The Fallujah Strain: Power After the Ebola Apocalypse by Thomas Porter
"Yea, OK. Come on," Maya said and she turned toward the transfusion room. Abel followed and returned shortly with a vial of dark crimson liquid. With a practiced hand he filled a hypodermic needle and injected the girl on the couch. He sighed and dropped heavily into an oversize leather chair.
"Thank you, Maya," he yelled.
Maya, who had already returned upstairs, yelled in response, "Ok, no prob. Tell me when Pryce gets back."
Chapter 5
James Shuh, Scout 237, thanked the driver as he stopped the vehicle next to the round cement barriers surrounding the Infected Resource Communal Control Building. He opened the door, reached out, placed his hand on the roof, pulled himself out and limped to the entrance of the four-story gray building. The dull metal sign, still attached, read "U.S. Government Frederick J. Murray Federal Building". He pulled the tall glass and metal door open and carefully walked to the marble steps and stopped. He removed his utility belt and slung it over his neck. With his right hand on the polished brass railing, he climbed.
At the top of the stairs, he turned right into the Resource Registration wing, then right again into his office. A note was lying on his chair. He picked it up and read.
"237 needed ASAP, regiment director's office."
The curtness of the note was not unusual and neither was James being called in to Division Director Hansen's office. Normally Hansen had questions or needed advice. Less common was such a request from Regiment Director Chevault. He let the note drop on his desk, pulled the radio off his utility belt, and eased into his leather desk chair. His right leg throbbed with dull pain and he put his hand gently on the bandage. He keyed the radio.
"Sandra, are you still on?"
After a second, the radio beeped once and Sandra came on. "Here. Is this James?"
"Yes. I just got back. Do you know what the regiment director needs? I was hoping to take a shower and go home. My leg is killing me."
"No clue. Why do you ask?"
"He left a note, that's all. I guess I'll go find out. Two three seven out," James said and clicked the radio off. He used his desk to pull himself out of the chair, then walked to Chevault's office. Another note, taped to the door, read, "snack bar. back in 10."
Fifteen minutes later, James found Chevault sitting at a table in the basement snack bar drinking Italian mineral water straight from the bottle. He sat down in the metal chair and asked, "Where'd you get that? I used to love that stuff but haven't seen any since the die-off."
"An immune had cases of it. Getting it back here wasn't easy. Want some?"
"Absolutely," James said.
The regimental director, Chevault, raised his hand over his head and snapped his fingers. Within seconds, a resource server appeared.
"Yes sir. What can I get you sir?"
"Get James here a bottle of this mineral water. Chop chop."
"Yes sir," the server said and walked off briskly.
Chevault turned back to James. "What's this about you being shot? I see you're still walking."
"I thought I found some fresh resources. Maybe the last survivors, who knows."
Chevault cut in. "That would be rare indeed. We haven't found new resources since late last year. I'm pretty sure they've all died off by now, or we've saved them and they're servers now. What made you think they were resources?"
"They were acting independently, off by themselves outside a beach home on the coast. Seaside Heights. There was no indication there was an immune controller around and one was showing signs of sickness. Then I ran the address but it didn't come up on our registrations."
"Did they have ear tags?"
"Yes, but I didn't see them until after they shot me. After I was shot I made it inside the house and met her. A girl, teenage. She must have made an unauthorized move and didn't re-register. If you ask me, she should be reported to IRCC."
The dependent server arrived and placed a spotless glass in front of James, opened a bottle of mineral water, filled the glass, and placed the bottle next to it.
"Anything else, sir?"
"No," James said. The server retreated about 10 feet and stood to watch and wait.
Chevault said, "I don't think that regulation regarding moving and re-registration is completed yet."
"Did you see the draft? Was there anything about re-registration?"
"Yes," Chevault said. "That was covered but until it's final your teenage girl is okay. We'll get her when the reg is finalized. Did you get her info?"
"Yeah, I got that. I was hoping to go home and write my activity report tomorrow. All that will be in there," James said.
"That's fine."
"So where is the division director? Hansen?" James asked.
"That's what I wanted to talk to you about. Hansen asked for a complete replacement of his home servers. This was after you left last week. He said they were inadequate. It turns out by 'inadequate' he meant 'dead'. He poisoned all six with something he cooked up in his kitchen."
"You're kidding."
Chevault said, "Obviously he snapped. Stress will do that. That's what we think, anyway. He was just a medical lab director before the Fallujah strain. He was small potatoes and I don't know how he rose to division director, honestly. He's done here anyway. Leaving. Can you make any recommendations?"
"You mean where he can live? The area I got shot is nice. Shouldn't be a problem getting his stuff there too. The roads are pretty open. Can't he have more servers though?"
"Not likely," Chevault said. "I heard he didn't just poison them for no reason. Apparently he was also conducting some kind of experiments on them. What experiments he won't say. Anyway, we're near tapped out. Harvesting new servers is probably impossible at this point. I'm thinking about extending operations north. Could be more resources up that way. But until we find more, if we find more, no one gets more than four. Not even directors."
