The Ebola Wall (16 page)

“Shit, Gomez, you’re running 99.3,” the officer observed. “Take it again.”

The entire crew watched as Thunder’s gunner repeated the process.

“You’ve got a fever, Sergeant. You feeling okay?”

“Yes, sir, I feel fine. Please don’t make me report to the hospital, sir. Rumors are going around that everybody that shows up over there ends up with the virus. I feel fine, sir. Really I do.”

Thompson weighed his options. On one hand, his orders were clear – anyone with a fever was to report sick. On the other hand, his company barely had enough units as it were. And there was no way they could operate the tank with only two crewman.

“You sure?” he asked the anxious soldier.

“Yes, sir. I always run a little hot… have since I was a kid. I feel up to snuff, sir.”

Thunder’s commander reached a decision. “Okay, mount up, ladies. We have to be on station in 10 minutes.”

Thompson forgot all about Gomez’s fever, concentrating on what was essentially a new routine. The time seemed to pass quickly, Thunder slowly rolling down the smooth highway pavement, turning left, and then repeating the route all over again.

They had been touring the racetrack for several hours when Gomez spoke up. “Sir… sir… I’m going to puke,” came the frightened voice.

Thompson looked down, noticing the beads of perspiration covering his gunner’s face. “Get a barf bag, tanker. Then I want a readout on your fever,” he ordered.

“I’m fine, sir, just an upset stomach.”

“Do it,” Thompson ordered, his own gut beginning to hurt as well. He had been sharing Gomez’s air for the last four hours. “Take your temperature, soldier. That’s an order.”

Thompson was feeling the vice-like pressure of command. He didn’t have to wait long for Gomez’s report.

“It says 102, sir. I’m… I’m sorry, LT. Oh gawd, what have I done?”

Without a second thought, the lieutenant reached for Thunder’s radio controls. “Traffic… This is Five.”

“Go ahead, Five.”

“I’ve got a man with a fever and nausea. Requesting immediate relief,” Thompson announced calmly into the microphone.

“Negative on relief, LT. The bench is empty. Stay at your post until relieved. I’ll do the best I can.”

“Shit!” Thompson hissed, now sure every member of his crew was infected.

They continued to patrol, Thompson keeping an eye on Gomez who seemed to be struggling to stay awake. On the next lap, he spotted something unusual in the road… something that hadn’t been there before. Thunder approached cautiously, the memories of Havoc’s demise still fresh in everyone’s mind.

They came upon a common, roadside emergency flare, the bright pulsing light sending eerie shadows across the pavement. The lieutenant was leery, scanning right and left for the potential ambush, using all of Thunder’s tools to make sure the surrounding area didn’t harbor a trap.

Rolling closer, it soon became clear that a large sign had been propped up in the center of the road, neatly scrawled black letters covering the white background. About three feet square, and leaning against a chunk of wood, it read; “Thompson, if you want the cure, stop and talk to me. Norse.”

“What the hell,” Thunder’s commander mumbled, not sure what to make of the offer. Was Captain Norse still alive? Was this just some sort of trick?

While their CO pondered the sign, the men inside Thunder remained busy, scanning the roadside for any hint of treachery.

“Contact, sir, 101 meters distant, appears to be a single individual.”

The LT swung his periscope, quickly zeroing in on the lone man standing in the open. As the gunner had stated, he was exactly one meter outside the buffer zone, standing at ease.

Switching to infrared, Thunder’s commander instantly recognized Captain Norse.

Seeing his former commander alive generated a flush of mixed emotions within Thunder’s basket of men. On one hand, everyone was glad to see a former comrade still breathing. Even beyond that, word of Norse’s gunpoint exile into the quarantine zone had not set well in the barracks. Every man in the company could see themselves in the captain’s boots, most considering such a fate worse than death.

But now Thunder’s boss had a quandary on his hands. Norse might be alive, but was committing an act of treason by asking them to violate protocol. The word “cure,” still visible on the hand-lettered sign, kept rolling around in Thompson’s head.

“Activating the 50,” he stated, reaching for the machine gun’s controls. “Initializing commander’s remote control.”

Thompson almost shot Norse out of pure anger and frustration. No doubt they were all infected now. It took every ounce of his fortitude to keep from wallowing in self-pity. Reaching deep inside his being, the young officer eventually realized that he should only be irate at himself. He’d violated the rules. He’d let Gomez enter the tank. Again, the word “cure” surfaced in his thoughts.

“Unsealing the tank,” Thompson announced, surprising both of his crewmen. A moment later, he was lifting his leg onto Thunder’s deck.

After climbing down from his armored ride, the LT walked to the edge of the road and cupped his hands. “Is that you, Captain?”

“It is,” came the distant reply. “Roll Tide!”

Despite the stress and anxiety, Thompson had to laugh. “How are you, sir?”

“I’m well, Lieutenant,” Norse yelled back. “Is it okay if I come a little closer?”

“Sure, Captain. We won’t shoot.”

After Norse was within 25 feet, he stopped. “So here’s the deal. I know this virus is kicking ass. Even the mighty 7
^th
Cav is suffering badly. We also know that the governments of the world aren’t going to agree to surrender. After it’s all said and done, a certain percentage of the population will survive, but what will be left after that? The Stone Age? Cavemen? The people I’m with now are preparing for that phase, but I strongly disagree with the program over here.”

