Omega Plague: Collapse (16 page)

Returning to the small room off the terrace, Bruno retrieved
his respirator from his backpack. He had no idea if he could get the Omega
Plague from someone who’d been dead this long, so he wore his respirator,
hoping it would provide some protection. Maybe the respirator wasn’t worth a
shit, but it made him feel safer, and that was at least something.

Bruno spent the next hour in nasty work, wrapping the body
in a sheet and dragging it onto the far corner of the terrace. The desiccated
corpse didn’t weigh as much as Bruno thought it might. He didn’t really know
where to put the body, but for now the far corner of the terrace would have to
suffice. Then he turned his attention to the armchair. It was stained from the
body’s decomposition, and Bruno hoped that once he removed it the odor, too,
would fade from the room.

Once Bruno completed his tasks, he turned his attention to
the small room’s contents. Black boxes with various buttons and knobs sat on a
wooden desk arranged along the wall. A shelf ran along the wall above the desk,
with binders and books neatly arrayed along its length. On the floor just to
the left of the entrance, Bruno saw six batteries wired together sitting in the
corner between the desk and the door. He studied the gear. Mounted on the wall
were a charge controller to keep the batteries from overcharging and an
inverter to change the direct current from the batteries into appliance-friendly
alternating current.

This was quite the setup. Solar powered. Bruno hadn’t seen
this much radio equipment since his time at the provincial command HQ in
Naples. There was certainly enough equipment for this to have been the source
of the pirate radio broadcasts.

He examined the spines of the black binders for any clues as
to what they contained. He pulled the one labeled “Documenti Importanti” off
the shelf and opened it with care. A certificate issued by the Ministry of
Communications, stamped in bold capital letters, caught Bruno’s eye. The name
on the certificate read “PALLADINO, Filippo.” Immediately below the name, Bruno
noted Filippo’s call sign: IC8CQX. Bruno studied the color picture of Filippo
attached to the certificate. If this guy had indeed been the pirate radio
broadcaster, Cristian couldn’t have been more wrong about the way he looked.
Filippo appeared in his mid-forties, dark hair shaggy and a bit rakish, with a
greying goatee. A hint of a smile played around the man’s lips, and Bruno swore
he could see a touch of mischief in the man’s eyes.

Bruno looked up again at the radio equipment before him. Of
course, even before he had found the license, Bruno surmised the equipment
belonged to a ham radio operator. But even more important than the equipment
itself, Bruno realized, were the solar panels on the roof and batteries on the
terrace. He looked at the charge controller. It still had power, as he could
see some numbers and a green LED light flashing. He didn’t know what the
numbers meant, but he knew one thing: this equipment might still be
operational. He flipped to the next page and saw a picture of Filippo with a
woman and a young boy on a beach, all smiling. Bruno wondered what happened to
what must have been Filippo’s wife and son, and why they weren’t with him when
the end came, but he knew the answer would always be a mystery.

Bruno continued to look around, but found no documents or
other evidence that pointed to Filippo being the rogue broadcaster. Bruno’s
hopes of finding hidden weapons or other useful equipment were dashed. But he
supposed that if the guy was as paranoid as he sounded, he would certainly have
been careful enough not to leave any documentary evidence of his activities.
And he was probably smart enough to hide any other, possibly illegal items,
where no one, including Bruno, would find them. Still, Filippo may have left
him gifts of incalculable value: power and communications. Grazie, Filippo, you
crazy bastard, thought Bruno with affection for this man he had never known in
life.

Before he tested the equipment, Bruno wanted to be sure that
the batteries still worked. While he could have plugged in some random kitchen
appliance, he wanted to try something else. But he needed to go back to his old
apartment to find it, and that might take a while. He knew he wasn’t behaving
rationally, but he wanted to bring back something of the old world, the world
before the infection. And he would need to bring back enough food and water to
last a little while. Of course, Bruno had nothing now but time, so why he cared
about wasting it was a mystery even to himself.

By the time he made it back to Filippo’s place, the sun rode
low in the western sky. He had thought his trip back to his apartment was going
to be in vain but at last, he had found it, lying at the bottom of his closet.
How his phone had ended up there he had no recollection, since it had been so
long since he had used it. Now he plugged its charger into the power strip, and
hoped.

