Survivors (2 page)
Gallery Books
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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2012 by Z.A. Recht
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information address Gallery Books Subsidiary Rights Department, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020.
First Gallery Books trade paperback edition June 2012
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Recht, Z. A. (Zachary Allan), 1983–2009.
Survivors : the morningstar strain / Z.A. Recht; with Thom Brannan.—
1st Gallery Books trade paperback ed.
p. cm.
ISBN 978-1-4516-2882-1 (trade pbk. : alk. paper)—ISBN 978-1-4516-2883-8
(e-book)
1. Virus diseases—Fiction. 2. Zombies—Fiction. I. Brannan, Thom. II. Title.
PS3618.E4234S87 2012
813′.6—dc23
2012000604
ISBN 978-1-4516-2882-1
ISBN 978-1-4516-2883-8 (ebook)
To Z . . . may his memory always be a blessing!
Contents
Chapter 3: Bite Marks and Dog Food
Chapter 5: Architecture of Aggression
Mount Weather
15 June 2007
0930 hrs_
A
STIFF BREEZE CAUGHT
a smartly flapping American flag flying high above the active compound. Far below the forested ridge of this Appalachian mountain, soldiers and civilians bustled about, performing their duties as though their lives depended on them—as they very well did.
The world as the living had known it was gone. No longer were there jobs to go to, no commutes or taxes or law enforcement. Bills, parent-teacher conferences, concerts, trips to the mall, all a memory.
In peacetime, before the Morningstar pandemic, the secure facility at Mount Weather was meant to serve as a civilian command center in the event of emergency. Just such an emergency had occurred as the Morningstar strain swept the globe. Major cities had long since been abandoned or completely overrun. Now only small, rural towns and isolated, protected bases like Mount Weather persevered. The rest of the planet belonged to the infected; the meek would have to wait their turn for the inheritance.
The human race was now an endangered species.
The infected weren’t just sick—they were rabid, openly hostile. They attacked on sight. They hunted in packs, and they were lethal.
And infectious. Anyone bitten or scratched, and the cycle of infection began anew, with the unfortunate victim a walking, talking, sweating, and crying incubation chamber.
But that wasn’t the worst of it. Since no antiviruses had any effect, and no one had known about Morningstar long enough to develop a comprehensive defense, the only way to deal with an infected victim was to kill it.
The next stage was a bit more macabre. The corpses of the fallen infected would reanimate, stumbling to their feet and continuing the virus’s mission to spread the infection to new hosts. Only a blow to the head by any means necessary would put one down permanently.
The very idea of the dead returning to some semblance of life had sent spasms rippling through the political—not to mention the religious—world. As if the disorder caused by the virus wasn’t enough, this new discovery had caused an unknowable number of riots and all-pervasive panic.
Still, some carried on, despite the odds. The fences of Mount Weather had been reinforced, and men and women took turns defending them, toting rifles along in perimeter patrols. When an infected wandered too close, the volunteer marksmen did their duty by putting a round through its head. Often early on, then dwindling to once or twice a day, a shot would ring out, echoing across the compound.
Corpse details wearing full hazmat suits were sent out to collect and dispose of the fallen infected. Several small, ashen, and still smoldering trenches marred the view outside the fences. This was where the bodies were burned. The perimeter guards pulled the collars of their shirts as far as they could over the lower halves of their faces to protect themselves from the stench as they passed.
Armed guards, on duty 24/7, wore down under their grueling schedules and the tension of being on high alert. The ravenous infected were not the only threats they had to be vigilant against.
What was left of the United States government was at war with itself. Remnants had found figures of authority to gather around, and began to plot and plan against former allies. Old feuds and petty grudges informed most of the movements, but there was one imperative above all: find a cure, and keep it for yourself.
It was a sad, strange cycle of hostility where man fights virus, virus fights man, and man fights man so that he might better fight the virus.
Just like in any war, knowledge, intelligence, and espionage often tipped the scales.
Special Agent Sawyer was in the business of all of these, at the apex.
Tall, broad-chested, and with short brown hair, Sawyer had the look of a classic all-American about him. He carried himself well, with perfect posture and a no-nonsense set to his face. He kept his eyes hidden behind mirrored sunglasses. Months earlier, he would have been wearing a business suit, but in these uncertain times, he took a more pragmatic approach to his clothing. Black BDU pants were bloused over steel-toed boots, and a vest hung over a long-sleeved olive drab T-shirt. He marched more than walked, hands swinging nine to the front, six to the rear.
