The Apocalypse

Chapter 32

Eric

Atlantic Ocean



After his adventure into New York City, it was clear that helicopters and Eric Reidy did not mix. Barf bags did however, and he had become well acquainted with them on the chopper ride from the CDC in Atlanta, Georgia to the deck of the USS Harry S Truman, a Nimitz class aircraft carrier.

The Truman was normally based out of Norfolk, Virginia, however Norfolk had gone black early, as had Jacksonville and every other major Naval facility. Basically the carrier was without a port and was turning circles in the middle of the ocean, waiting to find out what was going on, and where it would be safe to dock.

Eric didn't have a clue, which meant that his trip was a waste of his time and his breakfast. They were on short rations at the CDC already and he was sad to see his eggs and toast go into the brown bags. When they landed, Eric went on deck and just breathed the salt air for a minute, ignoring the officer who pulled at his sleeve and called him by the wrong title.

“Dr Reidy, the admiral is waiting and he hates to be kept waiting,” the Lieutenant said nervously. “It'll be better for both of us if we hurry.”

It didn't matter if they hurried or not, not in the long run. However to placate the man, Eric stepped lively and went through the maze that was a nuclear powered carrier with all the speed he could manage.

“Any good news back at the CDC?” the officer asked.

There wasn't any, however as the man seemed so hopeful Eric said, “The rat problem seems to have cleared itself up. We discovered that infected mammals die after a few weeks on their own. And that's just the carnivores: dogs and wolves and foxes, that sort of thing. What's even better is that herbivores don't turn when they catch the virus; they just die.”

“Oh, that’s good, I suppose.” This clearly wasn't the sort of news the man had been hoping for.

To change the subject, Eric asked, “Is it always like this? So crowded?” He had never been on an aircraft carrier and was surprised at how crammed with people it was. Every step of the way they had to squeeze past people, most of whom were doing nothing at all.

“No. We airlifted in as many families as we could, and now…” the officer's smile faltered and he only shrugged to add to Eric's confusion.

“And now, what?” Eric asked.

“Sorry that's need to know. Here you are,” he gestured for Eric to head into the carrier's situation room. Eric would have rather gone in after the lieutenant, hiding in his shadow so to speak, but now he was stuck. The room was low ceilinged like everywhere else on the ship, and cramped, yet it was also plush and bright, with the feel of an executive suite. “Dr Eric Reidy,” the young officer announced.

“Where are we on the cure?” Rear Admiral Kurt Stevenson asked without waiting for Eric to open his brief case, and turning a lip down at the man's disheveled appearance. Dry cleaning had become a luxury only officers on board an air craft carrier could afford.

Stevenson was “The” admiral, while on either side of him were two more, looking stiff with starch and ribbons. Beyond them were a phalanx of captains and commanders uncounted and barely seen by Eric, who had trouble taking his eyes from the admiral's stern countenance. He did however, sigh at the word cure, but didn't bother to correct the man, that too would have been a waste of time. “Ten, maybe twenty years,” he said and then waited on the inevitable explosion. It came as expected and he weathered it as best as he could.


“You have every scientist in the country!” Stevenson roared. “We spent valuable recourses flying all of you egg heads to Georgia and now you tell me twenty years? What more do you need from us? A f*cking telethon?”

“You actually did too good of a job,” Eric explained. “We have ten scientists for every microscope. They're climbing all over each other to get work done and it's only adding to our problems. The simple truth is that in even perfect conditions most vaccines take on average seven years to complete.”

“No one will be left in seven months,” the admiral said, rubbing his eyes. He did this until the room became strained waiting on him. Eventually he asked, “What about the stiffs? Anything new you can tell us? Anything at all that'll help us fight these things.”

Just as before any presentation, Eric cleared his throat loudly, he liked how the significant pause made sure he had people's attention, though in this case it was out of habit only. He had a multitude of eyes boring into him and none were the least bit friendly.

“We believe we have discovered the country of origin of the virus, Russia. There were signs leading up to our own…”

A marine interrupted. He was the only officer not in a starched white uniform. He wore the mottled green as if he was about to go man a machine gun. “We have it as fact that muslim terrorists were behind this. We have videotaped confessions, flight logs, taped cell phone conversations, even hotel receipts. The evidence cannot be disputed.”

