Pestilence: The Infection Begins (16 page)

The floodlights on the front of the hospital made for an eerie sight, bright in the center, dark around the edges and silent. Cemetery at midnight silent. The National Guard had been relieved, their presence no longer deemed necessary, and it would mean fewer witnesses and fewer mouths to talk. Just four police vehicles remained and were situated at the main driveway entrance of the hospital—all the nosey ones had been removed. Soon the CDC cleanup crews would arrive to remove the bodies and dispose of them in the NSA provided—and hidden—furnace.

“Okay, through the lobby, then right at the first corridor, that will take us to outpatients,” the OIC informed his team as they entered the sealed-off plastic tent erected in front of the main double doors. “Let’s do this as quickly as these suits will allow.”

The generator power had declined as the day wore on, and now the corridors’ of the hospital was bathed in a ghostly yellowish light.

The first three members of the team turned right without looking behind, while the fourth—just behind the OIC in the middle—paused to look back; he was charged with protecting their six.

“Holy shit… guys! Take a look at this, will ya?”

The others turned back and saw their rear guard heading toward the counter that was the nurses’ station.

“What is it?” the OIC asked through the comms.

“There’s a body on the floor over here—”

“We’re not to concern ourselves with these matters. We’re here to pick up a package and that’s it. That is our one and only order, mister!”

“This person has been attacked… mutilated, looks like bite marks all over.”

“What, bite marks?” The interest of the three other agents had been aroused.

“We don’t have time for this. Get to outpatients now!” The OIC raised his voice.

His order was ignored as the four CDC men gathered around the body of hospital CEO Gerard, whose complexion was a pale chalk-blue. His lifeless eyes stared at the ceiling, frozen in eternal shock.

“Hey, hey, we got a live one here!” One of the CDC men standing over Gerard stood and pointed to the smaller hallway behind the counter. The OIC’s interest had now been sparked. From a side room a slim woman in her mid-twenties and just over medium height appeared, almost as silent as the night itself. Her long dark hair was pulled back from her face and into a braid at the back. All she had on was a pair of women’s briefs. Blood stained briefs.

“Jesus, man, get a load of this!” one agent called. The distance and yellowish lighting inside didn’t show the bloodstains over her body or her blood-filled eyes all that well, but it did show her tits. As she got closer all five men from the security team could make out her tits quite well: small, firm, enticing tits.

The four agents and moved toward the naked woman. Though experienced CDC agents, the brain with which they collectively thought was not found between their ears.

“Get back, get back here!” the OIC bellowed. He had been informed by his superiors there was no movement inside whatsoever, that all had perished. And now they had a twenty-year-old woman who strutted her stuff like a lap dancer at a men’s club.

His orders ignored, they went straight to her.

“Are you okay, miss—”

When they got within ten feet of her, she lifted her head and the full light took hold. Tears of blood ran down both her cheeks. With the smeared blood also evident, the agents soon lost their interest and their hard—on’s. She raised her hands up like claws, and snarled like an angry demon poised to strike. In the same instance the double doors of the hallway to the left of the CDC team burst open. Like a crowd of frantic shoppers on Black Friday, a mob surged forward, arms outstretched, searching, seething forward. Unlike the bargain-seeking shoppers, they weren’t after a good buy or a top deal; only blood.

“JEEE’ZUZ…” an agent managed. Turning to face the raging mob, he was pounced upon by the naked woman who only moments ago held his every thought. The CDC officer in charge, a few feet back from where this attack was taking place, pulled his weapon out. The 9mm pistol was specifically modified for hazmat use; the trigger guard had been removed so the weapon could be fired while wearing the cumbersome gloves. In front, the OIC watched helplessly as the rubber-like material of the hazmat suits was torn apart in the feeding frenzy, then the underclothes stripped as gnashing teeth searched for bare flesh and the blood beneath. The OIC panicked and fired rapidly into the pack of bodies. All four of his officers were down, and more than a dozen of the blood-eyed ghouls were upon them tearing, biting, growling like junkyard dogs protecting a tossed bone.

“Officers down, officers down!” he said into the mic, hoping for a quick reaction. He’d forgotten the Guard and most of the cops had left.

Some of his shots hit targets, the attackers as well as his own men; he couldn’t hold the pistol steady. He just kept pulling the trigger until the magazine ran dry.

Click, click, click, he continued to pull the trigger on the double-action pistol. Realizing his pistol was empty, he panicked and threw it at the mob and ran for the front entrance. He couldn’t save anyone; he could only try and save himself.

The members of the Des Moines Police Department who had stayed behind rushed through the front doors at the same time. They’d heard the gunfire, drawn their revolvers and did what cops do: investigated. They hadn’t been informed of the details, and, as no one thought they’d ever need to go inside the hospital itself, they hadn’t been issued hazmat suits.

