Martin Lamport

THE DOOMSDAY INFECTION

For Sian.

PROLOGUE

“Maybe there ain’t no crew, maybe it’s a ghost ship?” said Tasker.

“Come again?” asked Graves the wiry African-American Lieutenant.

“Sure, the seven seas are littered with ships that float off abandoned for whatever reason, and then turn up months, sometimes years later hundreds of miles off course.”

The utility boat belonging to the United States coast guard chugged at an even eighteen knots, twenty miles off the Miami coast. “It sure looks abandoned,” the captain said watching the deserted cargo ship through field glasses. “There’s no movement.”

“It’s true,” said Tasker warming to his theme. “What about HMS Resolute? That ship drifted crewless for some twelve hundred miles, and a couple of years ago a Russian ship being towed off Canada broke its chain and turned up years later off the coast of Ireland. This could be the same. A genuine ghost ship.”

This spooked the lieutenant. “What’re you on about — a ghost ship?”

“They’re called ghost ships,” said the captain. “Because they don’t belong anywhere; not because they are crewed by ghosts. This isn’t ‘Pirates of the Caribbean’.”

“Don’t you be so sure,” the Lieutenant said more to himself. He pushed the throttle forward, nudging the speed up to twenty-five knots.

“C’mon, guys, let’s do this properly,” the captain said. “Lieutenant, any change?”

“They ain’t budged a damned inch. Could they be scuba-diving?”

“They'd still leave someone up top.”

“Oh, yeah.”

“Well, I think we’ve got probable cause,” the captain said. He picked up the radio handset and pressed the transmit button. He watched the cargo ship bob listlessly on an ocean as flat as a millpond, and spoke over the tannoy. “This is the US coast guard… please acknowledge,” he paused, looked back through the field glasses and shook his head. “No sign of life. I guess it’s time to take a look.”

The forty-foot utility boat cut through the waves toward the rusty cargo ship. “This is the US coast guard — please acknowledge,” he persisted. “You are violating the US coastal waters. Prepare to be boarded, please acknowledge.” He waited for a response for a moment. “Lieutenant Graves, prepare to board.”

“Aye- aye, sir,” Graves flicked a swift salute and left the cabin.

“Hello… is anybody aboard?” Graves called out, boarding the abandoned craft, via an unsafe rusty ladder. He thought of the Coast Guard’s motto semper paratus — always ready — he sure as hell didn’t feel ready and felt even more uneasy about their unofficial motto, you have to go out, but you don’t always have to come back.

The utter stillness of the cargo ship disturbed him greatly. He sensed something wrong. There was no sound of life, only the gentle creak of old timbers and water lapping against the vessel.

“We are the US Coast Guard, please show yourselves…” Graves said, entering the canteen, where half-eaten food was in evidence. He touched the steel coffee urn. “It’s still warm. Where the hell is everyone?”

“I told you, we’re on board a regular Marie Celeste,” Tasker said.

The lieutenant gulped and headed astern. He drew his Sig Suer service weapon, pointed it to a door, and indicated for Seaman Tasker to open it while he covered him.

Tasker gulped again, yanked open the metal door and yelped in fright as a blackened corpse fell upon him flattening him onto the deck. “Jesus Christ!” he yelled from underneath the body. He slid and crawled from under the rotting carcass trying not to gag. “It stinks!” He glared back in horror at the darkened pus-covered remains of a young man. The darkened face had contorted in an agonized grimace. “What happened to him?”

Graves said, “You go topside.”

Tasker brushed himself down, clanged up the metal ladder to the next deck, and saw another corpse riddled with bulbous swellings. Lieutenant Graves joined him on the upper deck. He pointed with his handgun to the blackened corpse. “What the hell has happened?”

Tasker scratched his head. “There’s more bodies back there,” he said, pointing aft.

“They look as if they’ve been burned to death, yet there ain’t been no fire,” said the lieutenant.

Seaman Tasker used his walkie-talkie and called the captain on the utility boat. “Looks like they’re all dead, captain. They look like illegal immigrants. They’re black—”

The lieutenant shot him a deadly glance.

“I mean African-American, well; I dunno if they’re American, oh, you know what I mean. Over.”

“Acknowledged,” said the captain. “We’ll tow it in. Keep searching. See if you can discover what caused their deaths.”

Lieutenant Graves patted down the body of a woman and rolled it over. Pus filled boils covered her face, some of which were still weeping. He recoiled in shock. “Shit.” He gawped wide-eyed at her remains. “What the hell is that on her face?”

“Dunno, lieutenant,” Tasker replied.

“And what the hell is that smell?” He stood and gingerly worked his way through the vessel and stumbled across more of the dead. He pushed open the latrine door, to find a body dead on the toilet. “Sweet Jesus… he died on the can, that ain’t right. How could he drop dead halfway through a—”

“Has he been shot?” ventured Seaman Tasker.

“No. Does he look like he’s been shot?”

“Then what can kill so quickly? Do you think it’s gas?”

“Beats me,” Graves tried not to gag as he patted down the body and found packets of heroin, he glanced quickly at Tasker, who leaned against the bulkhead and wiped sweat from his brow distracted. Graves surreptitiously slipped a bag in his pocket, and then showed the rest of the haul to Tasker.

Tasker transmitted back to the Utility boat. “We got drugs, captain and loads more bodies.”

“Very good. Any cause of death?”

“Not a clue. No signs of gunfire.”

Lieutenant Graves sneezed so violently he almost lost his balance.

“Gesundheit,” Tasker said automatically.

Graves took the weight of a storage hatch and heaved it upright, then peered into the cargo hold below. The stench hit him immediately. He reeled back from the stink, turned and vomited.

Seaman Tasker approached the hatch tentatively and shone his flashlight down into the vast hold. “Holy shit!” he gasped. “There’s gotta be more than a hundred stiffs down there.” His beam flickered over the rotting corpses in various stages of decay. “Did they suffocate?”

Graves wiped his mouth on his sleeve, covered his nose and looked down into the cargo hold again. “It looks well ventilated,” he said with a shrug.

Lieutenant Graves moved on through the vessel, found the captain’s cabin and saw the body of an African-American dead, slumped across his desk, pen in hand as if he were half-way through writing a letter. He removed his cap in respect. He cautiously approached the body, flinched at the stench and tied his neckerchief over his mouth. Jesus, what IS that smell? That ain’t the normal smell of death. It’s ten times — no make that a hundred times worse, he thought.

He noticed a group photograph of the captain and his wife and kids. However, something was wrong with the picture. They smiled at the camera, nothing wrong with that. It was their faces that were wrong, or the skin color to be more precise. They were white — all white — including the captain.

“What the—?” He took a headshot photo of the captain from the wall and brought it in close to the corpse’s face. It was the captain all right. Identical, apart from the skin color…

He scratched his head dumb-founded, and then shrugged it off. He quickly frisked the captain’s cadaver, found his pocket book, checked the door as the boat creaked and listed slightly, and then slipped it into his jacket pocket, when a skinny, bony hand shot out and grabbed his wrist.

Tasker heard lieutenant Graves’s blood-curdling scream and ran towards the noise. He burst through the cabin door to find him gibbering in fear. He waddled backward on his butt dragging the corpse with him. The captain’s boney hand firmly clasped around his wrist.

“Argh! Get it off! Get it off!” screamed Graves. The lieutenant attempted to peel the fingers from his wrist but his grip was too firm, then his blood ran cold as the captain’s eyes flipped open and his blood-shot eyes swiveled slowly towards him.

Petrified and chilled to the bone he scrambled backward, when the captain’s thin reedy voice pleaded. “Help… me…”

Just when Lieutenant Graves thought he couldn’t take any more, he gazed terrified as the captain’s skin tore open, ripping across his cheek bones exposing muscle and bone. The rotting, living, corpse screeched, a sound he would never forget….

CHAPTER 1

17:30 PM

A sternutation — an involuntary respiratory convolution — otherwise known as a sneeze can expel up to forty thousand infectious droplets at any one time, travel at over one hundred miles an hour and cover a distance of thirty feet. This was particularly unfortunate for the other passengers on the early evening commute home upon the green-line Miami Metrorail heading northbound.

Lieutenant Graves sneezed loudly and violently over the other commuters who squashed together like sardines, rubbed up against total strangers.

“Gross,” said a young Hispanic girl with a purple streak in her hair. She cradled her young child and pushed further down the packed car.

Graves did not register her comment, or seem to notice the other passengers crammed against him on the standing-room only metro-train. His head ached and his vision blurred. He wiped his sleeve across his nose and sniffed deeply. The passengers regard him with distain, unbeknown to them that they’d already breathed in the microscopic droplets of the deadly virus and would all be dead within the next twenty-four hours.

Graves shuddered. He was not sure if it was from a summer cold, or from remembering the rotted, living corpse whose skin had torn apart in front of his very eyes. Jesus and what about that sound? He shivered once more. His boss had tried to get him to stay behind, for further investigations as the team picked apart the corpse-ridden vessel, but he’d refused, it being a holiday weekend and all.

Turned out there were over two hundred immigrants crammed into the hold. They had captured a higher number once before, but it was still a good bust and a feather in his cap. The train pulled into the next metro station and even more folks squashed into the packed car making Graves sweat profusely. Without warning, he sneezed again, splattering the newest passengers.