"Too bad. If I could get my own vehicle I'd be happy to check it out. There are still some areas north of Route 90 that haven't been checked. I'm not sure what the roads are like but if I had a couple weeks I'm sure I could collect some."
"Negative," Chevault said. “Vehicles are harder to get than resources. The batteries are getting depleted. Are depleted. That ride you got today might have been your last. Horses and bikes from now on until we find unused cars or replacement batteries.” He finished his bottle of mineral water and set it on the table. The server collected the bottle, asked if he'd like some more, and retreated again. "We don't need you to go on a new mission. And this brings me to the reason I needed to talk to you. You have three servers now, correct? We can give you two more, and provide their transfusions for you. Congratulations, Division Director Shuh."
"I thought you said no one gets more than four."
"That's only certain 'no ones'. Not all 'no ones'. We think you have the skills necessary to keep control of the dependents in your region. You're one of the fold. For you, we'll make an exception."
"Then you've got a deal, Mr. Chevault."
Chapter 6
Two men dragged Anthony down a ground floor hallway of the Infected Resource Communal Control Building. He was familiar with the building layout, having visited his friend Hansen there in the past.
"This way, sir," the shortest of the two said.
Anthony, at well over six feet tall and almost twice their age, was a half foot taller than his two fellow immunes in uniform who now escorted him. He looked down on the bald heads of the two and wondered how the one who just spoke got the scar on his scalp. He refused to help them steal his blood, invade his privacy, violate his body, but shackled as he was the only way he could resist was to drag is feet. Each man looped his arms under Anthony's, one on his left and one on his right, and dragged him into the room just indicated.
"Thank you, sir. If you would be so kind, please sit in the bench as indicated," the short man said woodenly.
Anthony slumped onto the bench and the other man knelt down, forced Anthony's ankles against the bench legs, and locked shackles onto them. The man stood up and looped a shiny chain through the dull one that connected the cuffs on Anthony's wrist. He then connected the shiny chain to a ring on the floor. One of the men grabbed Anthony's right arm but Anthony pulled it back toward himself. It jerked out of the man's hands and Anthony almost hit himself in the face. Then both men grabbed Anthony's right arm and forced it onto a table near the bench. Together they were quite strong and managed to wrestle Anthony's arm into Velcro stirrups on the table. When finished, Anthony's right arm was immobile. He was helpless.
"We're done here, sir. Please make yourself comfortable," the short man said and the two left the room, closing and locking the door on their way out.
Anthony had not said a word.
In the two hours that he waited, he tried to nap but found that resting his head on his upper arm, still bound to the table, forced the cuff to dig into his wrists. The back of the bench ended just below his neck so leaning his head backwards didn't work either. He studied the small room and decided it was previously used as a janitor's closet.
Finally, the door opened and a short but rather large woman stepped inside. Her thinning hair and eartag told Anthony she was a server. He flexed his fingers and was surprised he could still feel them.
"What is this about?" he asked her frankly.
The woman carried a metal tray holding a hypodermic needle, a pint-size clear plastic bag marked "IMMUNE", a bottle of alcohol and some cotton balls. She wet one of the cotton balls with the alcohol and then swabbed the inside of Anthony's left elbow. As she did so, she met Anthony's eyes and held his gaze. Something in his look prompted her to lean closer to his ear and say quietly, "I'm taking a pint of your blood for storage. New mandatory policy. One pint each month. You're not the only one who refused at first but a new regulation came out last month. You can ask for a copy of it before you leave."
Anthony held her gaze. He knew from his experience with this agency over the past several years, after it was established in the year following the die-off, that once a regulation was finalized it was mostly pointless to resist. Mostly.
These men, this organization, this IRCC, dragged me from my home, he thought. They strapped me to this bench like an animal, forced this lady into slavery. They took my blood like it belongs to them. They pronounced a death sentence on my infected friends. Who are these men to do that?
At that moment, with these thoughts in his mind, a thought crystalized and emerged in his conscience. This new regulation must not stand.
Strapped to the table, imprisoned on the bench, he could do nothing about it, not even resist its implementation on his own right arm. But it must not stand.
The serum he was developing may be the answer. Must be the answer. It would free the sick of their dependence on immune people, and it would free the immunes from IRCC. As he watched the blood drain from his arm and into the pouch, he resolved to finish the serum if it killed him.
Once the bag was filled the woman faced the door and said, much louder than before, "Thank you, sir. We are done here."
The door swung open and a man, different than the two who had led Anthony here, entered. He carried a small box and a clipboard. The woman looked at the floor and exited but not before holding the bag up for the man to take.
"Thank you for your cooperation," the man said as he handed the clipboard to Anthony and slipped the bag into the box. "Please sign the paperwork and we'll have you on your way."
"Paperwork?"
"Yes, giving us your permission to draw and store your immune blood today."
Rather than ask the obvious question why he was being asked permission after the blood was already drawn, Anthony waved his right hand in a signing motion. The man placed a pen in it and held the clipboard up. Anthony gripped the pen in his fist and, in a quick motion with his thumb, snapped it and dropped it on the floor.
