Apache Dawn: Book I of the Wildfire Saga (14 page)

“
This information will hopefully renew your somewhat shaken confidence as you come to understand the depth of our reach.
 
A mid-level scientist at the now defunct CDC may have figured out what we are about.
 
He contacted a certain man that, thanks to the codes you provided, we have determined to be a part of your elite special forces.
 
I believe you call them SEALs.
 
Such a silly name, for a highly over-rated military force
,” Reginald chuckled.
 

“This SEAL and his comrades will be dealt with, as will your President
.
 
Do not worry.
 
Whatever he knows will die with him.
 
And as for your President…my employers will handle him if the flu doesn’t.
”

“If someone knows about
this…
if they find out I had anything…oh my God…” the world was closing in on him.
 
A sudden tightening in his chest was restricting his breathing.
 
“What…what are you going to do?

“
Mr. Vice President.
 
Calm yourself
.”
 
Reginald crooned smoothly.
 
“
The situation will be handled.
 
By the time you go to bed tomorrow, you will be the President of the United States.
 
I want you to relax, Mr. Vice President—I can still hear your breathing
.
 
My colleagues covered their tracks.
 
No one will ever be able to trace the codes used to bring such ruin on your country back to you.
 
I assure you, the only people who know the truth are my employers and yourself.
 
Now, I know just what you need. Go and clean yourself up—“

The Vice President looked around in a panic.
 
How did Reginald know he had thrown up?
 
There
had
to be a camera in here.
 
How damn far did Reginald’s influence go?
 
He got up, not listening to the man who controlled his destiny any more.
 
He pulled some books off a bookshelf and tossed them on the floor, searching.

“
When you have finished wasting your time looking for a camera, I think you will be pleasantly surprised by what you actually find
…”

“What?” he asked.
 
The Vice President noticed a faint but achingly familiar scent was circulating within the recycled air of his bunker under the Naval Observatory.
 
The phone forgotten, he inhaled deeply, soaking up the fragrance.
 

Jayne
.

The Vice President turned, as if in a dream, feeling his pulse quicken.
 
Everything became a little brighter, a little louder.
 
He was pulled by her scent toward the bathroom.
 
He could see a glow coming from the marble tiled room he hadn’t noticed before.
 
As walked in, he caught himself in the mirror.
 

His dark hair was disheveled about his head, mired with sweat and traces of the vomit that was also smeared his chin and shirt.
 
His eyes looked haunted, his pupils dilated.
 
His skin had a glossy sheen to it.
 
He looked a proper mess.
 
Movement in the mirror to his right caused him to look upon a vision that could only have escaped out of Heaven itself.
 

In the massive whirlpool tub, overflowing with bubbles, she waited for him with a bottle of champagne.
 
She was surrounded by perhaps fifty candles.
 
Her tanned, soft skin seemed to glow.
 

Jayne slowly got up on her knees in the tub, the bubbles caressing her body to the bottom of her perfect breasts, dripping with lather.
 
The white bubbles contrasted with her perfectly tanned skin and reflected the candlelight in the room.
 
Her golden hair had been pulled into a ragged bun behind her head, the dim light of the candles that surrounded the tub caused her blue eyes to shine with an almost unearthly, angelic light.

His breath came ragged now, his heart thundered in his ears.
 
His mouth suddenly dry as his pulse quickened and his senses became heightened and focused on Jayne.
 
Every fiber of his being directed him to tear his clothes off and launch himself at her.
 
He started to disrobe, watching her watch him with those sultry half-closed eyes.
 
Atlanta, Reginald, the flu attack, all those dead Americans, the guilt…everything simply drained away and disappeared.
 
There was only Jayne.

Yet, somewhere in the deep, dark, secret place of his mind that she had not conquered, a voice whispered:
How did she get in here?
 
The Bunker is under lockdown…

As he stooped to remove his pants, he watched her delicately pour the expensive bubbly over the gilded rim of the crystal champagne glass etched with the logo of the Oval Office.
 

She held a glass of champagne in salute and purred, “Care to join me,
Mr. President?
”

C
HAPTER
7

Los Angeles, California.

All Saint's Hospital.

B
RENDA
WOKE
WITH
A
start in the doctor’s lounge.
 
She had not meant to actually fall sleep and angrily checked her watch.
 
It displayed 0430 hours.
 
She added switching to 12-hour format to her mental list of things to do now that she was out of the Army.
 

I’ve been asleep for
two hours!
 
Brenda rubbed her stiff, sore neck while she came to grips with the fact that she had slept with her head on the table for the past two hours like a rook straight out of boot camp.
 
She was surprised the muted roar of noise coming from the hallway hadn’t woken her sooner.
 

People cried, nurses and physician assistants rushed back and forth from patient to patient—the sheer number of people seeking help at the hospital was incredible and it was still growing.
 
