Authors: Craig Dilouie
Wendy
Wendy cries into her hands until her face and fingers are wet. She wipes at her eyes and nose until she can see and breathe again, wondering how much time she has before the lights go out and she attacks the people she loves. She can bear the thought of becoming something else, something monstrous. But if the bug makes you hate your loved ones while otherwise you are still you, Wendy thinks she would rather put her gun in her mouth and end it now.
The dust has settled and the sun is shining. She sees the scores of corpses carpeting the parking lots and shattered vehicles, wonders how much of all that dead flesh is human. The soldiers stopped cheering long ago. Toby, Steve and Todd watch her from a respectful distance, waiting in silence, their expressions unreadable behind their black gas masks.
Steeling her nerves, she glances at her watch, anxious she wasted so much of her remaining time on regret. Next to her, Price kneels next to Ray’s body, continuing his gruesome dissection while Ray stares into oblivion, his face a cross between a smile and a scream.
“Why are you still cutting him?” she asks.
Price pauses, his scalpel gleaming in his blood-washed hand. “I need everything I can get,” he snaps. “And I don’t have much time.”
“But he showed us the tumor. That was Infection.”
“Maybe. We don’t know what we saw. Welcome to the scientific method.”
She hesitates, stung by his words. “How much time do I have?”
Price says nothing, his trembling hand poised over Ray’s open chest.
“Dr. Price?”
“I’m sorry I was rude, Wendy. I’m very tired. I think I might be in a state of shock.”
“How much time do I have?”
“I don’t know,” he says. “You were exposed five, ten minutes ago? I’d say you have another five or ten minutes before you show symptoms.”
“Is it sudden? I mean, what’s it like?”
Price turns his torso so she can see the man behind the faceplate.
“You fall down,” he tells her. “And then you get up, and you’re changed. But you might not have it. The odds are something like two in three you don’t. So there’s hope.”
The math is simple. She has a one in three chance of becoming infected within the next few minutes. She remembers standing in the ruins of a hospital a long time ago, holding a gun against Todd’s head after he was cut by the teeth of a monster, while Ethan counted down on his watch and then pronounced him clear.
Now it’s my turn.
He adds, “If anything happens, I will cure you. I swear I will.”
“Thank you,” she says.
“Thank you, Wendy. We’d all be dead if it weren’t for you.”
She stands and dusts her knees slowly, carefully, aware of a tingling in every inch of her body. Turning, she sprints toward Toby, needing his arms around her, the one place in the world she feels safe outside the Bradley’s gunner station.
Instead of extending his arms to embrace her, he pulls his mask off and falls to his knees, his shoulders shaking. Steve and Todd look away, too stricken to speak.
“Why?” Toby asks her. “Why, Wendy?”
She falls to her knees and puts her arms around her man, providing what comfort she can. “You know why. You would have done the same.”
“It’s not worth it,” he sobs. “They can all die except you. Me included. But not you.”
“There’s a good chance I don’t have it.”
He takes a long shuddering breath, gathering his strength, and puts his large arms around her. She nestles against him, feeling safe again.
“Tell me it’s nothing,” she says.
“How long until we know?” he asks her.
“Five minutes, maybe. I don’t know for sure. Where are the others?”
“Yang and Guthrie are helping the soldiers. They don’t know you might have the bug. Cruz and Noel didn’t make it.”
“Bury them deep, Toby.”
On the road, it is common practice to burn the dead so the monsters don’t dig them up and eat them. The alternative is to bury them extra deep. It’s considered a high honor.
She says nothing, her ear pressed against his barrel chest, listening to the rhythmic beat of his heart. Then she becomes aware of ghostly wailing in the distance. The sound appears to have no source. It seems to come from everywhere. Then the foghorns join in with their sad lowing that ripples through the air.
“What is that?” Toby says.
“They’re mourning him. The Infected. They’re mourning Ray Young.”
“I love you, Wendy.”
“I love you, Toby.”
She says it repeatedly, hoping she will take the thought with her when she crosses over.
Then she stiffens in his arms.
Cool Rod
Rod finds Davis’s body, scattered across the sidewalk as if a pack of wild dogs had fought over it for an hour. After Arnold, Davis was supposed to be in the safest place in the operation. Shaking his head in anger and sadness at the waste of a good man and a reliable soldier, Rod pockets the man’s tags and brings the field radio back to the Stryker, setting it on the ground.