A burly, bearded Hell’s Angel with ‘Death or Glory’ tattooed on one arm raged; “Cover your mouth, you goddamn nig—” He stopped himself short as he realized he was the only white person on board the train with the exception of the dyed blond teenager in a sailor’s uniform, and he was clearly a faggot, so he didn’t count.

Graves snarled back. “Fuck you, bro — get outa my face, if you—” A violent tremble cut him short. The nearest passengers backed away. Lieutenant Graves’s eyes strained against the pain.

The dyed-blond sailor pointed hesitantly at Graves’s face and said in a quaking voice. “You’re bleeding, dude… from your eyes…” The sailor stepped back aghast as tears of blood rolled down Graves’s cheek.

Lieutenant Graves touched his face and was aghast to see blood on his fingers. “What the fuck?” He felt blood trickling from his nose, and wiped it on his sleeve.

The Hispanic girl shifted her tiny infant to her other arm. “You should see one doctor. There is hospital. At next stop. Has a free walk-in clinic.”

“I don’t need no free hospital. What are ya saying?”

“I meant no harm, sir. It’s near, I could take you?” She offered helpfully.

“I don’t want no charity — leave me the fuck alone.” He turned away into the armpit of the bearded biker. He recoiled from the odor. The Hell’s Angel glared daggers at him.

“Why don’t y’all—” He sneezed again covering the Hispanic girl and her child.

She turned away in disgust. She soothed her baby, stroked her head and covered her with the deadly bacteria. She pushed her way to the furthest end of the car.

Graves sneezed again but this time caught most of the bacteria in his hand. “There. Y’all happy now?”

The train rumbled into Overtown station. He maneuvered himself to the door, pulling himself forward using the handrail. The dyed blond sailor followed, touching the same spot on the handrail transferring the deadly disease onto his own hand. He pushed through the impatient crowd and sneezed loudly infecting each and every one of them.

CHAPTER 2

ZERO HOUR

THURSDAY JUNE 30th

19:50 PM

Luke Spencer pushed forward on the control bar of his hang-glider tipping the nose downward, accelerated and soared up into the dazzling blue sky. He felt like a hawk as he lay in the supine position. He leaned his weight to the side and turned a slow circle back over South Miami Beach passing over the famous Art Deco hotels lining the beachfront. Once sleazy, the South Beach district was now chic and fashionable. He caught a thermal and spiraled upward. He’d been a fan of hang-gliding for several years now. He loved the silence and solitude as he soared high above the beach. The simplicity of the craft, using only his wits the simple machine made flight possible. He had trained to fly the motorized version but preferred the challenge of using his skill to fly, to catch a thermal to give him the necessary lift while gravity did its damndest to pull him back to earth.

The heat generated by the hot sand supplied ample thermals and he could stay up for hours, however he’d promised Kenny his cameraman it’d only be a short flight. He was an adrenaline junkie and he needed a quick fix.

Although he got his fix most days from his job as outside news broadcaster for a major network, which frequently took him into plenty of adrenaline-rush situations. Known to take risks to get as close to the action as possible, he ducked and dodged police cordons to get right into the heart of any action, be it an auto-wreck, or better still an ongoing gang turf-war dispute. He knew that gunfire always scored high on the nightly news, and possible bloodletting — not his, or Kenny’s preferably — would make the top of the hour bulletin, remembering the mantra of his journalist professor. ‘If it bleeds, it leads.’ Luke stuck to this motto and had gained national coverage more than once.

Although covering the gore was not his prime objective, he knew if he kept his face on screen, it would give him leverage with the network to go after larger stories, uncovering wrong-doing at city hall, unveiling the back-handers and corruption at the highest levels.

This, of course, had made him a target from time-to-time of politicians and members of organized crime syndicates, although he felt more of an affinity towards the latter; at least they were honest in their dishonesty.

He recognized the enormous shape of Kenny dashing down the beach, hard to miss really, five feet five, weighing in at nearly three hundred pounds, his flabby flesh burned by the sun, looking like a beardless Santa. He smirked and recalled how an extremely drunk Kenny had begged him to teach him to hang-glide and no matter how much he told him that he was far too heavy for flight Kenny had insisted and Luke relented. He helped him into a rig and checked the equipment. He instructed Kenny to rush down the beach until he reached approximately seventeen mph — the optimum speed for take-off. Luke had nearly burst a rib laughing as Kenny waddled along the sand, jumping up into the air every now and then in a futile attempt to launch himself sky-ward with all the elegance and grace of a baby elephant until he ran out of beach and he pitched head-first into the ocean.

Luke could tell from Kenny’s frantic waving that it must be urgent and made his descent. Kenny had sensibly positioned himself far away from the few remaining sun-worshipers, and as the beach was practically deserted, Luke couldn’t resist the urge to show off his talents and ‘buzzed’ Kenny. He swooped down low, aiming to fly straight into him at full speed. Kenny saw the imminent danger at the last second and turned to outrun the inevitable impact, when Luke skillfully raised himself up and flew several inches over Kenny’s head making him duck and swear.

Luke stalled the craft to land gently on the empty stretch of golden sand right behind the cameraman.

“You are one crazy sonofabitch,” he cursed, handing Luke his clothes.

“What’s up, man?”

“A riot. Come on, get changed, let’s go.”

“Where? Any deaths?”

“Where else? And of course; plenty.”

They leapt into the news truck and Kenny burned rubber, peeling from the beachfront parking lot. He jumped through the red lights and took the corner on two wheels in his desperate rush to be the first news team on site.

Luke slipped on a shirt and tie, making himself presentable. He found it difficult to dress as the truck lurched, squealing around the bends. He patted down his hair, and checked out his appearance in the truck’s vanity mirror.

The streets looked more depressed and covered in graffiti the further they drove away from the ocean and the closer they got towards Liberty City.

20:25 PM

Overtown, northwest of downtown Miami, originally called Colored Town during the Jim Crow era of the late 19th and early 20th century and designated as a ‘colored’ neighborhood after the creation and incorporation of Miami in 1896. The residents barred from entering the nearby middle and upper income white areas of Miami Beach and Coral Gables without having the required passes.

Overtown had served as the place to stay overnight for the black mainstream entertainers of the day such as Count Basie, Ella Fitzgerald, Billie Holiday and Nat King Cole, who not unsurprisingly were forbidden from staying at the venues where they had just performed, such as the Fontainebleau Hotel and the Eden Roc.

As the I-95 interstate highway and other freeways were constructed, they fragmented the neighborhood, the district suffered serious decline, and the area became economically destitute as businesses stagnated and closed and the region became a ghetto.

The inhabitants migrated to the Liberty Square housing project, built during the 1930s the first of its kind in Southern United States in response to the deteriorated housing conditions of Overtown.

The civil rights act dramatically altered the neighborhood as increasing numbers of lower income and welfare-dependent families swamped to Liberty City following their displacement from Overtown, leading to large-scale ‘black flight’ as middle and higher income families moved out to suburban areas like Florida City and Miami Gardens.

Crime grew prevalent in the increasingly poverty-stricken region during the 1960s. The ensuing problems of the poor and disenfranchised most notably culminated in the race riots of 1968, but still erupted into violence and large-scale disturbances to this day.

“Christ, it’s hot!” Luke said, leaping from the news-truck. He looked presentable above the waist in a smart shirt and tie, yet still wearing his Hawaiian shorts and flip-flops, as they would be out of shot during his report. The police cordoned off the area with tape strung across the street blocking their progress. He watched the riot from the safety point. “Is it me, or are there more crazies than usual?”

Kenny hoisted the news camera to his shoulder, and then jumped back in fright. “Shit!”

“What’s up?”

“A Goddamn rat.”

“Where?” Luke asked in alarm.

Kenny pointed. “There, and there! Christ, this place is crawling with them. Fuck, I hate rats.”

Luke kicked out at a rat and it scuttled away as dusk settled over the projects highlighting the burning flames of a looted store.

He positioned himself and made sure that the plumes of thick, black smoke would be in shot. He checked his tie, cleared his throat and counted down to the report. “In three, two… one. I’m Luke Spencer reporting from Liberty City, where, once again, the city is in flames as the police fight a losing battle trying to regain control of the streets—” he paused as rapid-fire from a machine gun echoed around him. “Their grievance, it seems, is due to the latest round of government cuts that have left the city woefully underfunded and naturally the poorest areas are the hardest hit. When will—” He stopped dead as a rapidly accelerating police car hurtled in their direction, Kenny filmed the retreating car as bullets from a rooftop gunman chased the vehicle down the street spewing up dirt.

The Police officer leaned from the passenger window, and shouted to his colleagues, “Pull back! Pull back!” He paused to sneeze. “Get everybody out! Go!” The police car zoomed off, leaving them dumb-founded.

A nearby cop waved to them. “You heard him, get going!” He scuttled off to a safer point. Luke shuffled after the cop, until he was distracted, then ducked under the tape and made his way closer to the action.

21:20 PM

Lieutenant Graves slumped against his ratty mattress propped against the wall of his crummy apartment in the Liberty City projects. He folded his eyelid back and inserted a hypodermic needle loaded with the heroin he had stolen earlier into the underside of the lid. He had to inject into his eyelid as the coast guard did cursory checks for track-marks on their personnel. Therefore, Graves had gotten devious; sometimes he injected between his toes, or the soles of his feet, and one time, only one time, into his penis.

He squashed down into the mattress to get more comfortable and waited for the narcotic to do its work and relieve him of his miserable existence. He scratched under his armpit and discovered that his fingers were wet. “Hur? What the fuck?”