Eric agreed, “Yes, they may have caused it, however I said the country of origin. We believe that the virus is either an offshoot or the actual Super Soldier virus that Stalin had created for himself in the fifties—something that was thought to be more of a hoax than a reality. For those of you who don’t know the program was designed to make the Russian Army invincible. Stalin wanted soldiers that wouldn't feel pain; that could subsist on limited rations, or on little sleep; that could continue to fight even when wounded.”

From his briefcase he took out a copy of the brief concerning the Super Soldier virus and gave it to the ranking admiral. “This is what they created instead. A virus that attacks the higher functioning centers of the brain: the cerebral cortex, the hippocampus, the amygdala. In short, it destroys the brains ability to process: memory, time awareness, motivating behaviors, emotion, personality, language comprehension etcetera. While at the same time it stimulates the very lowest functions, so that these altered persons are indeed super soldiers.”

Now he took out scans of brains, both normal and altered. “Here you can see the areas of the brain that controls aggression. It's highly active in the altered subject. It has a desire to kill…it fact it could be its only desire. All the other needs of a normal person are secondary. If we were to take Maslow's Hierarchy of Needs as a visual—I'm sure you have all seen it. A pyramid with the basics of survival at the bottom: food, shelter, sleep; and the lesser needs such as creativity or self-esteem at the top.

“In an altered person, that pyramid would have two blocks only. The lowest and most pressing is the need to kill. The second being food and air; and even these are of minimal importance. We have a number of altered persons under examination and the information we are getting is phenomenal. They sleep less than two hours a day. They can maintain homeostasis on as little as three hundred calories and two cups of water a day.

“And what they eat is also of interest. It's been assumed that they eat their victims, and on occasion it's true, however it's been discovered that the biting is actually an outgrowth of their hyper-aggression. In reality they are omnivores. For the most part they subsist on grains and grasses...”

“That's crap!” thundered the marine. “I have many hundreds of documented reports that the stiffs eat their victims.”

“I wish to God that was true,” Eric replied. “If it was, their numbers would be a tenth of what they are now. Instead it shows the genius of the Super Soldier virus; it can't replicate itself if it kills too many intended hosts. I have seen video on this. The altered person will cease eating a human as soon as he or she dies, even if the altered person hasn’t been fed in days. It is a way to keep the next host as whole as possible, since it can heal far more rapidly when…”

“They heal themselves?” someone blurted out.

“Yes, they do indeed,” Eric said, pointing at his brief as if the paper was the final authority. “Thankfully this is a stunted ability. They cannot re-grow limbs, nor can they heal connective or even bone tissue. Which is good for us, however on the negative side, they synthesize epinephrine at ten times the rate we do.”

“And that would do what?” Stevenson asked.

Explaining simple science to non-scientists was Eric's forte and he began to relax, pacing in front of the gathered officers as though he were a professor. “Most people refer to epinephrine under the term adrenaline. What we as humans use in our fight or flight response. Now in the altered person, we believe that epinephrine is what is keeping them alive against the will of nature.”

“So we need to find a way to neutralize their adrenaline,” the marine stated as though it were fact. “Can we count on the scientists at the CDC to make this happen?”

“There are ongoing studies determining the feasibility of doing just that,” Eric said. “However, there is little hope of finding a method that wouldn't also jeopardize the remaining human population. A better idea and one which is possible right now is dispersing the aerosol form of hydrogen cyanide, though our biggest hang up is the fact that the Air Force has not been cooperative. They barely…what is it?”

To a man the admirals had exchanged dark looks over this. Stevenson sighed for the tenth time and said, “There is no air force left. The planes are all there but most…all of the bases except for two have been overrun.”

Stunned, Eric shook his head. “That's not possible.”

“Oh it is,” the admiral replied. “The administration thought it to be the best policy not to panic people with the truth. The air force is gone. Their security has always been considered a joke among the other services. They had huge bases guarded by a tiny fraction of their manpower. They've always been wide open to attack.”

Eric couldn't believe what he was hearing. “You guys are floating around out here doing nothing, and the air force is gone. What about the Army? Do we still have an Army?”