“Davis is dead,” he tells Arnold. “Back that way.”
“I’ll get him, Sergeant,” the soldier says, sounding strangely subdued. They are all humbled by what they have endured and accomplished this day.
“Bury him deep,” Rod tells him. “Find Sergeant Wilson and ask him if he minds our boys sharing the hole he’s digging for his people.”
“Will do, Sergeant.”
He wonders how the dead will ever find peace. He grew up in a small town near Dallas with his parents and grandmother. Sitting in her rocker, his granny often told ghost stories from Mexico, Rod’s favorite being the little boy who haunted one of the oldest restaurants in Mexico City. The little boy was often spotted running through the kitchen walls, and would call the restaurant on the phone repeatedly, asking the staff to play with him. The boy choked to death at one of the tables in the forties, she explained, and that is why he cannot leave this world for the next. He died in violence, and is confused; he thinks he is still alive.
The world
will be filled with ghosts by the time Wildfire is done. Angry ghosts of both the normal and the Infected, wondering why they died, demanding justice.
The bodies of the dead hoppers, which in life exuded a smell best described as sour milk cologne, are already starting to stink like rot. He wonders if they will leave ghosts as well.
Christ, I’m tired. The sooner we can be rid of this cursed place, the better. I want to go home.
Sosa ignites the flamethrower, sending an arc of fire across Ray Young’s remains, the bodies of his guards and Fielding, and the truck. Anything his spores might have come into contact with. The scientist tosses a garbage bag filled with clothes into the flames, and steps away.
Ray Young is gone now. All that is left is a few vials of blood and chunks of flesh in a cooler, one of them still eerily pulsing and alive, looking for its host.
These tissue samples, packed in ice, might hold the key to beating Wildfire.
The organism
, Dr. Price explained,
hides in plain sight, disguised as something else, something common
. Using the tissue samples he collected, he hopes to unmask it once and for all. And once unmasked, it can be defeated. He can make no guarantees, however. It might be another dead end, another trick.
It’s out of Rod’s hands in any case. The mission is almost over; another will begin upon his return.
The war goes on.
His next step is to report the action up the chain of command, and receive orders. Either he will be told to drive the samples to Fort Detrick, or more likely, given the possibility the specimens might decay, they will send a helicopter.
Then Rod can go back to the fighting. The idea of getting up tomorrow morning and doing this all over again, day in and day out, makes him want to lie down and quit. His boys deserve better. Unfortunately, there is nothing else.
He watches Dr. Price sitting on the ground, holding his head in his hands, and thinks:
It’s your war now too, Doc. You against the thing in the cooler. Have courage, man. We are all counting on you.
It’s time to bring this mission to an end.
♦
Rod finds the designated channel and initiates contact. The radio/telephone operators recognize his call sign but pass him around, unsure what to do with him. Finally, he finds himself talking to Corporal Carlson, who hands him over to Major Duncan.
“Message follows, over,” Rod reports.
Send message, over
, the Major answers.
“I send ‘Typhoid Mary,’ over.”
Code for
mission accomplished
.
Next he will say, “Immunity failed,” which means the
subject is dead
.
Then he will say, “Frankenstein found,” which means they obtained
viable tissue samples
.
Finally, he will provide map coordinates and say, “Antidote rising,” a request for
air units to come and extract Dr. Price and the samples
, and take them to Fort Detrick.
Rod glances at the twilight sky, hoping the day has enough light left for an air extraction. The birds will have to leave soon, or Rod and his people will be driving to Fort Detrick.
The radio dips into white noise, over which Rod can hear shouting in the background.
I don’t have the codebook for that mission, over.
Rod blinks, stunned by this information. “Say again, over.”
That mission was scrapped. Your unit was recalled, over.
“Negative on that,” Rod says. “We are in the field executing the original operation order, over.”
Did you not receive new OPORD, over?
“Negative. “ He cannot think of what else to say at this point. “Over.”
Target was ordered terminated by Higher, and was killed in an air strike, over.
Rod feels the old rage returning, bit by bit. It is as if the dead are here, with him, lending him their anger in the hopes he will give that anger a voice.