He lifted his sweat-stained t-shirt and found the black swelling in his armpit. He pushed against it and it burst covering him in thick, oozing pus “Argh!” He recoiled as discharge ran from the lump. What the hell? he thought. He checked under his other arm, and felt a similar bulge. He stood and checked the growth in his broken shaving-mirror, and noticed his torso covered in raised boils and bumps. What is this? He gazed at his reflection for a long moment.

He scratched his balls and froze.

“Oh no…” He dropped his shorts and discovered buboes developing either side of his groin. “No, no, no. Not good.”

Bright light lit his room. A searchlight of a police helicopter shone a beam through his cracked window. He jumped back into the shadows instinctively. He sneezed and blood streamed from both nostrils. He wiped his nose on his arm, horrified by the amount of the blackening fluid. He squatted down on the mattress as the drug weakened him, and he slowly shut his eyes, but even this simple action caused blood to squeeze from his tear ducts. He touched his face and choked back tears unable to believe that his eyes were bleeding.

The roar of the helicopter got louder and the searchlight flicked around his grimy slum. He lurched under the mattress, grabbed his Sig Suer service sidearm, “Hey! People are trying to sleep in here!” He yelled and emptied the chamber aimlessly through the window at the noisy helicopter.

21:45 PM

Kenny filmed up, down, left and right at the sporadic gun-bursts. Luke stood with his microphone at the ready to address the camera. He motioned to Kenny to commence filming, when a hand grabbed his leg, making him jump out of his skin.

He looked down to see a Hobo had grabbed his ankle. “Get offa me, man.”

Kenny kicked out at the hobo for ruining the shot, “You drunken bum, Jesus. Can you believe that — begging during a riot?”

Luke pointed at the hobo. “What’s that on his face?” He pointed to the pus-filled black circles on his cheeks. He heard a commotion behind him and turned to see the police chopper flying in. He knew this could be a story. He concentrated and turned back to Kenny. “Ready?”

Kenny prepared to film when the Hobo screamed. Professional as ever, Kenny pivoted and trained his camera onto the god-awful sound the Hobo made. “What’s the matter with him, I thought he was dead?”

“His chest is moving,” Luke observed. “Oh, man! It’s a rat and it’s eating him.” He felt sick, and then it dawned on him. “This is fantastic.” Luke said knowing a macabre story would sell, when Kenny lowered the camera, “What’s wrong, man?”

Kenny smiled. “I’ve had an idea; why don’t you rescue him?”

“I ain’t touching that rancid piece of filth.”

“Think about it, imagine the headline: Brave hero reporter saves homeless veteran being eaten by rats.”

He smirked. “Let’s do it. Go on three… two—”

Luke rolled the Hobo over, and swiped out at the gnawing beast. The vicious looking rat stared at him for a moment as if it thought about attacking him, then scampered away. “That was disgusting.”

The Hobo tugged at Luke’s sleeve. “Help… me…,” he begged as blood wept from his eyes.

Luke slapped his hand away. The Hobo vomited and convulsed, gasping for life. “Man, did you see his eyes?”

“Sure did. I want some of that.” Kenny stood over the dying Hobo and filmed a close-up, “Never shot someone’s dying breath before.”

“You worry me,” Luke said.

The Miami-Dade Police Department’s Eurocopter AS350 hovered overhead. Kenny switched his attention to the chopper and filmed as it moved closer to the buildings.

Luke prepared himself, cleared his throat, and as Kenny lowered the camera to include him in a head shot said; “Three… two… one, once again a solitary police helicopter, the same old story of the police’s response to this poorly patrolled region; too little too late.”

Lieutenant Graves’s bullets hit their target and the police helicopter lurched over, recovered, when the engine spluttered, and the chopper went into a quick spin, rotated a semi-circle, the pilot corrected, when abruptly the helicopter dipped, went into a dive, floundered then jerked upward. It looked as if it should clear the building, when the engine coughed and the chopper wobbled onto its side, with smoke belching from the engine. The pilot struggled with the craft and turned tight circles fighting for control as the engine stalled and choked, then with a deafening roar it shot forward crashed into the second story where it burst into a ball of flames scattering debris into the night.

A piece of shrapnel shot through the air and ripped through Luke’s bicep in a plume of red mist, the impact of the force spun him into the ground. He glanced up at Kenny. “Tell me you got that?” he managed to gasp before passing out.

Kenny held his thumb up, grinned, and went to speak, when a rogue helicopter blade, turning end over end in the night sky, spinning at over three hundred revolutions per minute sliced him in two.

His eyes froze, and he stood motionless for a moment as blood trickled along the line of the wound, when ghoulishly his severed upper torso slid down to the dirt, his legs remained upright for a moment longer before they too toppled to the ground.

CHAPTER 3

21:50 PM

Doctor Sophie Garcia down-shifted a gear in her cherry-red jeep, glad she had the top down, feeling the welcoming breeze in her long dark, naturally curly hair. Her tires changing sound from the pavement to metal and back to pavement, as she crossed the cantilevered bridge from mainland Florida to the spit of land known as Sandbank Island that housed The Good Samaritan, the run-down hospital where she worked.

After graduation she’d had her pick of prestige hospitals, but instead chose research work in the field; mainly in Africa studying the unusual and exotic, not to mention the most dangerous virus’s that mother earth could produce, after which she returned to work in a less affluent district, finding satisfaction helping the hard-up and needy at the pay-as-you-go hospital.

Yet even this meager facility had been withdrawn, the hospital had fallen victim to the latest spending cuts and was scheduled to close the next day. This would be her last night. The hospital-board had deliberately run down the number of patients so she wasn’t anticipating a busy night.

She pulled into the three story hospital parking lot, entered the building, and was hit by the smell of the disinfectant as she slipped into her white coat. A Latino girl with a distinctive purple streak in her hair bustled past her and rushed to the reception, ignoring the line of other patients and blurted. “I need to see one Doctor. Help me, PLEASE. My baby — she is dying.”

The larger than life receptionist on the desk ruled her domain with a rod of iron. She looked over her spectacles at the young Latino. “Not here, honey. Not anymore.” She saw the girl’s confusion and tapped the sign affixed to the front of her desk. “Didn’t you read the sign?”

“I no read American too good,” she said, and then more urgently. “Please. My baby need help.”

The receptionist leaned over the counter and tapped the sign with her pencil for effect, and quoted. “The sign reads: Hospital closing. All walk-in patients to find the next nearest hospital.”

“I no understand? Why you no help?”

The receptionist spoke slowly. “This hospital is closing tonight due to the cut-backs. It’s been in the news for weeks.”

“¿No comprendo?”

The receptionist sighed again, losing her patience. “You need to go to a different hospital.”

“¿Habla usted espanol?”

“No I don’t. This is America and I speak American.”

Sophie intervened, “What’s the problem here?”

“This lady don’t speak American. I tried to explain—”

Sophie turned to the distressed Latino girl and addressed her in Spanish. She glared at the receptionist for her lack of compassion, and then quickly walked the Latino girl and her baby though the admissions door. One of her colleagues unwrapped the swaddling to reveal a dead African-American baby, as Sophie guided the mother to the waiting room, “It’s dead,” said her colleague. “Stone cold.”

“That’s curious,” said Sophie. “She acted like she expected her baby to be saved.”

“She’s been dead for hours.”

“OK, alert the coroner. We’ll need cause of death on this,” she peeled off her latex gloves. “I’ll go and speak to the mother.”

Sophie steeled herself; she hated this part of the job, all doctors did, informing the next-of-kin. It was especially difficult for Sophie; she felt such empathy with the bereaved, and found it doubly hard when it involved such a young person. The girl howled at the tragic news. A guttural wail, from deep in the pit of her stomach, that echoed around the empty hospital. It shook Sophie badly, but worse, much worse would follow.

__________

The Latino girl not only lost her baby, but also had to go through the indignity of a formal interview with Police. Not that the hospital suspected any wrong doing on the mother’s part, more of a formality to cover themselves in a world where litigators lurked around every corner. The girl still had to go through the rigmarole of filling out reams of endless paperwork, made harder by her lack of spoken English and complete absence of any written. Above all else, and to start the ball rolling Sophie had to ask the Latino girl to give a visual identification of her child as part of the protocol.

The Latino girl understood the request, and in a trance followed Sophie to the morgue. Her back stiffened and she readied herself to see her beautiful baby girl dead.

The drape pulled back to reveal her baby. Sophie squeezed her hand sympathetically when the girl laughed. “What is this? You make one joke?”

“I, I don’t understand…?”

“This is not my baby.”

“I assure you it’s the baby you brought in with you. We don’t make that sort of mistake, besides she's the only baby left in the entire hospital.”

“I’m telling you this is not mine,” she folded her arms defiantly, glowering at Sophie. “How dare you. What sort of girl do you think I am that I could produce this— this thing?”

“What do you mean?”

“Look at it — it’s black.”

23:15 PM

Sophie sat alone in the empty hospital canteen, gazing absently into her Styrofoam cup at the liquid that was loosely described as coffee and hesitated before taking a sip, as she went over the earlier event that had left her stunned. Bereavement struck people in different ways, she knew that, but she had never experienced a mother denying her own baby before. The whole incident left her feeling uneasy, but that was for the coroner to sort out during the post mortem.