The admiral shook his head. “Not really. In Alaska, there's a mishmash of Army, National Guard troops, and citizens trying to protect Anchorage. We have great hope that they'll be able to hold out. There are about ten-thousand or so troops retreating into the mountains of Colorado but early snows are causing more casualties than the zombies. And south of Chicago there were twenty-thousand troops, but we haven't heard anything from them in a week. Added to this are pockets of soldiers here or there around the country, like little islands in an ocean of zombies...and of course what you have at the CDC.”

There had been something of a question to the admiral's last statement, but it was lost on Eric, who felt his head spinning. “This is impossible.”

“It's not,” Stevenson said firmly. “So far this entire episode has been a cluster-f*ck from top to bottom. In order to change that we need to revolutionize our thinking. And we can start with you at the CDC. What can we do to help?”


Eric was at a loss as to how they thought they could help. “I don't know…America almost seems lost, but what about the other countries?” he asked. “Great Britain, or the United Nations? Can't they help? With troops?”

One of the officers in white laughed hysterically and was glared at by the rest. Stevenson turned from the man still with an angry look and answered, “There is no Great Britain, or Europe or China or any of it. It's all gone. Except for maybe pockets in Switzerland and Norway. Most countries....hell, every country got it worse than we did. Europe was just too packed in. China and India was a f*cking stiff heaven.”

“There's still Iceland!” someone joked.

This brought a chuckle from the admiral. “Iceland might just survive. They lost about seventy percent of their people, but from reports they have managed to gain the upper hand.”

“What about Russia?” Eric asked as a sudden thought occurred. The admiral gave him a sour look and shook his head to say that it too was gone. “Excellent!” Eric exclaimed happily to everyone's surprise. “When this first started they refused to speak about the virus, but now since the government has fallen we might be able to get some answers.”

Admiral Stevenson shuffled the papers in front of him, looking at Eric steadily, like a poker player might. “What do you have in mind?”

“The old soviets had seventeen Biopreparat facilities, or at least seventeen that we knew of. One of these holds the key. We need to send teams to search each of them. Though the most important one is located near Rostov-on-Don.”

An officer just to Stevenson's right gave Eric an incredulous look. “Some of those facilities are hundreds if not thousands of miles apart. And I know of at least two of them are in the radiation belt east of the Urals.”

“Someone used nukes?” Eric asked. “How come we didn't know?”

“Because you didn't need to know,” the admiral said. “It wasn't us, in case you're wondering. The ruskies nuked their own land when fifty million chinese zombies poured over the border. Someone panicked. It happens,” he said this with all the compassion of a stone. “About those Bio sites…we don't have the capabilities that we once had, so I'll see what we can stir up, but in the mean time I had asked about the CDC. How is your security detachment holding up?”

“They've had their casualties—a thousand or so. Thankfully the wall hasn't been breached in three days.”

At the outset of the event, the CDC's small security detail had been augmented by a full brigade of infantry from Fort Stewart. The brigade's commander had been quick to react to the deteriorating situation by reinforcing the existing fencing with concrete emplacements and extra concertina wire. This had barely held in the first few days and when the zombie numbers had swelled beyond belief he took the extra ordinary steps to appropriate every car and truck within reach and these he stacked making a second wall within the first.

Still this hadn't been enough and had it not been for the Stryker armored personnel carriers with their heavy machine guns, the facility would've been doomed.

“I was told we needed reinforcements and that I was to do anything I could to beg for ammo,” Eric said, trying to smile pleasantly. His exact instructions had been to kiss ass until he smelled of shit and not to come back without at least a promise that they would be re-supplied. “We need…” he pulled out a piece of paper and read aloud, “5.56 rounds. Fifty cal and 7.62 rounds. Those are bullets I'm guessing. We also need supplies of all types, especially food. We have six thousand men, women and children to feed. What we have won't last.”

“More mismanagement,” the marine said to the admiral. Then to Eric he smiled like a lizard and held up a picture of a strange tank like vehicle with missiles hanging off of it. “Have you seen any of these on the grounds? No? What about these?”

The second picture showed a soldier holding a shoulder fired missile. Eric shook his head. “No. I don't think missiles that shoot down planes work too well against altered persons.”

“You're the expert,” the marine said, easily. “What about artillery? You know what that is?”

“Yes, of course,” Eric answered with a frown. “They have some big guns, but they haven't been used; something about rules that don't make any sense to me. Why? What's this about?”