“Get out, get out, there’s a plague on the loose, there’s a—” the CDC officer in charge of the recovery team tried to warn as the cops forced open the doors, shattering the glass of one side. But he was brought down in a side tackle that would have been the envy of any linebacker in the NFL. The police opened fire at the confusion ahead—they had no idea, they only saw the CDC officials being attacked and responded as they were trained. Shoot first. More gunfire brought more blood-seeking ghouls to the entrance, the front door was now smashed and left wide open, the plastic seals torn down by the cops in the desperation to get to where the action was.

The Baltic flu was known to be airborne, and with blood spattering everywhere from gunshots and a rush of wind from the open doorway, the pathogen was now on its way to an unsuspecting and ill—prepared American public.

C
algleef took
a roundabout way to the hospital from the warehouse. He looked at the luminous dial of his watch as he drove and figured the sedatives would have been admitted to Delaney and her group of interfering miscreants. His mind was on the day’s events and how, on the surface, it looked so bad. But he was directly involved, on the front line, and it always looked worse from that position. It was, he reasoned, why wars were able to continue and more than 70 percent of the taxpayers’ dollars were spent to keep them active. For those involved in the battles, it wasn’t fun, but for the US public it was nothing more than a televised spectacle like a big sporting game. It was even scored as such by some news outlets so that “Bubba” could flop on his couch in his Walmart finery, swill beer, eat hamburgers and bags of potato chips, and root for the “home team.” As long as any discussion of why the US was involved in yet another armed intervention in a foreign country was ignored, it would go on and on. That the country would suffer, and was indeed suffering, was of no consequence to the public as long as the home team was winning—or appeared to be.

A few cautiously worded statements to the media about the tragedy at the hospital and it would be forgotten about in a few weeks, maybe even a few days. He had the backing of the NSA, he was sure of that and he knew they could control things. He din’t know how and wasn’t brave enough to ask. Warmer weather would be upon most of the country soon, and that meant more outside activities and less interest in current affairs. When his satellite phone chirped its faint buzz, Calgleef became concerned. He had only used this particular phone to make secure calls, and that was to his NSA contact—no one had ever called him on this phone.

“Calgleef…” he answered after pulling over to the side of the road.

“Turn around, Calgleef… get to the airport—use the side entrance, a car will be waiting to flag you down—your plane is ready.”

“But I—” he answered the unfamiliar voice.

“Just do it, Calgleef! Do not go to the hospital. An incident out of our control is underway. You need to get back to Atlanta immediately!” the stranger ended the call.

Calgleef presumed the call came from the NSA. They had been the only party contacted via this phone who knew of his plans to visit the hospital.

“What kind of incident could be going on at the hospital?” he asked out loud. He tried to think of possible answers as he drove—he was curious enough to want to see for himself but not stupid enough to ignore the warning he’d just received.

* * *

D
r. Moya lay
on the floor of the van. It was uncomfortable but he didn’t struggle. He assumed this to be his last ride and accepted his fate. He felt every bump and every corner, particularly now as the van had moved onto a rough gravel road. It struck him as strange that in your last moments of like you take notice of things like this. He heard the engine of the van as it geared down, took a slow turn, traveled over some rougher ground, before it came to a stop. The two CDC officers in the front seat had received a call not long after taking control of Moya. A directive from higher up than Calgleef in the feeding chain informed them of the change in plans. They were told to take a detour just outside of Kansas City, go down a specific dark road and come to a stop in the middle, and above all not ask any questions. When they stopped in the middle of that specific road, another vehicle (with no lights) came from behind, flashed its headlights twice, and then pulled up alongside. Two men in dark coveralls and black woolen beanies got out and indicated to the CDC officers to exit the van. They did so without question and got into the dark four-door sedan where a third man in coveralls was behind the wheel. Without a word exchanged, he drove on.

Moya saw none of this with his head covered but heard the many doors opening and slamming shut. He was aware of the two vehicles but not of the exchange of captors and the change in orders. As they continued on, the road deteriorated, and he put two and two together and understood the other car was probably the arrival of his executioner.

When you get in bed with the devil… The analogy of Thorncroft as the devil wasn’t disturbing, but the picture in his mind of getting in bed with the fat pervert had him feeling nauseous. He might throw up inside the dark hood over his head and choke on his own vomit.

When the van finally came to a stop, Moya heard the front doors open, the shuffling of feet on the gravel, then the side door opened with a jolt. No words were said by his captors’ or himself. There was no point in pleading with these men. If they’d taken him this far out, their decision had already been made. Moya was pulled by the shoulders from the van, then marched a short way from it. A light kick to the back of his knee brought him to the ground. He gritted his teeth and squinted when he heard the sound of pistols being cocked behind.

It was the last sound he heard.

* * *

G
race Delaney had
no idea of the time nor if it was light or dark outside but believed an hour had passed since Calgleef visited. The abandoned warehouse where they were being held was as quiet as a library, but occasionally the sound of a door being opened and closed or the heavy footsteps of leather boots patrolling down the hallway outside would filter through into her room. Other than that, there was little indication of activity.

“Hello? Is anybody out there?” she called after some time. She wanted to “go” but there hadn’t been as much as a bucket left in the room for such purposes. “Hey is any—”

The suddenness of the lock being pulled back startled her.