She finally took a sip of coffee and grimaced. “Vile isn’t it?” said her friend Doctor Juliet Miller, joining her at the table. “You’re not due in tonight. I thought you were meant to be convalescing?”

“I don’t want to sit around feeling sorry for myself, it was only an auto-accident.”

“Only an auto-accident? You nearly died. Three blood transfusions I heard?”

Sophie shrugged it off. “I thought I would be more use here, helping to close down the hospital. What about you?”

“I haven’t left since yesterday. I've been flat out for twenty-four hours.” She glanced at her watch. “Boy, they run us ragged. You know, I wouldn’t let a grease-monkey touch my Benz if he hadn’t slept for two days, yet this is what the board expects us to do with human lives.”

“Ah, but this is the poor hospital, we can’t be, or are unlikely to be sued,” Sophie said. “I thought they’d be easing up on the pressure as we close tonight.”

“It’s only a skeleton staff, although we were inundated earlier, everyone sneezing all over the damn place with summer flu. The nurses ran out of medicine at one point.”

“I noticed a lot of sneezing tonight.”

A janitor passed them. “It’s going nuts out there. It’s this damn heat. It’s still over one hundred degrees, fourth night in a row. And the humidity, don’t get me started on the humidity, it’s freaking unbearable. The heat brings out the loony-tunes. The heat, that or the full-moon, and tonight we got both.”

Miller scoffed at him.

“Actually, it has some merit,” Sophie said. “Many a study has shown an increase in the mentally ill and a propensity towards violence during the different phases of the lunar cycle.”

“Yeah, I know,” agreed Doctor Miller, “lunar cycle equals lunatic. But it’s just not medical enough for my taste.”

“I tell you,” said the janitor, “Full moon and heat; it’s gonna be a hum-dinger tonight. We had a coupla cracker-heads in earlier; both been bitten by rats.”

Sophie scrunched her face horrified. “What is the world coming to?” She rubbed her injured shoulder.

Juliet Miller noticed. “Go take a nap; I’ll come wake you, if I can’t cope.”

“You promise?”

“I promise. We wound down the surgical ward. We ship the last few patients out in the morning. A news reporter hit by shrapnel is the only new in-take and only because the paramedics said he was losing too much blood. He’s quiet as a lamb under heavy sedation and we’re re-directing the walk-ins to other hospitals.”

“If you’re sure?”

“We’re only taking in life or death cases.”

“You might get the overspill from the riots,” said the Janitor.

Sophie sighed. “Not riots again.”

“It’s the heat, I’m telling you,” the Janitor chuckled and meandered away.

“The rioters will be re-directed,” Juliet told Sophie. “Off you go. Besides, I don’t think you’re fully recovered. So go have a good night’s sleep.”

Sophie yawned and dropped onto the cot in the bedroom reserved for the doctors’ on duty to use when they got a chance to nap. She thought about the baby again, and thought she might take a look at the coroner’s report. There was something not entirely right about the incident. She massaged her aching neck still stiff from the neck-brace she’d had to endure for several weeks after the crash. She lay down on top of the bedding and was asleep in seconds.

CHAPTER 4

DAY ONE

FRIDAY JULY 1st

8:00 AM

Sophie awoke slowly and stretched. She glanced at the bedside clock and sat bolt upright, surprised to find that it was eight in the morning already. Why had no one woken her as per her instructions? She should be on duty. Perhaps, under the circumstances, no one noticed her absence.

She jumped from the bed, still clothed from the night before and hurried from the room. Her heels clicked down the cavernous corridor, which made her notice the exceptional quiet, none of the usual hustle and bustle of hospital life. She stopped and looked around. There should be noise. There should be lots of noise in the hospital. Too much noise usually, in fact, close to bedlam. Yet this morning not even a whisper. Not even the incessant messages bing-bonging over the tannoy system.

Nothing.

She marched briskly toward ER and with a sense of foreboding; she pushed the double doors open. Immediately she spotted small bodies on two separate gurneys. Judging by their size, she assumed they were children. She pulled back the cloth covering the first body and stood back in surprise to see the top half of a man, cut cleanly though the middle. She pulled back the next cover to see his lower torso and legs.

She went to the outpatients department and found the receptionist fallen behind the counter. She knew before she got to her that she was dead. She checked her neck as a procedure, noting the dried blood around her ears, nose and eyes.

08.10 AM

Luke Spencer stirred in his hospital bed. He took in the surroundings of the hospital ward and sat up fast, which he instantly regretted as his head pounded worse than any hangover he could remember. He noticed his arm in a sling. His other arm had a catheter and a blood bag hanging on a metal stand next to his bed. Slowly the events of the night before came back to him, then quietly. “Maaan…”

He turned to the patient on the next bed. “Pst! Hey!” He waited for a reply for a moment. “Hey, buddy?”

He sat up cautiously and rummaged in the locker next to his bed, found his Hawaiian shorts, and slipped them on along with his flip-flops. He moved towards the neighboring bed dragging the squeaky metal stand with him.

The man was asleep on his side. Luke shook him gently. “Hey, man, where is everyone?” He rolled him over, and reeled, as he stared into the dead man’s blood-shot eyes and bloodied nostrils. “Nurse!”

He looked around the ward in disbelief. All the other patients were dead. They all appeared to have died during the night of the same disease, he took in dark ringed pustules, and oozing boils. Then the stench hit him, his knees buckled and he gagged at the overpowering smell. “Nurse!” He shouted, wandering from bed to bed touching the ice-cold flesh of each body just to be sure. “Where the hell is everyone? Nurse!”

He entered the corridor highly attuned to the stillness. “Hello, can anyone hear me. Hello?” He felt vulnerable dressed in his pale blue hospital gown, Hawaiian shorts and flip-flops. He dragged the squeaking metal stand behind him. He pushed open each ward door, most were empty. Luke gulped down his fear and never wanting to miss a story gave a closer look to each of the remaining patients, but quickly determined, disappointingly, that it was not the work of a mass murderer.

They had all died of the same disease and bizarrely, they were all African-American. What were the odds? In his layman terms he presumed some sort of communicable disease, had killed them. Then why had he not succumbed? Did the fact the victims were all African-American have something to do with it. Could it be a rare bacterium that killed one race more swiftly than another? He vaguely remembered hearing that some drug cure for malaria had the adverse effect on the African-American soldiers out in Korea. He thought through the script of his next broadcast, which reminded him that he needed to find Kenny his cameraman. He felt like he had been hit with a brick as he remembered a glimpse of Kenny injured just before he passed out.

He pushed open a heavy rubber door to the vast kitchen and stepped back revolted as a stocky black rat shot through the gap in the door with a high-pitched squeal. “More rats!”

08:30 AM

Sophie could not believe it. Every single one of her colleagues had died during the night. She checked the symptoms and slowly one virus pushed its way to the forefront. She found it hard to contemplate the thought. If correct in her diagnosis — although she hoped upon hope that she was wrong — it could mean a pandemic of biblical proportions. She had heard the sneezes last night, not thought much of it, putting it down to summer colds. She had heard from colleagues that they were turning away patients with the aches and pains associated with flu-like symptoms, but she now realized what this could also be — she stopped short, she could not even say the name of the disease — not even to herself.

She looked down at the body of her dear friend, Juliet Miller, who had all the tale tell signs; the blood from nostrils, blood from her eyes, blood from her ears and from the foul odor she could smell, from the rectum. She saw burst, swollen buboes from under her arms and around her groin. Sophie shuddered as she thought of the suffering her friend must have gone through; the pain-racked sneezing, the aching of the swollen lymph glands, the pus-filled swellings in the armpits and groin, the blistering boils, the blackening of the skin, and most horrifically, in Juliet’s case, the skin over her cheek bones had torn, while she was still alive.

__________

The rat stopped in the corridor and looked back at Luke. He watched the rodent who in turn watched him. The rat twitched his nose sizing him up. Luke thought of another story he could file on the hospital’s health standards, when he recalled that the hospital was closing down anyhow. “Hey, Mickey, which way?” he asked. The rat scurried off along the corridor. “OK, let’s go.”

Sophie turned startled as she heard the squeaking. The sound made the hairs stand up on her neck, an eerie scary sound. She did not spook on a usual day, but this was anything but a usual day. She headed out into the corridor. She saw the rat and screamed.

Luke jumped out of his skin. Sophie saw his movement and screamed again. He collapsed against the wall holding his heart. He finally got his breath back and said; “What’s up, Doc?”

She went to reply, when the corridor plunged into darkness.

12:25 PM

The Miami-Dade Health Authority has several hospitals in the predominately poor districts, one being the Good Samaritan hospital situated on Sandbank Island. The hospital building was to undergo transformation into exorbitantly expensive beachfront condominiums. The remaining stores were soon to have an upgrade to meet the wants and needs of the up market condo dwellers, but at present catered to the tourists who flocked to the island primarily for the long sandy beach, and the man-made coral reef out in the ocean that produced the rollers that in turn brought in the surfers.

One road led onto the island crossed by a cantilever bridge, one of many that cross the rivers and canals of Southern Florida, that opened to let tall boats pass, but in this case were opened to stop anyone getting on or off the island and currently being guarded by armed soldiers.

“Goddamn it!” said Luke when he spotted the soldiers.

“Can’t we wave to them, get them to lower the bridge to let us cross?” Sophie asked.