“Just making sure that they are following protocol,” the Marine officer lied. Eric knew the man was lying but why was a mystery. The colonel went on, “Do they man the artillery pieces when a crisis occurs or do they just go to the perimeter?”

“The men just go to the perimeter. All the men are angry about not being able to use the guns. Are you suggesting that they should use them? Is that what you want me to tell them?”

“No sir,” the admiral said, suddenly sweet. “You tell them that we'll have their ammo in a week. Maybe ten days. We'll chopper it in, but we're going to need some help from you. On this diagram of the CDC grounds where could we land a few choppers?”

Eric felt his stomach drop. “We use the baseball field at Emory University. It's right across the train tracks to the southwest.”

“He meant within the perimeter,” the Marine officer said, still with his reptilian smile.

“There's single helicopter pad on one of the buildings. You can't miss it since there's a big red cross on it. Just fly them in one by one in intervals.”

The smile turned nasty on the Marine's face and he squinted at Eric. “Are you telling the admiral how to do his job? Because from what I understand you and the other poindexters can't even do your own f*cking job. That's why we're in this mess.”

“I want to know what's going on,” Eric said, ignoring the angry marine and backing until he hit the white board behind him. “Why do you want to know where to land helicopters? Are you thinking about attacking the CDC? Why. That makes no sense. We're on the same side.”

Another admiral with bands of gold on his arms cleared his throat and looked pointedly at Stevenson, who said, “Tell me, Dr Reidy, has the President tried to contact the Secretary of Health and Human Services, lately?”

“No sir,” Eric said quietly. “It's been days since we've had contact from anyone in the administration.” This quieted the assembled officers considerably. The last time anyone had heard from the president had been two weeks earlier, then there was a couple of days when the Secretary of the Defense spoke on his behalf.

Then nothing. Rumors flew everywhere about assassinations and mass arrests, but who knew what the truth was?

At Eric’s response, eyes began to shift around the room, waiting on the admiral and he was very slow to say, “I do not take pleasure in what I'm about to say, but as ranking officer, I hereby assume the duties as acting Commander in Chief until it can be ascertained that the President is capable of performing his duties or a new President is appointed by the people.”

There was a silence in the room though it was clear that the declaration wasn't unexpected.

“But you're not in the line of succession,” Eric said, breaking the cold silence of the room. “The Secretary is. She's number thirteen if I'm not mistaken.”

“The Secretary is a moron,” Admiral Stevenson said. His words were clear and distinct so that none could ever say they hadn't heard. “She was chosen for the position only to throw a few crumbs to the feminists and maybe to buy a few votes out in Kansas. Is this what the resume of the leader of the free world looks like?”


“And she hasn't even claimed the position,” the Marine cried, throwing his hands in the air. “She's derelict in her duty. It is her responsibility to assume the office when her time comes. What is she waiting for? It's been day and days, and we all sit around waiting for her to do something, while she hides in the CDC hoping you scientists can save her from making the hard choices. What we need now is not another politician, what we need is a true leader.”

Eric felt the desire to wet himself, standing in front of these hard men. Instead he folded his arms across his chest trying to appear defiant. “Then maybe you should arrest her or something, but attacking your own people is ludicrous.”

“I agree,” Admiral Stevenson said. “Unfortunately the Army brigade at the CDC has a zealot for a commander. I've known him for some time and he's always been a stickler for the constitution. He'll fight for that bitch even though everyone knows she's worse than useless.”

“We have a chain of command for a reason,” Eric said obstinately. “To keep us from plunging into a civil war! This is exactly what you plan.”

“Yes,” the admiral said. “Sadly yes. I wish it weren't so, but that's the way it's got to be. The chain of command has snapped. You are evidence of this as you come begging for supplies. The truth is the Secretary can't even run the CDC properly. How can she possibly run a scattered people?”

Eric was quiet. He didn't have an answer to the admiral's question.

“Exactly,” the admiral said as if Eric’s silence was a tacit agreement. “Now there's still an answer that I need from you Dr Reidy, will you help us?” Eric started to splutter out a quick denial, but Stevenson spoke over it. “If you do not help more lives will be lost and the end result will be the same. We can crush the CDC with overwhelming force, but I'd rather do it neatly.”

Eric was in shock. His country was dying and worse he was being asked to pound the final nail in the coffin.