“Step into the hallway,” a black shirt ordered.

“But I need—”

“Step into the hallway—now!” The guard’s voice lined with menace.

Delaney did as instructed and stepped into the cramped space of the hallway, which was white like the rest of the prefab trailer. The other’s she’d been brought in with were already lined up.

“Keep silent and move to your right, toward the man at the door. Follow his instructions.”

Delaney understood; they were being transported. The black shirt at the door raised his hand to Delaney indicating for her to halt. He then placed handcuffs on her wrist and ankles. She was ordered to move outside to the warehouse itself as the guard did the same to Tilford, who was next in line. Delaney had to jump from the trailer to the concrete floor of the warehouse and hobble to a point indicated by another black shirt. All five were cuffed at the hands and ankles, but the first of three crucial mistakes was made by the secret NSA guards: cuffing the hands of the prisoners in front of them, was the first. Outside of the trailers’, a portable spotlight lit up the area and showed a dark-colored passenger van parked just in front. The sliding door on the side was open. Delaney noticed there were no windows on this van.

M
ike shuffled
up as silently as he could with his ankles cuffed until he was at Tilford’s shoulder with Delaney just in front. “Don’t say a word,” he whispered. “Just listen. Whoever these people are, CIA, NSA, whoever… they’ve decided we’re a liability, and it’s time for us to disappear.”

“What, do you mean to kill us?” Tilford kept his head looking straight ahead but asked his question from the side of his mouth.

“I said just listen! And yes, that’s exactly what I mean. We’ll have to go along; there’s nothing we can do in here.” Mike took a quick peak at the nearby guards from the corners of his eyes. “We have a better chance once we’re out a here. There will be fewer and—”

“You there, get back, back I said!” A black shirt strutted forward and grabbed Mike by the scruff of his red and black flannel shirt and pulled him backward a few steps. “You were told—no talking!” The guard was five inches shorter and about sixty pounds lighter than Mike Weaver, but he carried a 9mm pistol, a nightstick, and a stun gun. The guard had the edge.

They were marched single file to the van, where two bench seats could be seen.

Delaney and Tilford went to the back, and Mike saw a chance and took it, jumping into the front of them. Steve was next and sat next to Mike.

“Move to the backseat,” Mike whispered, not wanting to rile any of the guards further.

“What, why…” Even in the dim light of the van, the reporter saw the glare from the chopper pilot and decided not to pursue his protest.

With Steve filling the last position in the rear seat, Richard took the spot next to Mike.

“Be ready,” Mike whispered through pursed lips.

“What?”

Mike didn’t answer as the door was slid shut. The second mistake had been made; they weren’t secured in seats.

“Oh my God…” Delaney breathed heavily in the back.

“What’s wrong, Grace, w-what is it?” Tilford’s apprehension was apparent. Images of the naked woman with the blood—filled eyes and of, CEO Gerard’s attackers, and of course Nurse Childs’s transformation into a hideous balloon-titted monster flooded his mind. “Grace, please tell me you’re okay, that you’re not about to…”

“
N
o
, I’m all right.” She understood his fear of being shut inside a van with someone who was about to turn into a plague-infected bloodsucker. “It’s just that I’m dying to go, I can’t hold on much longer.”

“Oh sweet Jesus!” Steve said in disgust. “We’re about to get a bullet to the back of our head in a ditch somewhere and you’re worried about pissing your pants?”

Delaney wanted to smack the cold shit out of the loudmouth in with her cuffed hands; she would have too if Mike hadn’t intervened.

“
S
hut up
. If you want to get out of this alive, just shut the fuck up! He told Steve. “Grace, we can use this as a diversion if you can hold on until we get five minutes down the road?”

Delaney was quick to catch on to Mike’s plan. “Okay, okay, I’ll do my best.” She gritted her teeth, crossed her legs and squeezed tight.

“Damn, Grace, why did you have to mention that? Tilford wedged his hands into his groin.

Delaney gave her doctor friend a small grin over his discomfort, and for the moment at least, her mind was relieved from the thought of their coming execution.

* * *

W
hen Calgleef neared
the airport side entrance, which was for aiport maintenance personnel only, the headlights of a car flashed twice. The occupant—he assumed—of that car got out and waved a flashlight along the road and toward the open chain-link fence.

“Thank you. Can you—” Calgleef put his window down and started to ask.

“Your plane is waiting straight ahead, then to your left, sir.” The man dressed in coveralls like airport staff cut him off.

Calgleef wasted no further time and drove on. In the rearview mirror he watched the sharp spoken man with the flashlight close and lock the gate behind him. Time was not a luxury for him or others it appeared.

The CDC executive jet was a good distance from the terminal, and prying eyes, there was a black SUV at the bottom of the stairway. Another man dressed like airport staff but with an orange reflective jacket waved the two light wands in his hands to get Calgleef’s attention. After stopping where the man indicated, the CDC director got out of the van and went directly to the stairs and up into the plane. He didn’t say anything, not after the guy at the gate demonstrated that conversation was not on this flight list.