“I figure they’re protecting the mainland from us. They could’ve come over here, looked for survivors, even helping the survivors. Instead, they raise the bridge and put on an armed guard. Call me paranoid but I think they suspect a chemical attack or something.” He nodded across the stretch of water. “Look, they’re wearing gas-masks, whatever’s happened over here, you and I are immune. You’d figure that they would want to study us to discover what the disease is.”

“I know what it is,” she said.

Luke did not hear. “Or, most likely they’ll suspect us of the chemical attack. And Homeland Security can detain us, without lawyers for as long as they like. I don’t know about you, but I have a healthy distrust of the military.”

“The gas-masks won’t do them any good.”

“Why, what is it?”

“You’d laugh,” she said.

“Try me.”

She started to tell him then changed her mind. “Maybe later.”

“We’d better get under cover they’ve probably got a drone up there looking for movement.” Luke sauntered down the road in his hospital gown and flip-flops dragging the metal stand behind as if he did not have a care in the world. The sun beat down upon them, sapping their strength. The heat haze made the street shimmer. Luke gazed around at the abandoned parked vehicles, some with drivers dead behind the wheel. The virus had clearly gotten outside.

He entered a diner, “Let’s grab a drink, while I think of a brilliant idea to get us off the island,” he said. She looked heavenward, then followed him in.

The stifling heat inside the diner hit them immediately. “Man, it’s hot.”

“The AC’s off.” She pointed to stationary fans.

“I guess they’ve turned the power off to the island.”

“Can they do that?” she asked in surprise.

“Sure. My cell phone ain’t got a signal, yet the mast is on top of the hospital.” He told her. “They’ve crippled it somehow. So, we can’t get off the island, or let anyone know what’s going on.”

He went behind the counter, and tripped over the body of the owner. He popped open two Cokes from the cold shelf. He callously used the corpse for extra height, to reach an upper shelf. He passed a candy bar to her and had one for himself. “Breakfast.”

“What are you standing on?” Sophie asked, not wanting to know the answer.

“Erm, nothing,” he looked down guiltily at the corpse.

“Let me take your catheter out.” She withdrew the needle from the back of his hand, detaching him from the annoying squeaky stand.

A notion struck him and he asked her. “How come all the patients where African- Americans?”

“They weren’t.”

“Well, everyone I saw had black skin.”

“That’s one of the symptoms. In fact, that is why it is called; The Black –“

“Kenny!” he said suddenly. “My camera-man? How is he? I have a vague memory of him being injured?”

“I’m sorry, the gentleman admitted the same time as you did not make it.”

“Did he die from wounds or the disease?”

“He most definitely died from his wounds.” She told him remembering the two halves of his body.

“And you couldn’t…?” he mimed sewing.

“He was sliced in two.”

“Damn.”

She put her hand on top of his in sympathy, and left it a moment too long and felt embarrassed. She quickly changed the subject. “So, have you had a brilliant idea yet?”

“I have, as it happens.”

“What?”

“Can you Scuba-dive?”

14:00 PM

Quinn Martell, the silver-haired Surgeon General, replaced the telephone on his desk and pondered the facts he had received from the Center for Disease Control in Atlanta. He leaned his elbows on his leather-topped desk and steepled his fingers below his chin, as he decided his next course of action. Apparently, the entire staff and patients of a Miami hospital had died overnight. The information had been shaky to say the least. Luckily, the local police acted quickly and sealed off the island as the disease spread to the nearby retail outlets.

Normally disease control was a civilian matter, but the CDC had decided that the scale of the outbreak needed swift action and had called in the military to seal off the island and therefore the spread, but they did not have any notion of what the disease was, or indeed if it was even a disease. He stood and paced the office, caught his reflection in a mirror and ran his hand through his silver gray hair. A hospital was a deadly place for infections, sure, but it could be as likely a chemical spill of some sort, or even a combination of chemicals had reacted and made a deadly vapor.

If that had happened, it would have dissipated and blown out to sea. He hoped that to be the case. Sad as it would be for the deceased and their relatives, but nowhere near as disastrous as a deliberate act of terrorism. He’d feared an attack for some time. It would be relatively simple to knock up a batch of something potent. You could easily find instructions to make deadly potions on the internet.

Why anyone went to the trouble of inventing a chemical weapon, when there were so many virus’s without antidotes in the world. He shut his mind to the thought. That would be his worst fear, a pandemic without a cure. That was why the CDC and the World Health Organization based in Geneva constantly monitored international outbreaks.

The top of his list would be a natural virus, Ebola or SARS, God forbid. The US could count itself lucky when it came to illnesses. When even today, one to two million people worldwide still die every year from malaria. Not forgetting influenza, that still had a habit of spreading around the globe culling the population in great numbers.

He contemplated phoning President Burgess currently convalescing at his summer residence in Florida, not that the public knew the truth of his condition. As far as they were aware, he was suffering from a nasty bout of pneumonia. A select group knew that he’d had a heart attack — a big one — and that he was laid up and strapped to machines that kept him alive. He pressed a button on his desk and spoke to his secretary, “Get me the President.”

__________

14:30 PM

President Burgess’s beachside mansion stood north of Palm Beach on the east coast of Florida surrounded by the glamorous homes of the rich and famous. The President’s summer compound had the protection of the ocean on one side and high walls on the other. Regular military patrols guarded the gates and grounds. President James Burgess sat in his bed wired to the ever-present machinery.

He recognized the number showing on the screen of his i-pad and connected excitedly. “Quinn, old buddy, how the devil are you?” the President said overjoyed to see the face of his old Harvard roommate on the screen.

Although both men were busy practically twenty-four hours a day they still managed to get in the odd round of golf when they could. However, he knew that he would not be calling to catch up, and knew it must be serious. “What’s the reason for this unexpected pleasure?”

“There’s been an incident down in Miami, Jim.”

“The riot, I saw it on TV.”

“Not the riot. This has the potential to be far, far worse.”

The President noted his friend’s hesitancy, and prompted. “Go on.”

“We might have an outbreak.”

“Where?”

“It’s concentrated at a hospital on a stretch of land off the coast.”

“Why hasn’t anyone told me?”

“Homeland security got wind of it and sat on it,” Quinn told him.

“Homeland security?” the President said. He sat upright in his bed and one of the monitors started to ping rapidly. “Why?”

“They think it’s a terrorist attack.”

“Either way, no one’s told me.”

“Hamilton Parker knows, I understand.”

“The Vice President? Why tell the VP and not me?”

“He led us to believe he’s unofficially running the country due to your incapacity.”

“Watch him for me, would you? He’s one slippery sonofabitch. Terrorists or not, I should be told. I’m still the goddamned President, for Christ’s sake!” His face turned bright red. He clutched his heart and flopped back on the bed.

21:10 PM

“It’s better to leave it until nightfall,” Luke said. “Because the scuba-gear makes bubbles, and they’ll be harder to see in the dark.” They entered Big Benny’s Sporting Goods Store. The store’s inventory mainly catered towards surfers, with the odd harpoon gun, and some diving paraphernalia. Luke picked up the harpoon gun and loaded it. “We might need this.”

Sophie regarded the scuba gear. “I’m not so sure, I’ve never done this before, aren’t there rules, I mean, aren’t you meant to have lessons?”

“The river’s only ten foot deep. We’ll simply walk along the bottom unseen.”

“That IS brilliant.”

He beamed. “I told ya,” he said and poked through the stock and found them a scuba-tank kit each. “You put this in your mouth,” he told her, showing her the breathing apparatus. “Breathe in and out and that’s all there is to it.”

A wild-eyed man leaped up from his hiding place behind the counter and pointed a flare-gun at them. “Freeze motherfuckers!” He motioned for Luke to put the harpoon-gun down on the counter.

Sophie raised her hands tentatively. Luke ignored the man. “Luke, put your hands up,” she hissed.

“Why?”

“Because he has a gun.” She nodded towards it.

“That’s not a gun. It’s a flare.”

“It’s a phosphorus flare, if it doesn’t kill you outright, the flare would burn a hole right through your chest.”

His eyebrows knitted together. “Fair enough.” He raised his one good arm.

The man screeched at them. “What have you done?”

Luke looked puzzled by the question at first, and then said. “This is nothing to do with us.”

“You work at the hospital. You must’ve leaked some chemical or something. My old lady is suffering bad.”

Sophie moved forward slightly. “Let me see her. I’m a Doctor.”

The man stepped back and pointed with his flare-gun to the woman laid prone on the floor behind the counter. One glance told Sophie all she needed to know, she shook her head gently.  “She’s too far gone. I can’t help. She’s got it.”

The man’s eyes widened. “What’s she got?”

She paused reluctant to say the words aloud, as if by not saying them would somehow stop the virus’s progress, but eventually she muttered, “The Bubonic Plague.”

The man wailed, tears streaked down his face and he raged again, thrusting his flare-gun in her face. “Make her better. I order you to make her better!”

“There isn’t a cure for this strain.”

“Make her better or I swear I’ll shoot you!” His knuckles whitened as they slowly pulled back on the trigger….

CHAPTER 5

21:15 PM

Moored ten miles off the east coast of Florida, on the aircraft carrier USS Thomas Jefferson the crew prepared to lower a landing craft from the starboard bow. The three men inside were wearing gas masks. Commander Roscoe, a ramrod straight, silver haired man in his fifties addressed them. “You know why we’re doing this?”

“We’re mopping up the slop, sir.”

“That’s right. You must eliminate all the possible carriers.”