When he saw the long-dead phone battery light blink he let
out a shout. He turned the phone on. Of course, there was no cellular signal,
and he didn’t expect one. But he scrolled through its menus, finally finding
what he sought. He touched the screen again. Most people his age had stored
their music in the Cloud, but not Bruno. The constant ratcheting up of storage
fees every year pissed him off, so he had kept all his music on his phone. At
the time, he never would have imagined how well his cheapness would serve him
once the world ended. Out of the small speaker a melody soared into the air.
The light, cheesy pop tune filled the room. Now and again he sang out loud to
the music.

While the music played, Bruno sat at the desk, flipping
through each of the documents contained in plastic sleeves. The well-organized
documents consisted mostly of long manuals for operating the equipment and
other ham radio materials. A goldmine, though some were in English, and that
would slow him down a bit. Without them, Bruno might have spent days, at least,
trying to figure out how to operate this equipment by trial and error. Now at
least he could start listening and scanning the bands right away. But he
wouldn’t transmit. Not for a while. Bruno knew full well that it wouldn’t take
much equipment to triangulate a radio signal. Who was out there and what might
they do if they could find him? Maybe there was no one left who would care.

Bruno paused and looked up from the documents. He stared out
the glass door, his gaze falling over the island and out to the sea. He had no
idea who was left, eking out an existence among the detritus of the West or
anywhere else. But the more Bruno thought, the more certain he became that
there had to be others out there. And not just the ones who had become
psychopaths. Just as a matter of sheer statistics, some people would escape
exposure, maybe people living above the Arctic Circle, where the cold would
keep most people and all mosquitoes out. Some percentage of the population,
miniscule though it might be, had to have not just the capacity to survive the
infection and be forever changed, but actual immunity. Could any disease,
bioweapon or no, be absolutely, one hundred percent infectious? Bruno even
remembered reading that some tiny fraction of people simply couldn’t be
infected by the original AIDS virus. That might be true for the Omega Plague as
well. Yet, even if people were out there, scrapping and surviving, what were
the chances anyone would be broadcasting? What were the chances they had
equipment and power? What were the chances they could avoid being killed by
others who had survived infection? Bruno returned to the documents on his lap.
Survivors or not, scanning for a signal might be a fool’s quest.

Bruno laughed. “Then again, it’s not like I have anything
better to do.”

He removed the radio operating license and propped it up on
the shelf over the equipment. Filippo’s picture smiled down on him.

“Well, Filippo, what do you think? I guess it’s time to get
to work.”

***

After some hours reading manuals and testing equipment,
Bruno set the radio to scan up and down the bands, stopping only when it found
a strong signal. All that night, Bruno sat in the desk chair, his hopes raised
every time it lingered on a single frequency, the frequency blinking instantly.
But each time it stopped, Bruno could hear only powerful bursts of static,
maybe caused by a faraway thunderstorm or atmospheric fluctuations, fooling the
radio into stopping. Bruno heard no voices or music, no digital tones, not even
the simple “dit-dah” of Morse code, used by ham radio diehards. Only static and
silence.

The hours crept by, and Bruno’s head lolled in a half-sleep
while the radio continued its scanning. As Bruno’s mind wandered in the grey
area between sleep and wakefulness, in the depths of night, he heard a sound,
just at the edge of his hearing. In his half-dream, he thought he heard a
flute. Then he came awake with a start.

Bruno looked around, still in a daze. The dim yellow light
on the radio panel provided the only illumination in the room as it blinked,
stopped on some frequency. The sounds came not from Bruno’s mind, but wafted up
from the small speaker in the radio, filling the room. The high-pitched tones
came in rapid succession, with a steady knocking sound setting an underlying
beat. After a few seconds, the radio went silent. Then the tones started again.

In the dark of night, the tones sent chills down Bruno’s
spine, their plaintive, lonely quality spooking him as he listened. But it
wasn’t just the sounds that made him tremble, as he realized what they meant.

Someone is out there—someone wants to make contact.

