The Neuropathology Of Zombies (5 page)

PART II: Hawk
CHAPTER 2

“Hawk, sorry to bug you, but there are two Marines at the door, they say they need to talk to you.”
I lifted my head from the piles of journal articles scattered across the desk. I was trying to finish writing a paper on traumatic brainstem injuries and my deadline was rapidly approaching.
“Who’s here?” I asked.
My wife half-smiled, sensing my irritation. “Two Marines, they say they need to talk to you.”
“About what?”
“I don’t know, I didn’t ask! Geez.”
I stood up, annoyed, “Okay, okay. I’m coming, tell them I’ll be right there.”
I walked to the front hall dressed in an old, torn pair of jeans and a faded gray t-shirt, and introduced myself.
“I’m Dr. Hawk, how can I help you guys?”
The men looked me over, surprised at my attire and probably expecting someone more advanced in age. They stood at attention and said nothing. My wife was standing behind me, peering over my shoulder, her interest in our visitors quite apparent. It was obvious they wanted her to leave. It was an unusually hot spring day, so I asked her if she would get them something cold to drink.
After she left, one of the men, who appeared much younger than the other, began to speak, “Dr. Hawk, your assistance has been requested in a matter of national security and we’ve been asked to bring you to Pease Air Force Base.”
“What’s going on?” I asked.
“I do not have that information, sir. I only know that I have been asked to bring you to Pease,” the young man advised me.
I took a hesitant step backwards, my eyes darting between the two Marines.
“Also, sir, we have been authorized to use any means necessary to bring you to the base. I don’t want to have to arrest you, sir.” His tone was serious, and I believed they would do just about anything to get me out of the house.
My wife came back carrying two cans of cold soda. “I hope Cola is alright, it’s that or water!”
“Yes, ma’am, Cola will be fine,” the older officer said and smiled, taking the beverage from her. The two men stood in the hall sipping their drinks and I left to gather a few things.
My wife walked into the bedroom and stood behind me. I was cramming clothes into a canvas duffel bag. “Listen. there’s been an accident at the base. I might be gone overnight. You guys be alright?”
“We’ll be fine. You’ve been gone before,” she replied.
I kissed her cheek, “Ok, I’ll call you as soon as I can.”
I returned to the front door. My son and daughter, who had magically appeared from the house across the street, were quizzing our guests about the medals pinned to their chests. The Marines laughed as they fired off the names of the awards.
“Alright, wookies, leave them alone!” I said, shooing them away. I turned to the Marines, “I’m sorry, hope they weren’t bothering you.”
“No sir, they’re very sweet,” the young man answered, smiling.
My wife and two children waved from the front stoop as I drove off with the Marines. I had the window down and the breeze was blowing around my head, whipping my slowly graying blonde hair over my face. The smell of freshly mowed grass filled the car; the sweet fragrance signaled the arrival of spring, I breathed it deep into my lungs.
It was evening by the time we reached Pease. The two men led me into an aircraft hangar. A group of military officers stood in front of a small plane. One of the officers, a general, approached me and dismissed my two escorts.
“Thank you for coming, Dr. Hawk. I’m General Fitch. I appreciate your cooperation and your willingness to assist your country,” he said and shook my hand. “Your involvement in this matter was requested by the President himself.”
“Well, thank you, sir, but you didn’t give me much choice!” I replied. Everyone laughed.
General Fitch lifted his arm toward the aircraft and smiled. “I’m sorry, Dr. Hawk, I hate to rush you, but we’re a little short on time this evening.”
I shrugged and boarded the plane. I had no idea where I was going, what I needed to do, or when I was going to be home.
Once airborne the General unbuttoned the top collar of his shirt and leaned across the small table that was between us and began to speak.
“Doctor, how good is your geography?”
“Not bad, I suppose. Depends on where we’re talking about. I am pretty good with North America,” I said.
He asked if I had ever been to a particular small island off the coast of South America.
“Can’t say I have,” I answered.
“Well, you’re about to learn a whole hell of a lot about it.”
“I take it, sir, that is where I am headed?”
“You got it, Doc!” he laughed. “That’s where we’re headed. I didn’t know it existed until a few hours ago. There are only about 20,000 folks that inhabit the little pile of rocks. The biggest natural resource is cocaine.”
“What’s going on? I know you guys have your own forensic teams. What have I got to do with all this?” I asked.