The three crewmen snapped to attention, “Aye, aye, sir.” They said in unison.

The Commander stared them in the eye. “You’re OK with this? You’ll be killing fellow Americans.”

“No problem, sir.”

“I can’t have you balk at the last moment.”

“I took an oath, Commander.”

Commander Roscoe felt uneasy. “This is why we’re leaving it until dark. We can’t be seen to be doing this. You understand why?”

The second lieutenant replied. “They’re either carrying the disease, or they’re the terrorists themselves, sir. I’ll mop up the slop. No problem. They’ve released a nerve agent. They’ve killed everyone on the island. They don’t deserve to live, sir. They’re traitors as far as I’m concerned. I’ll kill them as easy as stepping on a bug.”

“You’re to leave no one alive. Go to it.”

“Aye-aye, sir!”

21:20 PM

“Cool it, man,” Luke said firmly. The wild-eyed man pointed the flare-gun at Luke and then back to Sophie again, unable to comprehend her words. “How can she have the plague?”

“Everyone upon the island has been exposed to it,” Sophie explained.

“Then, why ain’t we dead?”

“It’s ninety-nine percent fatal. We’re obviously immune.”

He waved the flare-gun furiously, “Cure her. Now.”

“She is too far gone, I’m sorry.”

His hand trembled and pointed the flare-gun at her, “Make her better, or I’ll kill you!”

“I can’t,” she said.

His body trembled and his eyes glared, he raised the gun to her head and his finger squeezed back on the trigger… when Luke snatched up a harpoon-gun and fired, the harpoon whooshed out and shot into the man’s chest, pinning him to the wall.

The wild-eyed man’s legs kicked and danced in his macabre death-throws. Blood gurgled from his mouth then he twitched for a moment.

Sophie found Luke outside throwing up. “You saved my life, thank you,” she said gratefully.

He looked at the vomit bashfully. “Must’ve been something I ate,”

She looked down at the puddle of vomit. “It looks like everything you ate,” she joked. “Still, proves you’re human,” she patted his back. “I thought you might’ve said some tough-guy corny line like, ‘stick around, dude,’” she mimicked his deep voice.

He clicked his fingers, “Oh man, I wish I had said that, let’s go back in.”

She rolled her eyes, “I think we should keep moving.”

21:25 PM

The navel landing craft bounced across the waves as it headed to shore. A gung ho kid scanned the beach back and forth with night vision goggles, and then shouted. “Gotcha!”

“How many?” asked the second lieutenant.

“Two of ‘em. Man and woman.”

The gunner operating the forward-mounted machine-gun braced himself, as the boat hopped a large wave. He steadied himself and prepared to fire.

“Let’s get ‘em,” The gung ho kid whooped with glee at the thought of the coming action.

“Ready?” the second lieutenant asked and the threesome touched knuckles, “OK, let’s light ‘em up.”

With a loud bang, he fired a flare that zoomed into the night sky.

__________

Luke and Sophie strolled bare-foot at the water’s edge feeling the sand between their toes and the tide lapping at their ankles, looking like newly-weds without a care in world. They carried the scuba-tanks and passed discarded jet skis.

“If I’m right,” she said. “It is going to be a pandemic like the world has never seen. We are going to need a massive quarantine of the infected, mass evacuations of the uninfected, and then we need to develop a cure for this new strain of plague.”

“How hard can it be?” he said with nonchalance.

She looks at him incredulously.

“I’ll give it a go.”

She laughed. “You idiot,” she playfully hit him on the arm.

He winced. “Argh!”

“Oh, my gosh! I’m so sorry.” She touched his injured arm and baby-talked him, teasing. “Does it hurt?”

“Yeah, of course it damn well hurts. I had half a helicopter smash through my arm.”

“Half!” she laughed and punched him again, then immediately realized her mistake but couldn’t stop herself from laughing, and felt something pass between them.

He pulled her in close to him. “I just want to say –” with an enormous ground shaking bang a flare burst above their heads flooding the area in bright light. “- Shit.”

Machine-gun bullets plopped into the water a few yards from them. Quick as a flash, Luke jumped onto the ink-black Kawasaki Jet Ski and fired it up, “Get on!”

She leaped onto the back and they sped away, with the machine gun bullets slapping into the water inches from them.

Luke zigzagged away as the flare dimmed. He saw the high-powered searchlight ahead, banked steeply nearly tipping them off, then corrected the maneuver successfully. He opened the throttle fully and headed for the nearby coastline when the landing craft sailed into their path.

On the landing craft, the searchlight picked them out only yards ahead. “There!” said the gunner pointing out the fugitives. He spun the mounted machine-gun around, but his colleagues were in his line of fire.

The second lieutenant noticed and pulled hard down on the wheel to turn the craft around. Luke swerved to dodge the landing-craft and realized they were about to cross the craft’s wake, he stood to take the impact of the wave, Sophie followed suit, as the first wave hit they took off, soared ten feet into the air and crunched back down onto the ocean still in one piece.

“Oh, maaan, that was awesome! Wanna do it again?”

The lumbering landing craft was slower to change direction than the zippier Jet ski, which Luke used to his full advantage. He aimed at the beach and drove hell for leather towards the target, not letting up on the throttle even as they made land. The Jet ski cut a groove up the beach until they came to a grinding halt and fell unceremoniously onto the sand. They lay on the beach, catching their breath, before remembering they were still in danger.

Nearby tourists rushed to them, some to help, others to film them with their camera-phones. Sophie and Luke mingled with the crowd that thronged along the promenade, although he was still easy to spot wearing his hospital gown.

Hard as Luke tried to blend in with the crowd, the machine-gunner still sought him out, had him in his crosshairs and readied to shoot, when his Superior put his hand on the barrel forcing him to lower his weapon. “Not in front of witnesses — besides you can tell they’re not the terrorists.”

“How come, lieutenant?” asked the Gunner.

“Because they’re white.”

CHAPTER 6

DAY TWO

SATURDAY JULY 2nd

06:45 AM

The American United Boeing 777 flight 416 out of Miami bound for London glided through the sky silhouetted against the rising sun. Luke sat in business class on his way to the British capital to cover yet another Royal scandal. He blasted down the air-phone to his boss back at the studio. “It’s the scoop of the century and you won’t run it?”

“Only half of my staff turned in today,” said his boss. “I’ve never known anything like it. The ones that have turned up are dropping like flies.”

“I’m telling you, they’ve got the virus,”

“The authorities aren’t saying anything.”

“I told you what happened.”

“I did some checking,” said his boss. “It’s a bridge malfunction apparently.”

“Sure it is,” Luke said sarcastically. “Then why are troops guarding it?”

“To stop folk swimming across. There’s a dangerous alligator in there.”

“Uhuh. Have you dispatched anyone to the island yet?”

“Look, Homeland Security’s on it. We can’t use it.”

“You ain’t gonna broadcast a worldwide sensation?” Luke felt himself getting angry as his boss stonewalled him, trying to cover his sorry ass. “Show some balls. It’s a worldwide scoop.”

“You want me to go up against the might of Homeland Security? You seriously want me to risk my job on YOUR hunch? Remember last time?”

“OK, so I called it wrong last time—”

“But that was a doozy. I nearly lost my job the last time I played one of your hunches. It’s not going to happen, Luke. Not without more evidence.”

“By the time you wait for the evidence everyone else will have the story.”

“That’s it. Enjoy London, Luke.”

“Boss, do me a favor,” Luke calmed himself, knowing he’d lost this round, and changed tack. “Go home. The only way to survive this virus is to isolate yourself from other people.”

His boss noticed the change in Luke’s tone and took him seriously. “And does this new virus have a name?”

He sighed deeply, knowing what his boss’s reaction would be. “It ain’t a new virus; it’s an old one, a very old one… the Bubonic Plague.”

07:30 AM

Sophie drove up the I-95 interstate in her rented jeep, as hers was still upon the island. She was on her way to visit the Seminole Native-Americans at their reservation, for their monthly consultations. These were the purists, who still lived on the land, shunning their more famous cousins with their casinos, gift shops and alligator wrestling. They despised them for selling out, and dressing like fools, acting as if they were cast members at Disney World. They preferred the quiet and solitude of the old ways, and Sophie enjoyed meeting with them and hearing of their folklore and traditions. She’d been particularly surprised to find that they had taken in and welcomed the freed slaves, who had made their way down south to Spanish Florida and allied themselves to the Seminole, who called them, ‘Maroons’.

She turned onto Interstate 75, known locally as Alligator Alley. She cruised along for some miles enjoying the wind in her hair, as it was another scorching day. She thought about the events of the day before. She steeled herself for the telephone call that she had to make and voice dialed her car-phone, “The Surgeon General,” she said with a confident voice, a confidence that she did not feel. She could be about to make the biggest mistake of her life, or if correct she would prevent a major outbreak. She had no choice; she had to warn Quinn Martell.

__________

The Surgeon General glanced at the caller ID and beamed. “Doctor Garcia, how lovely to hear from you. Is this a social call?”

“I wish. No, we have a problem, here in Miami.”

“Tell me?” He asked, wondering how she knew.

“There has been an outbreak centered at the Good Samaritan hospital.”

“I have been hearing snippets. How do you know?”

“I was there.”

“My God… are you feeling OK?” he asked genuinely concerned.

“I appear to be immune, but at least fifty people have died of a virulent strain of the Bubonic Plague. Yet there is nothing on the news, no warnings or anything. My question to you is, why not?”