Chapter 15

July 25

Bruno, frozen in place, listened. He thought he heard
something on the wind. He stood on the lower section of La Scala Fenicia, the Phoenician
Steps, in the last stretch before reaching the environs of the Marina Grande.
The sun loomed high, and its rays drilled into him. Bruno glanced up at the
sky, wiping sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand. He would have to
be careful about being caught out at dawn and dusk, fearing the warm summer
meant mosquitoes. Bruno wondered if they could survive on the island with no
humans or other large mammals, sucking the blood of birds and lizards. Whether
or not they still carried the disease remained an open question in Bruno’s
mind. But he didn’t want to find out the hard way, spending his last days
bleeding out his eyeballs and puking blood.

Bruno rested his left hand on the low stone wall that served
as a railing running the length of the ancient stairway. He glanced back up
over his right shoulder. The narrow grey ribbon of stone meandered up the side
of Monte Solaro, back up to Anacapri. No one behind him. He squeezed his eyes
shut. He’d been hearing things that weren’t there for the last few weeks, the
solitude eating away at him. Voices, mostly, just outside of earshot, lost in
the sound of the wind. But when Bruno turned, no one was ever there.

Then he heard it again. He dropped his pack to the ground
and removed his binoculars from a side pocket. No hallucination could last this
long. Scanning the water towards the Marina Grande, Bruno heard the low buzzing
grow louder before he spotted it. A small motorboat bobbed on the water,
gunning towards the island. Bruno lowered his binoculars. He raised them again
almost as soon as he lowered them.

He shoved his binoculars into his pack and scooped it up. As
he bounded down, the Steps became less rough-hewn stone and more regular brick.
Then without any transition to speak of, the Steps simply ended as they met the
asphalt of the Via Marina Grande, the road to the principal marina.

Bruno looked around, then jogged through the street towards
the Marina Grande. Who were they? How many? His thoughts took a dark turn as he
considered why they had come. Scavenging, of course. They would consider Bruno
a threat. But he considered them an even greater threat, and they no doubt
outnumbered him.

He saw the open sea before him, the street now running
fifteen or so meters above the waterline. He had been so lost in thought that
the road’s arrival by the water took him by surprise. He looked to his right.
About half a kilometer further down the road sloped gently downward, heading
toward a wide cobblestone area between the water and piers on the left, and what
remained of stores and shops on the right. Though he looked straight down the
road, he needed to get closer. A jumble of hedges, trees, and low buildings
running along the edge of the water obscured most of his view of the pier and
the area in front of it. He could see a few boats bobbing, moored to the pier,
but couldn’t tell if anyone lingered on board.

Quickly, Bruno picked his way from doorway to doorway and
from car to car, finding shadows where he could, until he crouched at the final
bend in the road before it turned 180 degrees, becoming a ramp as it merged
into the cobblestone of the waterfront. A concrete pad in the corner of the
bend had a bench and a staircase leading directly down to the waterfront. A low
wall ran from the concrete pad around the outer end of the bend, following the
ramp down. Bruno crouched in front of the wall near the bench, hoping to spot
them. He slung his backpack off his shoulder and looked around, peeking just
above the wall.

Three men in t-shirts and jeans, with rags tied around their
faces, jogged from storefront to storefront, laughing and breaking windows as
they went. Bruno noticed that one carried a rifle, but a small one. Looked like
a .22, but Bruno couldn’t be sure. They reminded Bruno of hooligans on a tear
after their home team lost.

Bruno watched as all three of them went into the remnants of
a pharmacy, its green neon cross hanging dark over the short granite stairway
leading inside. For a moment, the lapping of the water and wind against the
island and concrete piers was all he could hear. Then, there was more shouting
as the men emerged again, pulling a lanky figure along with them. They stumbled
down the stairs as two of them almost lost their footing. From this distance,
Bruno could see the wispy white hair of the older man as they dropped him onto
the cobblestones. The one with the rifle was a Juventus supporter, a Juventino,
judging by the black-and-white striped jersey he wore. The Juventino gave the
old man a kick in the gut and he cried out. Another one of the thugs only had
one ear, the scar tissue leaving a noticeable lump on the side of the man’s
head.