Holding a steady gaze on Anthony, the man said, "As you wish.” He pulled a second sheet of paper from under the permission slip. Printed on top of this one were the words, "In Loco Donator". The man printed his name in the space provided on top and signed it on the bottom.
He then pulled out a yellow, metallic ring from a box under the bench. It was about one inch wide and hinged. The man knelt and clasped it onto Anthony's left ankle just above the cuff that secured his leg to the bench.
"What's this now?" Anthony asked. He briefly thought about asking to see Hansen, hoping that his friend might get him cut loose from this place. Unbeknownst to Anthony, though, even if he asked no such help would be forthcoming.
"Just an identification device. Perfectly harmless. Regulations and your permission obligate us to ensure your safety by identifying you at all times. This cuff allows us to fulfill that obligation."
Again, Anthony nodded and the man left the room. The two shorter men reentered, freed him from the bench and the ceiling loop.
The shortest of the two said, "If you would just follow us this way, sir, we'll get you on your way."
They led Anthony to the end of the hallway and into the large central foyer where two sets of doors opened to the outside. Anthony was led into the space between the two sets of doors and the cuffs were removed from his ankles and wrists.
"Thank you again for your cooperation, sir," the shorter of the two men said as he held the outside door open.
With that, Anthony stepped out the same doorway that James Shuh, formerly scout 237 and now Division Director Shuh, had entered earlier that day. Around Anthony's ankle was a yellow, metallic metal ring on which was printed in large black, etched letters "CRM 28974 COOP YELLOW".
Anthony did not voice to the men questions to which he already knew the answers. No, transportation would be provided. No, his servers, who he had kept alive with daily transfusions since they were assigned to him four years ago, were not be taken care of in his absence. Yes, they were probably already dead.
Chapter 7
As the sun was treetop height in the west, Anthony rolled up to the front of his house on a bike he found in a garage two days earlier. He swung his right leg over and balanced on the left pedal as the bike was still rolling, then dropped onto the cement walkway and jogged while holding the handlebars with his right hand.
Before no. 289 broke out, when Anthony was well over 300 pounds and grossly out of shape, walking and biking the 100 miles back to his beach house would have been a dream. Today, at 150 pounds, it was easy.
He slowed to a walk and steered the bike to the garage. The house's previous owner, dead five years now from the sickness, parked a Jaguar X-type sedan in his garage. It was still there, although the engine was long seized up from non-use. As Anthony rolled the bike next to it he decided it was time to get rid of the car. When he worked as a lab assistant, such a car was his dream. But now the novelty of owning it was long gone and the thing was just in the way.
He didn't bother looking for Savane, Gwen, or the three cousins. Without his blood, they would have left in search of some other immune person who was willing to provide, he thought. He wished them the best but knew their chances were meager. Less than meager. Nil. Zero. Certain death.
Anger reentered his mind. His anger at the other-worldy viciousness of the men who developed the Fallujah strain was short-lived. For a few years, despite the seeming injustice of how some souls were born immune and others were not, he managed to live with some satisfaction. Even after Infected Resource Communal Control was formed and the sick were collected in camps and divvied up like cattle, he realized this injustice was probably the best that could be made of an impossibly catastrophic situation. Maybe there were better ways to keep the sick alive but right after no. 289's break out and global burn. They were dying at an unsustainable rate and something had to be done quickly or everyone who, according to God's roll of the dice,
He could ask Hansen about what political winds were blowing inside Communal Control but that might be risky. The two men, former colleagues, were sharing notes on their work to develop a serum for the sick dependents. But Hansen said they cannot be seen together. He said if his management finds out what he's working on, he'd be shut down. Anthony respected Hansen's insight and, between the two of them, they had developed what will be, at least according to their computer simulations, an effective growth medium. It was Hansen's idea to explore why grasshoppers were so prolific in the post-Ebola world. It was his idea to separate grasshopper hemolymph into its component parts, and to use the resulting proteins as a growth medium to further mutate human blood into a serum that could be given to the sick.
Anthony headed straight upstairs to his bedroom, not bothering to eat. For reasons unknown to him, since the virus saturated humanity and killed off most everything that lived, he rarely felt the intense hunger pangs that previously drove him to hit fast food drive-throughs 2 or 3 times a day. Food was much scarcer now, and the days when a meal could be collected simply by pulling into a fast food joint were never to return, but so was his hunger.
The first thing he did was check his computer. It was right where he left it. He turned it on and opened his lab notes and lab simulation program. All were in order and Anthony breathed easier. He shut the computer down. Next he checked a work room he set up in another bedroom. The plastic shoe box, nearly filled with clear plastic bags and paper towel, was right where he left it. He returned to his bedroom, which had a sun roof facing west. As it slowly turned dark, and with thoughts of his life before the die-off running through his mind, Anthony fell fast asleep.
~ - ~
About the same time Anthony reached his bedroom, Savane was in the kitchen filleting salmon, which she and Pryce had caught earlier that day.