“Sophie, you always were my favorite pupil, no preamble — straight to the point.” He smiled at the memory. “Well, up until you called, I’ve had no official notice. Homeland Security is in charge and playing it close to their chests. The rumor is that they think it’s a chemical attack.”

“Absolutely not,” she said firmly. “It has all the symptoms of the Bubonic Plague — the Black Death, but this time it is also pneumonic — it’s airborne.”

“OK, let me see what I can find out. Thank you for the heads up. I’ll call you back.”

__________

Quinn Martell hung up and pursed his lips. He knew that Sophie would not phone without cause. She had been one of the brightest students he had ever had the privilege to teach and she was now one of the foremost experts in the field of contagious diseases, with a fondness for the historic plagues of Europe. In fact, she had always insisted that the plague would return one day, a notion for which he had gently chided her. He prayed to god that he would not be wrong. He’d do some digging. He had some old pals in the Homeland Security, he would try to winkle out information, then call the President, the sooner he acted the better.

Fifteen minutes later he made a scrambled telephone call to the President. “With reference to the viral outbreak in Florida, we believe we know what it is.”

“Hit me with it.”

“The Black Death.”

“The Black Death?” He chuckled. “You mean the Bubonic Plague? You’re kidding me, right? I mean, that was eradicated years ago.”

“Or, so we thought. This is a new strain. In fact, according to the World Health Organization this is long overdue.”

The President sucked in oxygen through a hand-held mask attached to a bedside cylinder. He shuddered, taking in the news.

Quinn continued on video-link and paced his office. “The WHO knew that it was never a matter of IF a virus would cause a worldwide pandemic, it was more a matter of WHEN.” Quinn gazed out of his office window watching the world go by. Folks were on their way to work without a care, going about their daily business, not realizing the horror about to be unleashed upon mainland America. He continued. “It’s arrogant of man to think we can continue breeding at this rate without paying the consequences.”

“What do you mean?”

“The world’s population has increased by a billion since 1999, by four billion since 1960.”

“You’re kidding?”

“It’s more than doubled in our lifetime.”

“And what is the optimum level?”

“Around the four billion mark.”

“And what’s the figure now?”

“Over seven billion.”

“And our resources are already in short supply.”

“Exactly, this is nature’s way of reversing that trend, culling the herd.” The President sucked in more oxygen, as Quinn continued. “Last time, the Black Death wiped out over two hundred million people and that was at walking speed, now we’ve got airplanes trains, automobiles. The way the population is crammed together on this over-populated planet this virus will encircle the globe in days.”

“My God…”

“Of all known species to have ever lived on this planet of ours, ninety-nine point five percent have been wiped out — survival of the fittest, et cetera.” He took a deep breath and continued. “Another way of looking at it is if you took the history of the globe as a twenty-four hour clock, man appears at one minute to midnight, our future is far from assured.”

“But we’re talking about an ancient disease?”

“Precisely. Do you know how many doses of antidote for the Black Death we have here in the United States?”

“Surprise me.”

“None.”

“None?”

“That’s how much we have dismissed this virus. We did not think it necessary.”

“My… god.”

“And on top of that, this is a new strain.”

The President hefted himself up in his bed. “And this Intel is sound?”

“Rock solid.”

He flopped back onto his pillows. “How in hell are we going to implement the counter-measures? Any sort of panic and we’ll have riots on our hands. Can you imagine what would happen to the stock market? We need to handle this with finesse, while at the same time try to quarantine southern Florida.” He assimilated the information, then asked. “What’s the projected death toll percentage?”

“Almost one hundred percent.”

“My god… the Miami area has two and a half million people alone.”

“Even if we act now we’ve still conservatively estimated the death toll to be five million.”

08:30 AM

Luke sat back in his business class seat and thought back to the day before. Christ, was it only yesterday that a helicopter blade sliced his good buddy in half? So much had happened since then. He cursed his boss’s reluctance in backing him on his story and contemplated running the story on an anonymous website, but thought against it. He did not want the authorities on his back — again. Someone sneezed behind him and he felt a chill go down his spine. It made him realize how many people were sneezing at the airport. Could that have been a coincidence, or had the virus spread already? What would happen if infected people got onto an airplane? What would happen if an infected carrier had gotten on this airplane?

Was there someone else on the airplane who had visited the island hospital? What was the incubation period? How many people had visited the island in the previous three days? How many had they interacted with? Alternatively, had it started elsewhere and that person infected the hospital. It was an easy target after all, with the patients’ immune systems already in a weakened state.

Sophie had told him a sneeze, or something as innocuous as touching a door-handle could pass on the disease. He looked around and could not see a likely suspect, but then what does a person in the early stages of the virus look like?

A fat man sitting across from him did not look well; he sweated profusely, and rubbed a handkerchief across his face. He sneezed loudly, and then engaged the button that slowly reclined his chair into the lying position. Luke could see massive sweat stains under the man’s arms, yet the air conditioning worked fine, keeping business class at a comfortable temperature. Luke jolted forward as he saw the fat man scratching under his armpit. He recalled Sophie telling him a major sign of the Black Death were the buboes under the arm. Oh, maaan. The realization hit him like a punch to the face. The Bubonic Plague was on board the airplane.

He watched as the man jack-knifed and had a convulsion that ended in an almighty sneeze. Luke imagined that he could see the microscopic droplets propel from his mouth spreading to the aisle, covering the unsuspecting flight attendant, who in turn sauntered down the airplane spreading the virulent disease to the other passengers. The confined space was the worst place for a contagion, he thought. This was not the environment for a carrier to be on board, as the re-cycled air pumped throughout the craft, fatally infecting all three hundred and fifty passengers and crew. Should he tell them? Would they believe him? Even if they did believe him, what could they do about it?

09:00 AM

The Pentagon is the headquarters of the United States Department of Defense and named after its five sides, a fact that had driven conspiracy theorists nuts for years. It’s a pentagram after all, they said, and the number five had significance amongst occultists. It had five sides, five floors above ground, five circular corridors, how could it not be sinister, they speculated. The fact that the five-sided inner forecourt covered five acres was the final proof. The forecourt was known as Ground Zero, years before President Bush had coined the phrase, in the aftermath of the World Trade Center Twin Towers attack of 9/11. The terrorist attack upon the Pentagon being exactly sixty years to the day that building work on the pentagon began.

Ground Zero, the term coined during the height of the Cold War with Russia, because in the event of a nuclear attack the first warheads would target that very spot.

Across the Potomac River from the White House the Pentagon is the world’s largest office block, containing over thirty thousand military and civilian staff, seventeen miles of corridors and twenty fast food franchises including McDonalds, Pizza Hut and Taco Bell to name a few.

The structure, so enormous that President Dwight Eisenhower, while still army chief of staff after WWII, managed to get lost in its vastness, when out for a stroll and had to ask a group of stenographers the way back to his office.

Deep within its bowels, the Joint Chiefs of Staff gathered in the War Room, hastily assembled by President Burgess. The war room was a hive of industry, a multitude of personnel buzzed around in the background, fielding telephone calls and tapping away at computers.

The leaders of the different branches of the armed forces watched a debate between the disembodied surgeon general on the small desk-mounted monitors each had in front of them around the massive conference table, and President James Burgess whose face filled a video-link from his compound in Florida above their heads on giant screens.

The President brimmed over with health and vitality surprising the men assembled as they had heard through the rumor-mill that the President was at deaths door having had a colossal heart attack. Little did they know that the President was still in bed, careful camera angles from his trusted staff and plenty of make-up helped with the deception.

“—So, we should be cautious?” the President asked tentatively.

Quinn looked uneasy talking openly in front of the gathered personnel. “We’re beyond cautious, Mister President. This is a full blown pandemic.”

President Burgess nodded slowly taking in the information. “Well, there you have it, Gentlemen. Any questions?”

General Jumpin’ Jack Malloy, commander of army forces said, “I have one, the Bubonic Plague? I’m having trouble comprehending this. Correct me if I’m wrong, but hasn’t it been eradicated?”

Quinn Martell took the question. “That’s the whole point, we became complacent. While we’ve been expecting a chemical warfare attack we’ve forgotten about this archaic pestilence.”

“But there’s a cure for this,” the general said.

“No inoculations stored anywhere in the United States,” Quinn said.

The shock reply reverberated around the conference table.

“None?” exploded General Malloy.

“Not a drop.”

“Why not?”

“A decision was made long ago,” Quinn said. “Between the Center for Disease Control, my predecessors in this office, and the World Health Organization in Geneva, that it wasn’t a threat anymore,” he paused, to let them consider this, and then continued. “However, this is a new strain, for which there is no cure. And, the way the population moves around so fast today, it’s going to be nigh on impossible to stop.”

General Malloy held up a restraining hand, “I still think a terrorist attack is more likely. I’ve taken over from Homeland Security and they told me that their people on the ground down in Florida have been digging around and watching this unfold and believe it to be terrorists.”

“That’s because they’re looking for terrorists. They’re not considering any other possibilities.”