“Yeah, we have some of our guys there, Doc. They sent me a microbiologist and a virologist. I don’t know what the hell to do with them. I don’t even know what the hell virology is. I don’t think they’re gonna cut it for this particular situation,” he paused. “This ain’t easy, so I’ll quit tickling your dick and get right to it. What do you know about zombies?”
“What? What the fuck are you talking about? Zombies? Like movie zombies? Why would I know anything about zombies? I don’t know anything about zombies, they don’t exist!” I said.
“It appears, Doc, that you are actually somewhat of an expert on the subject,” Fitch stated coolly.
“How?” I fired back.
“Seems you wrote a paper on zombie brains. Our guys at the top think you might be on to something. They suggested we get your help.”
Then I made the connection. Each Halloween I gave a lecture to the residents and medical students on various topics involving ‘monsters and medicine’. One year I gave a talk on the neuropathology of zombies. It was one of my most popular lectures and the students began to request it year after year.
“That was a joke, a Halloween lecture to break the stress of one hundred hour work weeks for the students and residents. There’s no real science in there!” I cried.
“Well, our guys beg to differ. And believe it or not, you’re the expert. No one else has written anything like it,” Fitch leaned back in his seat. “Let me start at the beginning, if I may.”
The General went on for an hour. What he described sounded like scenes from a movie. I just sat there and listened, probably with my jaw hanging open.
General Fitch was one of the first people to step foot on the Island, “My initial impression was that I had actually stepped into hell. No one knew what was going on, or knew what to do.
“The theories are all over the place: it’s a terrorist attack, a toxin, a virus, mass hysteria. The President was briefed and he and his cabinet decided to keep a tight lid on the story. They’ve decided not to contact the CDC or FEMA, they thought it would raise eyebrows. Instead, they took a handful of military scientists and a make-shift mobile lab unit and shipped them out, they arrived after about 12 hours. I don’t think the brass really gets it. They’ve stuck me with two guys who study microscopic bugs, Doc, and a couple of medics.”
The General took a drink or water and tried to gauge the expression on my face, “It turns out someone on the team saw your Halloween talk on the neuropathology of zombies on the internet, or somewhere. Someone high up thought you could do autopsies on the things, maybe figure out what’s going on. So, we ran a background check on you, you checked out. I flew to Pease, two Marines were sent to your door, and voila! Here you are!” Fitch extended his arms like a magician who had just made something appear.
I was stunned. I had no words for this. I glanced out the window, the sun was setting and I could see the dark night sky creeping over the horizon.
“See what I mean? This is an unusual situation. There are some people who think you can help, I think they’re right. So, what are your thoughts, Doc?” he asked.
“I’m shocked, this is all so unbelievable. I need a few minutes to think about it,” I replied. “Zombies? Really?”
The General stood up, “I understand. I have a few things I need to deal with, so you take your time, ok? This is a lot to take in.” Fitch walked down to aisle towards the rear of the plane.
After a few minutes I actually started to give it some serious thought. What could be causing this sort of phenomenon? When backed into a corner and without a clue I always fall back on a lesson I learned in medical school: there are only six causes of disease: one, infectious; two, inflammatory; three, autoimmune; four, metabolic/toxic; five, neoplastic; and six, trauma. It had to be one of these mechanisms. Infectious and toxic seemed to be the top two candidates. I highly doubted that this was some sort of mass hysteria.
I stood up and walked around the plane. The cabin was no-frills. In the front, there were four tables with two seats on either side facing each other. Two rows of single seats lined the rear of the compartment. I was alone, but I guessed it would seat around forty people. The walls were white and there was a royal blue carpet spread across the floor. A large mirror hung on a door at the back of the plane, it gave the cramped cabin the feeling of more space.
I moved towards the back of the plane trying to find the general. The door covered by the mirror was slightly ajar. I peered in and saw Fitch sitting at a table with three other men. I pushed the door open and stepped inside the small conference room and into a heated discussion.
“We have to maintain the perimeter at all costs, we can’t let word of this get off the Island!” shouted a Marine, the pins on his collar identified him as a Major.
“Listen Major, we need to reach these people and tell them what’s going on and what to do! They’re afraid and they’re panicking!” another officer in a green suit argued; I didn’t recognize his rank, but he was Army.