To think this scene was being repeated all over the area boggled the mind.

“Asleep on the job.
 
Another
great way to make an impression,” she muttered while trying to smooth out her brand new, freshly-wrinkled teal-blue scrubs.
 
The fabric was stubborn, so she sighed and gave up in favor of a jaw-cracking yawn.

“Oh I wouldn’t worry about that,” replied the sleepy voice of Dr. Lewis Fletcher, the hospital’s thoracic specialist that seemed to be amused by her first day performance with the Chief of Emergency Medicine.

She looked over against the far wall in the semi-darkened room to see a form stir on the long couch.
 
He stretched and yawned, then put on a set horn-rimmed glasses back on his ebony face.
 
“Don’t worry, I couldn’t sleep anyway.
 
And, for the record, you’re okay with the Chief.”
 
Brenda could hear the smile in his voice.
 

Dr. Fletcher yawned.
 
“You pulled a double on your first day…even if you did knock him on his ass by way of saying ‘hello’.” He laughed and stood up, joints cracking.
 
Brenda noticed his dark-blue scrubs were even more wrinkled than hers.
 
“God, I need some coffee…”

Brenda groaned and rubbed her eyes.
 
“Has it slowed down any?” she asked.

“I wish I could say yes.
 
I only came in about a half hour ago, but we were still getting new cases by the truckload.”

“It just doesn’t make any sense,” she said, frowning at the cold cup of tea in front of her.
 
“Was it this bad during…” she closed her eyes, forcing the memories from ten years ago down into a hole in her heart.
 
She relied on her Army training to remove her emotions and sight in on the target.
 
This mysterious flu was her target, and she was going to destroy it come hell or high water.
 

“Did it get like this during the early days of…?” she just couldn’t bring herself to say its name, as if speaking it aloud would make it real again.
 

Dr. Fletcher sighed as he watched the steam rise from his cup of stale coffee.
 
“Honestly…
no
,” he said, nodding toward the door to the room.
 
“It’s just…too fast, this time.
 
We had two people die before I came in here.
 
The first ones so far.
 
Their families explained that they only started presenting symptoms yesterday.”
 
He shook his head.
 
“Even during the peak of The Pandemic, it was at
least
two days before people started dying from initial exposure.
 
Whatever this is, it’s definitely more aggressive.”
 
He shook his head.
 
“The Chief is going to order us to break out the PPEs and suit up.
 
Personally, I think he should have done it hours ago.
 
Might already be too late.”

Brenda sighed again.
 
PPEs.
 
She hated the bio-hazard personal protection equipment suits that made you look like something out of a science-fiction movie.
 
They were great for protecting doctors and nurses from infection, but they were bulky, hot, the visors fogged quickly, and no matter
how
thin the manufacturers made the gloves, they still made it difficult to work while wearing them.
 

“He’s going to have us put up every flu tent we have and pressurize them.
 
Just hope it’s enough.”
 
He lifted up his glasses and rubbed his eyes.
 
“Three crit-care nurses are showing early signs of it now…”

Brenda sighed and lowered her head.
 
“Well, that’s a
great
way to start the day.
 
What about the gang war?”

“Uh,
what
gang war?” asked Dr. Fletcher as he picked up an apple off the food tray.

“Oh…I just assumed—”

“I haven’t heard anything…”
 
The snap-crunch of his teeth tearing into the apple made Brenda flinch.

“I, uh…well, right before I came down here—I mean, before Nurse Goodson
marched
me down here—I saw a whole slew of gunshot wounds come in.
 
The ambulance crews were talking to some cops and it sounded like they getting reports of GSWs scattered all over the place.
 
I figured it was a gang related.”

Dr. Fletcher chewed his apple for a moment.
 
“I saw that, too, but unless the Crips and Bloods are recruiting from the Latino community or Best Buy, it’s not gang related.”

“What?”

Dr. Fletcher took a sip from his coffee and hissed at the temperature.
 
“Damn that’s hot…” He pushed his glasses up to massage the bridge of his nose.
 
“I was saying that the GSWs were mostly Hispanic and white.
 
Gang-on-gang violence doesn’t normally involve those racial groups, does it?”

Brenda thought for a moment.
 
“How many did we have come in?”

“Oh…let’s see,” he said as he rubbed the bridge of his nose.
 
“Last count was twenty-two, I think.”
 
He shrugged.
 
“We’re going to see a significant rise in the ‘end of the world’ type injuries and behavior, I think.
 
If people think this is The Great Pandemic all over again, a good number will try to get away with looting and whatnot, just like before.
 
If
that’s
what we’re facing, we’re going to be in for a wild ride.
 
L.A. got pretty nasty last go around.”

“Wait,” Brenda said, hand to her throbbing head.
 
“That doesn’t make sense.”

“Why not?”
 
He pushed the glasses back into place on his nose.
 
“It’s human nature to want to—”