All this time, that old man had been here on the island with
him, out of sight, tucked away in his own little spider hole down by the sea.
Bruno had been down to the Marina, fishing, scavenging, yet had never seen him.
He wondered if the old man had been watching him. Now, the old man lay curled
up, trembling, as the others shouted and cursed, asking if he had food, fresh
water, medicine, and who else was there. But the old man just lay there,
trembling in the sun, the wisps of his white hair making a halo around his
head.

Bruno knew the smartest thing would be to turn his back on
the scene before him and leave the old man to his fate. Instead, he sat down
and turned to his backpack. He pulled out his respirator and secured it to his
face. He double checked the pistol on his hip and hefted his crowbar in his
right hand. Then he returned to a low crouch, his eyes fixed on the men below.
Bruno’s anger outweighed his fear. He thought the cop in him had long ago
perished, leaving only the bones of a survivor behind. Now he realized he was
wrong. In this world, no one remained to provide justice. So, Bruno would deal
out vengeance instead.

The Juventino and One-Ear went back into the pharmacy. The
remaining thug loomed over the old man, still berating him. The way he kept
after the old man made Bruno wonder if they were looking for someone. For the
moment the thug stood with his back facing Bruno, and he shifted the grip on
his crowbar. He would have to wait for the right moment. His hands grew slick
with sweat.

Bruno stood partway up and almost on tiptoes, moving around
the bench and down the stairs. Once he reached the bottom of the stairs, he
took refuge behind a jumble of upturned tables and chairs. The thug shifted as
he turned his head to call towards the pharmacy.

Bruno had to be careful. So close now. The man’s stringy,
dark hair swung as he turned back to his captive.

“So, what should I do with you?” said the man. Then he
laughed.

Shooting this piece of trash would bring out the other two
for sure, and Bruno had no desire to face off against a rifle, even if it was
only a .22, with his pistol. At least not unless he had the element of
surprise. Seconds passed. He fidgeted, wanting to shout. Then the man turned,
his back again facing Bruno.

Bruno leapt forward, closing the gap in a silent run. The
old man, lying on his side, opened his eyes and yelled as Bruno bore down on
them. The thug whirled around just in time for Bruno’s crowbar to split his
forehead open with a crack that reverberated down Bruno’s arm. The old man
screamed as the thug collapsed on top of him. Bruno raised the crowbar up and
brought it down once more on the thug’s head. It made a wet, smacking sound,
like a watermelon falling on cobblestone. Bruno did not linger as the old man
screamed, darting toward an alley just to the right of the pharmacy entrance.

Bruno wedged himself past a man-sized three-wheeled motorino
that nearly blocked the alleyway. For an instant, it pinned him against the
wall, and he thought he would be trapped, stuck in the mouth of the alley, easy
prey. But with a heave, Bruno shifted the vehicle just enough to let him pass,
as the two men stormed out of the pharmacy.

He stood in the alley between two buildings, lurking in the
shadows behind the tall motorino. Bruno flattened himself against the pharmacy
wall and looked to his right, watching as the Juventino and One-Ear hauled the
old man to his feet. They whirled the old man around, and his back faced Bruno
as they yelled, “Who did this? Where is he?”

The old man, his face painted with the blood from Bruno’s
victim, muttered something Bruno couldn’t hear. Whatever the old man said
enraged them, and One-Ear smacked him in the face.

Leaning the blood-and-brains-streaked crowbar against the
wall next to him, Bruno eased his pistol from its holster. The three men stood
on the cobblestone street, not quite fifteen meters away. But the way the
motorino stood wedged up against the wall gave Bruno only a narrow aiming
window. Both men had their backs to him. He leaned against the stone of the
building and raised his pistol, targeting the Juventino. But just as Bruno
pulled the trigger, the old man decided to fight, and he pulled to one side.
Bruno’s shot echoed over the cobblestones and One-Ear dropped.

Bruno swore. Before he could take aim, the Juventino grabbed
the old man, whirling him around. Now the thug had his back to the sea, and the
old man in front of him, facing toward the buildings in the Marina.