His destination was an administration center near the heart of the compound. Inside the building was the one man who had the ability to make Sawyer nervous: the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff.
The Chairman was, for all intents and purposes, the president of the United States. Technically, the real president was still in power, hiding in a bunker farther north. The Joint Chiefs knew his exact location, but found it was better to leave an impotent figurehead in charge than remove him and risk someone more effective taking over.
This encampment followed the Chairman and his promises of a grand future. Specifically, his rallying cry had been to locate a cure for the Morningstar strain.
Sawyer remembered the Chairman’s rousing speech on the floor of Congress during an emergency session. It was just charismatic enough to not seem as transparent as it was. That had been in the early days, when the first infections on American soil were still being reported and hardly believed. It all seemed so very long ago.
“Now is not the time to bicker about sealing our borders or deporting the sick,” the Chairman had said, pounding his fist on the lectern to enunciate his words. “Now is not the time to play politics, or to discuss the failing of our health care systems. Now is most
certainly
not the time to be talking about terrorist threats or future attacks on our home soil. The problem is
real,
the problem is
growing,
and
we must deal with it now
!”
That had earned the man a standing ovation from half the people in attendance, generally along party lines. The other half hadn’t seemed so impressed.
“The damage has already been done. When Pearl Harbor was smothered in smoke and shrapnel, did we discuss fleeing, or closing our borders? No! We acted! We attacked the problem, resolved it, and rebuilt what had been lost. When the British, overwhelmed by the Luftwaffe, cried out to us for assistance, did we shirk our duty and shy away from conflict? Did we turn tail and run in the face of war? No! We acted! We attacked, we routed, we
won
! When thousands were dying of malaria along the Panama Canal, did we ignore their pleas for help? No! We acted! We created a cure! And we can do so again! We need to act swiftly—we need to act
now
—we need to find a cure for this devilish virus and prevent any more death and suffering on the part of the
people of this great nation
!”
The ovation had reached a fever pitch, and grew even louder in intensity when the Chairman was escorted offstage by a pair of Secret Service agents.
Sawyer, who had been watching from the rear of the chamber, felt the Chairman’s theory was sound, even if his words rang hollow. He was right. Morningstar wasn’t the kind of issue that would be solved with half-assed containment measures or postmortem vaccines. The world needed a
cure
.
That was what the subjective side of his brain told him, anyway. But Sawyer had never had much use for that area of gray matter.
His objective side saw a new power rising, and Sawyer, ever conscious of his own position, threw himself behind it. It was a gamble, but if the Chairman ended up winning this dogfight, Sawyer could very well become one of the true movers and shakers of this brave new world. It certainly wasn’t because of the Chairman himself. Sawyer found the man overbearing, pretentious, and entirely too timid when it came to deploying expendable assets. Sawyer no longer had the manpower, equipment, or leeway to act as he needed.
Still, despite the burdensome restrictions laid upon him, Sawyer was doing very well. Months after the initial plague and with the conflict far from over, Sawyer found himself among the highest-ranked operatives of the Second American Civil War.
One side, led by portions of Congress, the Senate, and the president of the United States, was trying feverishly to distribute supplies and reinforcements to those towns that still struggled against the virus. They sent out antiviral medications in the futile hope of slowing the spread of the disease. Sawyer watched in disgust as their efforts crumbled.
Their hearts are in the right place, but their brains certainly aren’t. One doesn’t change the world with heart. One changes it with force.
The other side, championed by the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs and backed by the remainder of Congress and the Senate, sought a cure for the virus, and were willing to stop at nothing to find it. That sort of ruthless determination was something else Sawyer could identify with. It was someplace he could call home.
They had already staged several successful operations. The Reunited States of America, as they had taken to calling themselves, had sent troops to raid both USAMRIID at Fort Detrick and the laboratories at the Centers for Disease Control in Atlanta for information and specialists. Those researchers who had at first balked at the idea of working for a rebel faction were soon made to see the error of their ways, thanks largely to Sawyer’s unique methods of persuasion. The assembled plunder and personnel had been brought together here, at Mount Weather.
All of them were working around the clock in makeshift labs constructed out of ammunition bunkers—and all of them were failing miserably. Day after day, one after another, disappointing and negative reports came through the system. The search for a cure for Morning-star was stillborn.