. On the other side of the river, they notice the street two blocks ahead of them is blocked with a fifteen-foot-tall, chain-link fence, complete with razor wire strung across the top. Stopping the bike, he pauses and then drives it over to the side of the street and onto the sidewalk, shutting it off.
 

“What is so important that you need to fence off this city?” Mac says.

“Or what are they trying to keep in. Or out!” Sara replies.

Mac and Sara make their way closer to the fence down a side alley, staying out of sight and in the shadows. A half block away from the fence, they hear what sounds like cheering or growling; they are not sure what they are hearing. Walking slower up to the end of the alley, the pair approaches the fence and notices it runs in both directions down the middle of a main street.
 

“Left or right?” Mac gestures with his right hand both ways.
 

“Right.”
 

They continue their walk around the fence, stopping from time to time to listen. At the intersection of the next block, the fence takes an immediate ninety-degree left turn and is strung out in front of them as far as they can see. Straining their eyes off in the distance, they see the source of the noise. On both sides of the fence are citizens, infected and uninfected, who are separated by just chain link and a dozen yards or so.
 

“I’m not sure we want to be on the inside, but we can’t stay out here either.” Looking to the right, he catches a small horde of flesh-eaters heading their way down the alleyway. “Damn it. They’ve found us,” he says before turning to catch up with Sara, who is already running back the way they came. The motion of the horde running down the far fence line catches the attention of a perceptive child inside the fence. Running up to one of the post-apocalyptic survivors who is wielding a rifle, he tugs on the man’s coat.