“Sir? I don’t understand, Captain.”

Norse pulled a small pack from his back, holding the parcel out for Thompson to see in the dim light. “I’ve become a thief, Lieutenant. Inside this pack, you’ll find the serum, formulas and processes to create it and the booster that will be required.”

Thompson was in shock, not sure he was in full grasp of his faculties. “I… I… I don’t know what to say, sir.”

“Take this bag, Lieutenant. Go save the world. If my new hosts catch on to what I’ve done, they’ll probably kill me on the spot. If not, I look forward to returning to the outfit and seeing all the men. Good luck, Thompson.”

Norse dropped the bag on the ground and turned, walking away from the still speechless officer. After a few minutes, Thompson ran quickly and retrieved the pack.

The president looked out the window as Marine One flew over Washington, DC. After four weeks at Camp David, the chief executive’s mood was brightened by the opportunity to finally return to the White House.

So positive was his attitude, the leader of the free world overlooked the signs of devastation passing beneath the helicopter, instead choosing to focus on the future and rebuilding the country… and the world.

The vaccine captured by the 7th had arrived just in time, every nation on the planet pulling out all the stops to produce the serum in mass quantities. The final death toll had been less than 30 million worldwide. He chuckled, the U.S. Cavalry had once again come to the rescue.

But a lot of damage had been done. Five nuclear weapons had been detonated, the new threat of radiation dominating the headlines. Still, the president couldn’t help but feel the world had dodged a huge bullet. The nukes had been low yield, small by some measures.

Famine was still a potential, other diseases born of bad water, lack of sanitation, and a weakened population still posing a serious threat. All of those issues were in the minor leagues compared to Ebola-B.

He exited to saluting Marines, trekking briskly across the White House lawn that had been freshly mowed just for his return. As he had ordered, the members of the Joint Chiefs were waiting for him in the situation room.

“I want a full invasion of Houston,” he declared without any fanfare. “I want those terrorist criminals in that city either dead or facing justice. There are 30 million murders hanging over their heads, and the American people, along with the international community, are clamoring for justice.”

As the meeting progressed, it was clear the generals didn’t like the assignment. The chairman, never a shy man, even went so far as to ask, “Hasn’t there already been enough killing, Mr. President?”

The response was unpleasant.

But, the military still reported to the elected, civilian authority. They would follow orders.

A week later, the invasion began.

Colonel Taylor and the residents of the Gulf Republic were ready. The lightly armed irregulars mounted a spirited defense, the U.S. forces soon discovering that most of their foe would fight to the death. Surrenders were rare, suicidal last-stands all too common.

Using improvised explosive devices, virtually any weapon at their disposal, and well-led guerrilla tactics, Taylor’s men put up one hell of a fight. Despite their motivation and bravery, the defenders were constantly being pushed back. The U.S. military was the greatest fighting force ever assembled, an irresistible juggernaut that continued to close the noose around the defenders’ necks.  

The outcome was never in doubt. Waves of armor rolled into the Bayou City, dozens of gunship helicopters and fixed wing bombers in support overhead.

On the first day of the attack, Elissa and Shane were evacuated to an emergency aid station housed in the tunnels below downtown Houston. The ex-captain soon found himself helping treat the scores of wounded men transported from the battlefield. The carnage was unlike anything the ex-military officer had ever experienced.

Shane awoke with the wall vibrating behind his back. Startled and unsure of where he was, he swept the large chamber with a blank expression. It all came back, orientation bringing along the horror of the last three days with it.

He spied piles upon heaps of discarded medical waste. Bloody scraps of clothing, crimson stained bandages - everything from syringes to water bottles littering the floor.

In the middle were rows of tables, most holding wounded men. Doctors and nurses, donning surgical masks and red-stained gowns rushed here and there. Shane watched blankly as someone threw a bucket of clear liquid on an empty table, fixated on the mixture of blood, gore and water splashing on the concrete floor and forming a river as it streamed to a nearby drain.

Again, his back shook with a tremor, the shudder immediately followed by bits of plaster and concrete falling from the ceiling, and then the sound of distant thunder. The bombs. They were getting close.

Shane stood, his first thought of Elissa. He had to sweep the room again, eventually finding the physician bent over a man withering in pain as a masked caregiver and she worked on the shreds of tissue that had been the patient’s leg.

Norse’s barely functioning brain began to register the sounds. Screams of pain, moaning, pleas for help, and the shouted instructions of medical personnel filled his ears. He shook it off, returning to a state of audio withdrawal that had seen him through the last 48 hours.

He made for Elissa, wondering what he could do to help the obviously struggling physician. She was staring down at the patient, leaning over the man as if she was having a casual conversation. She nodded… nodded again… and then reached under her gown and produced a pistol.

“Ending here!” she shouted over the din, and then moved the gun to the patient’s chest, placed the barrel in a precise spot, and pulled the trigger.

The wounded man jumped once, as if a jolt of electricity had surged through his frame. But then the withering agony left him, blood still running a red river to the floor.

Shane was no longer shocked at the procedure. The Gulf Republic hadn’t had any pain medications in months, the city’s supply used up quickly for those in the throes of Ebola-B’s grasp. The surgeons did their best, but many of the battlefield wounds generated agony far beyond the human threshold of endurance. Many chose a bullet.