The Juventino shoved the rifle in the old man’s back as he
shouted, looking wildly around. “Where are you, stronzo? I swear I’ll blow his
fucking heart out if you don’t come out!”

Bruno didn’t doubt the old man’s life stood on a razor’s
edge. “All right! Don’t hurt him, I’m coming out!” Bruno shouted. The Juventino
shifted behind the old man, his attention now focused on the alley where Bruno
hid.

Bruno pushed his way past the motorino, onto the cobblestone
street. As he emerged from the alley, the thug spotted him. Bruno walked one
step at a time, at almost a shuffle, as he carried his pistol in his right hand
over his head.

“Drop it or I’ll kill the old man! I’ll put a bullet in his
fucking back, you get it?”

“All right—stay calm!” Bruno squatted and dropped his pistol
to the ground.

“Now kick it away from you!”

Bruno shoved the pistol away with his right foot and
continued to move towards the two men, his hands not nearly as high over his
head as they were before he dropped his pistol.

The Juventino straightened up. “Now stop where you are!”

Bruno stood with his back to the alley, now maybe less than
ten meters from the two men. The thug shifted position, partially emerging from
behind the old man.

Bruno said nothing, doing his best to look as defeated as
the old man. The thug noticed Bruno’s respirator. “Your mask? Where did you get
that?”

“The hospital here on the island, before it burned.”

“We need some of those in Naples. And meds.”

“I have more masks and meds, but first let the old man go.”

Bruno was trying to close the distance without seeming like
a threat. His hands drifted lower now, palms out and still facing the two men,
but now only waist height.

“No! You’ll take me now or I’ll kill him right here!”

Bruno could sense the Juventino’s rising confidence, as he
had almost fully emerged from behind the old man, but with the rifle now
drifting away from against the old man’s side.

“I’ll take you,” Bruno said, nodding, shoulders hunched,
deflated. “You win. But first, tell me, why did you come here? Are you looking
for someone?”

The Juventino laughed. “Maybe. But I call the shots here,
stronzo! First, you tell me who
you
are, you piece of—”

Bruno dropped to one knee, yanked the second pistol from the
small of his back, and pulled the trigger.

Both the Juventino and the old man fell to the ground. Bruno
approached one step at a time, blood pounding in his head and ears ringing. He
focused on the Juventino. Bruno kicked the rifle out of his hand and it
clattered on the cobblestones. Blood from multiple bullet wounds stained his
jersey and the stones beneath it. Bruno had never before fired Battisti’s
pistol.

Bruno thought he had hit the old man, or maybe the rifle had
gone off, but when Bruno tapped him with a foot, he opened his eyes.

“You okay?” Bruno asked.

The old man sat up, panting, feeling his chest. He didn’t
speak, just nodded.

The sound of a motorboat cut through the wind and soft
waves. It was pulling away from one of the concrete piers extending into the
marina. He holstered the pistol at the small of his back, scooped up the rifle,
and fired at the fleeing boat.

Bruno pulled the trigger until the dull click told him he
had emptied the magazine, but the boat sped away unaffected. Bruno cursed out
loud. He had been stupid. He should have known they’d leave someone with the
boat. Whoever it was now would bring back word of his presence. And that
he
was a threat. Bruno looked at the rifle more closely. The weak snap of the
bullets had told him for certain, even before he examined it, that the rifle
was a .22. But unless any of the dead had more ammo, the rifle would now be
little better than a club. Bruno threw it to the ground in frustration.

By now the old man was on his feet. They studied each other
in silence. Bruno broke eye contact, saying nothing as he walked over to gather
his pistol.

“Thank you,” said the old man. Bruno noticed his voice
sounded strange, hoarse. He probably hadn’t spoken in months, making Bruno’s practice
of talking to himself seem at least semi-rational.

“We’ll see how much you thank me if more of them come back.”
Bruno moved towards the bodies on the ground, patting each one of them down.
None of them had any bullets.

“They must have left any extra ammo on their boat,” Bruno
said, speaking more to himself than the old man. Bruno looked down at the
Juventino.