Report your location, over.
Rod no longer cares that it’s an open channel. “We accomplished the mission. Subject was killed during recovery, but we were able to obtain biological samples for Fort Detrick. Will provide map coordinates for extraction. Repeat request for air extraction, how copy?”
Another long pause. Duncan starts to say something, but the words become garbled. Rod can hear more shouting in the background.
“Negative contact,” he says in frustration. “Say again, over.”
Negative on that air extraction. Subject was terminated by air strike—wait one.
Rod hears someone scream.
Wait one, out.
“What’s your status, over?” he asks.
He waits for nearly a minute, wondering if headquarters is under attack. If the Infected penetrated the Green Zone, the war is over, at least in this part of the world. America would be lost. And there would be nothing for Rod and his men to come back to. Nowhere to go.
Hard to hear you, Hellraisers 3. There’s a bit of a celebration going on here, over.
“What?” Rod shakes his head in disbelief. “Say again, over.”
The power’s on, Hellraisers 3. The whole town is lighting up like a Christmas tree. Wish you were here to see it, over.
“Holy sh—” Rod says before catching himself. “We won, sir?”
We sure did, Hellraisers 3. Washington is ours. We took it back. Over.
A grin flashes across Rod’s face. “Outstanding.”
The credit is yours, Hellraisers 3. It belongs to you and every other service member we have in combat. Now let’s finish up our business so you can get back here. Your mission was scrapped, and a new OPORD issued. We need to get your unit back to the operating base for rest and refit. Comanche has been given two weeks’ leave. You can go home, Hellraisers 3. Over.
A memory flashes of Gabriela and his children running toward him at the airport after one of his tours in the Sandbox. Their happy faces.
He pushes the memory from his mind with an almost physical effort.
How copy?
“Major, please listen to me. We have identified Typhoid Jody and secured viable biological samples from his remains. They must be delivered to Fort Detrick immediately—”
Negative, over
.
Rod’s rage boils over. “No, not fucking ‘negative,’ sir—”
Sergeant, Higher scrapped the mission and ordered the subject terminated, which you apparently accomplished. If you obtained samples, I don’t know what to do about that. I don’t know who to tell, or who to call. The higher-ups will want to know what the hell you’re doing out there going against orders. I cannot get the assets to do anything—
“Are you ordering us to return to base, Major?”
Affirmative. I am ordering you to return to base. I expect you to use maximum individual initiative in accomplishing this order. Understood? Over.
“Roger that, sir. Hellraisers, out.”
He slams the receiver down and growls. He can’t believe it. He can’t believe Higher Command won’t accept Ray Young’s remains.
And yet he can. It’s typical Army bullshit, amplified by the ongoing stress of fighting Wildfire with steadily dwindling forces.
The Major gave him an out, however. When he said he expected Rod to show individual initiative in getting back to base, he was saying if Rod thought it necessary to stop at Fort Detrick first in order to accomplish his mission, then go ahead and do it. On his own.
He does some quick calculations. If he goes north to Detrick, he will officially be off the reservation, cut off from reinforcement, casualty evacuation, supply. They have enough fuel, but they don’t have much in the way of provisions, and they burned through at least half their ammo in the fight today. He lost three men during the fighting, giving him just two shooters besides himself.
They could just go home and forget the whole thing. Duncan said they have rest and refit waiting for them. Two weeks with their families. Hearing this made him feel like he’d won the lottery. Like the soldiers under his command, he desperately wants to see his wife and children again. Two weeks is a long time these days. It may be the last time he ever sees his family.
He remembers the words in Gabriela’s final letter:
I freely give up this demand, my right as your wife, in the hopes that you will win and be able to save not just us, but the entire country.
Do your duty
, she said.
The survivors of the squad gather around, watching him. They buried Davis and Tanner and Lynch, along with the Stryker’s gunner and Sergeant Wilson’s dead, and expect him to say something over the mass grave.
Rod tells them what Duncan told him. The boys hiss obscenities under their breath.
“Was it all for nothing, then, Sergeant?” Arnold asks him.
“Well, that’s the thing,” Rod says. “I’m going to do something I’ve never done before as a sergeant in the United States Army. I’m going to call a vote.”