“We can’t just give the press a statement, we have to keep this quiet!” the Major yelled back.
“Without some sort of press release, we’re just an invasion force to them. No wonder they’re fighting us! I mean, come on, we storm in there, helicopters, guns firing, sneak a perimeter around the town, we’re isolating them. We need their cooperation, not their resistance. Using a press statement is the best way.” pleaded the man in the Army dress uniform, his arms emoting in the air.
The General and a man in a black suit sat silently, listening to the two officers argue.
The Major lowered his voice, “Don’t worry, it will all be contained in a few more hours, you’re over reacting. I’m just as worried about the Island as you are, but I’m more worried about what’s going to happen if this thing spreads, even if word of it spreads. We are rounding up all the survivors and bringing them to the aircraft carrier. They’ll be in one central location, that will ease the communications issue and allow us to monitor its progression.”
The army officer looked infuriated, “What if you’re wrong? You’ve heard the reports, we’re having a hell of a time holding the perimeter and our guys are taking fire from several groups of organized militia. We have to be ready for what happens if this thing goes global. We need a story, the President needs a story.”
“Why don’t you both relax, it’s my job to worry about what happens if you are unable to contain this. If the situation goes ‘hot’...” the man in the black suit abruptly stopped talking, taking notice of me in the doorway; he looked at the general and quickly back to me, alerting Fitch to my presence.
“Dr. Hawk!” exclaimed the general, appearing to be thankful for the interruption. “Please, come in. What can we do for you?”
I was caught off guard and started to dig at the hangnail on my thumb, “Well, I just wanted to tell you my thoughts on this, I can come back.”
The General smiled, “What do you think you’ll need to get this done?”
“Well, is there a temporary morgue I can use? And I’ll need some basic histology services,” I replied.
“We can get you a temporary morgue. We’ll steal one from FEMA!” Fitch replied. He turned to his colleagues and laughed, “I believe there is a basic pathology lab on the aircraft carrier, I’ll find out.”
The General shifted in his chair, “Tell you what, give me a Christmas list in fifteen minutes and I’ll have it on the island in four hours. How’s that?”
I looked at the men seated at the table. They were staring at me. I got the impression they were beginning to wonder if they had made a bad decision, and that maybe bringing me to the island was a mistake.
“General, what about the local hospital? Can it be secured? It might be easier, if it’s well equipped,” I asked.
“There is a small hospital, I’m not sure of its status. I know there were some attacks there, so there may be a few Driftwood to clear out,” he replied.
“Driftwood?” I asked.
“Yeah, that’s what the guys have been calling them. They just sort of ‘bob’ around, like drift wood. It was funny, and it stuck. Sounds better than zombie, less freaky,” Fitch answered, in a stern manner.
“Having an entire hospital would be best, if you can make that happen,” I said, still processing the term ‘Driftwood’.
I apologized for the intrusion and returned to my seat. I began to write down all the things I thought I might need to tackle the situation. After a few lines I stopped, I wasn’t even sure what the situation was, how could I possibly know what I was going to need?

CHAPTER 3

We made a pit stop at an Air Force Base in Florida. I sat in the grass at the far end of the runway. A tanker truck pulled up beside our plane. Two men got out connected a hose to the underside of the plane’s wing. The air filled with the smell of jet fuel. It was a hot night and the humidity was unbearable, I wondered how people could live in this kind of heat.

I asked if I could use a phone to call home and tell my wife I would be gone a few days. A soldier led me to a small office inside a hanger. He handed me a phone and watched as I dialed.

My wife and I had planned in advance for situations where I would need to be gone for several days, but wouldn’t have time or the ability to get into details. It became clear after the September 11 terrorist attacks that the world had become a very different place, and anything could happen. If something similar occurred, my wife would need to know that I was ok, and that she had better take cover. We had come up with various codes to convey the urgency of a particular circumstance. Our code for a very bad situation where I had no idea how long I would be gone, and that she should go somewhere and stay, was to call her ‘funky chicken’. She would tell me that she was on her way out the door by ending our conversation with ‘okay, have fun’.