The general glowered at him, and then carried on, “We’ve been monitoring e-mails and cell phone chatter from that district, and the details are leaking out despite our efforts to contain it. I’m telling you that the rumors are spreading like wildfire. All sorts of tales from the vicinity, and at least thirty low level wannabe terrorists groups are claiming responsibility for the attack, none of which have such capabilities — yet,”

President Burgess rejoined the conversation. “I’m all for free speech, but we can’t have these sorts of rumors getting out of control. It could cause widespread panic. And we all remember what happened to the stock market after 9/11, we almost went into financial melt-down. This is unprecedented. I’d hate to think what’d happen if this epidemic—”

“Not if, Mister President, when,” Quinn Martell butted in. The men gathered murmured their shock. Quinn knew he had their attention. “We all know, of the Black Death from history, but possibly not the devastating effect it had in Europe, I had to look this stuff up myself, estimates put the number at between half and two thirds of the population of Europe was wiped out.” He heard them gasp and continued. “To put that into our context, you’re talking over one hundred and fifty million Americans would die, that’s one hundred and fifty million.” He took in the open-mouthed stares from the military men. “Going back to Europe, the entire workforce perished and it caused a huge economic disaster, with no workers, the few that remained were able to barter themselves a decent living wage. Multiply that into today’s market place, and the turmoil would be incalculable, and please bear in mind these are underestimates. If the infected get to foreign countries — to our trading partners, well, you can draw your own conclusions.”

The President said. “We must recall all aircraft at once.”

“Already been implemented, Mister President,” said General Malloy.

The President’s face clouded over, and he said menacingly. “And when the hell were, you going to tell me?”

“As soon as was possible, sir, but it is our remit to do what is best for the nation in a crisis. You would’ve been informed in timely fashion. However, given your condition we thought it wise not to alarm you. We kept the VP in the loop.”

“That’s right Jim,” said smooth-looking Vice President Hamilton Parker, beaming his Hollywood-star smile. “It’s all under control. I’ve taken care of the situation, you can rely on me, and I have your back.”

“I don’t want you having my back,” snarled President Burgess. “If there’s a threat to our nation then I need to know, immediately.” He choked, coughed, spat something into his hands, worrying the assembly, and then recovered his composure. “Recalling the aircraft is a good start, but we need to block entry and exit to and from our airports, our docks, and we must throw up road blocks.”

General Malloy blustered. “Let’s not be rash, Mister President, do you have any idea of the man-power needed for such a scheme?”

Quinn said, “You’re going to have to find a way, because we’re talking about Armageddon, the worst bits of the Bible, this plague, or pestilence if you will, could potentially send us back to the dark ages.” He paused, as there were audible gasps from around the war room. “You have to take this threat seriously. Going back to the historic events in Europe, the Black Death wiped out tens of millions and that was at walking speed.”

“Let me show you our projections if this virus is left unattended, and bear in mind this is without anyone flying into another densely populated area and starting the whole process again.”

A map of mainland America replaced his face. “We’ve calculated that this has already happened.” The Florida Keyes and Miami turned bright red, “Day one,” the bottom third of Florida colored red, “Day two, we’re talking about the whole of Florida and parts of Alabama.” The map turned dark red in the corresponding area. “Day three, most of the southern states, day four…” He let the graphic do the talking as continental USA turned bright red, including parts of Canada and Mexico.

The Joint Chiefs of Staff were stunned into silence. From the huge monitors President Burgess cleared his throat. “We need to contain this information, let the material out bit by bit, let the nation absorb it slowly. Show them that we are in control of the situation and on top of it. We can’t be having the news leaking out until we’re ready,” he paused, wondering how to phrase the next question. “As I said earlier, I’m all for free speech, it’s a constitutional right, after all, but just this once, is there anything we can do to stop the email chatter from getting out of control?”

General Malloy stood and waited until he had everyone’s attention. “Already done, Mister President, since 0600 hours, we’ve managed to jam the major email carriers; they think it’s a glitch.”

The President allowed himself a brief smile, relief washing over him to this piece of news. “And cellular phones?”

“Since 0700 hours this morning. The Miami-Dade district immediately and we’ve worked on the other masts moving north until we’ve almost reached Orlando.”

“Well done, Jack, that’s excellent work.”

Quinn said. “Am I the only one to have grave misgivings about this affront to civil liberties?” No one else spoke, the Chiefs of Staff busied themselves making notes, “Oh, apparently I am.”

During the lull in conversation the VP seized the moment. “I’ve got my sources too, and I still say it’s terrorists. We know the Iraqis, Iranians and Syrians are stockpiling Anthrax and Ricin and god-knows what else, why not a modified form of the Black Death? By the time we realize it’s a foreign power behind the attack, it’ll be too late.”

“Duly noted,” said the President, nodding grimly. “Hamilton, I need you to take care of the day-to-day affairs of government.”

“You can rely on me, Jim,” the VP said.

“I’m going to have my hands full with this. I’m calling out the National Guard and we will go to Defcon three.”

“Mister President,” interrupted General Malloy. “I still think you’re being rash, this could backfire. This’ll only be the fourth time we’ve been on a Defcon three state of readiness, do you think Defcon three is necessary, after all, the last time was 9/11.”

“I’m prepared to stand by my decisions. We need to be decisive and pro-active not reactive. We cannot wait.”

The men gasped at the gravity of the statement. Eventually General Malloy tried again. “Mister President, we have had no other reports of the Black Death outside of the island, it could have blown out to sea.”

“If I’m wrong, I’ll look the biggest fool in history, no doubt lose my job, and become a laughing-stock, but if I’m right… well, let’s hope I’m wrong.” He sighed and then said. “If you need more convincing I’ll pass you over to the surgeon general, Quinn?”

“We; my department, the Center for Disease Control in Atlanta and the World Health Organization have been expecting a pandemic like this. It’s long overdue, the population has increased too fast, and this is nature’s way of culling the herd. From the evidence gathered so far this contagion has the potential to be what we call an E.L.E.-”

“In English, Quinn,” said President Burgess.

“It’s an extinction level event — in other words it’s the Doomsday infection.”

CHAPTER 7

THE ONSLAUGHT

09:45 AM

“Hey, Buddy?” The fat man shook Luke awake. Much to his surprise Luke had managed to drop off, unable to warn anyone, or be taken seriously, he’d shut his eyes and let much needed sleep wash over him.

The fat man dripped sweat, and pointed out of the window beyond Luke. “Correct me if I’m wrong but that ain’t London is it?”

Luke stared aghast to see that the airplane was skirting jungle-like treetops as it prepared to land.

The flight attendant showed the fat man back to his seat. “Fasten your seat-belt; this could be a bumpy landing.”

“Why are we landing here,” Luke asked her. “What’s going on?”

“The captain will make an announcement as soon as we are on the ground.”

Luke stared at the window watching the fire-trucks with lights flashing and sirens blaring running parallel with their predicted landing route.

The captain’s voice crackled over the tannoy. “Flight attendants to your seats. Ladies and gentlemen assume the crash position.”

Luke crunched forward to put his head between his legs, remembering that he’d heard that the recommended crash position was best to preserve the teeth for future identification if bodies were burned to a crisp. He shuddered at the thought and sat up. He decided he’d rather try to work out where they were.

Flight 416 bumped heavily to the runway with a painful screech of the tires, then the reversal of the engine throwing Luke forward. The airplane finally stopped at a remote part of the airport and he saw in astonishment that the military, fully attired in camouflaged biohazard suits had encircled the Boeing 777.

“What the f—?”

The Captain interrupted his thoughts. “Ladies and gentlemen do not be alarmed, we’ve temporarily been diverted to the Caribbean, where we are to re-fuel and then return to Miami.” The passengers, who seconds earlier were begging for their lives, now groaned and bitched, and threatened to sue the airline. “The soldiers outside,” continued the captain. “Are going to hose down the aircraft, it seems that we may be contagious.”

The word caused the expected pandemonium amongst the passengers. The flight attendant shushed them. “Listen, this is important.”

He continued. “I’m sure it’s nothing to worry about; it’s only a precaution and the locals are following the instructions from our government. It seems there has been a kind of chemical incident and they are being prudent and recalling all airplanes back to Miami International, where they will check us out and give us the all clear. Thank you.”

The mumbling and complaints got worse, when the tannoy crackled once more, “One more thing,” the captain said. “On a more serious note, the local authorities have said any attempt to alight from the aircraft will be met with the, erm, utmost force.” The passengers took the latest news with righteous indignation. “Sit tight, we’re already refueling and naturally we have priority to take off, so we’ll be out of here in a jiffy. Thank you.”

Luke observed the local militia looking like spacemen in their biohazard suits.

Armed and trigger-happy spacemen.

10:15 AM

Kelvin Copnik awoke and stirred in his Key West penthouse apartment. He smiled broadly at the person asleep next to him — a pick-up at a Miami nightclub who’d agreed to come all the way back with him. Kelvin smiled, looked out through the floor-to-ceiling windows down onto the town at the southernmost tip of mainland USA, ninety miles to Cuba, which oddly made him closer geographically to Havana than Miami.

He loved the Key West life-style, what with the applauding of the wondrous sunsets that were plentiful, to the seven-toed cats at Earnest Hemingway’s home, and to the laid-back live-and-let-live attitude of the locals. He rolled to his side to gaze at his latest conquest, long shapely legs, shaggy blonde hair… and beard.

Kelvin, or to call him by his Miami alter ego’s name, Big Mary, was the queen of the Fairy Grotto, a gay Miami drag show, where he was the star act. He blew in the man’s ear while trying to remember the dude’s name, Dave, Daniel, or Danny. Something like that, anyhow, they were all the same to him. Big Mary loved the gay scene and its promiscuous life-style although nowhere near the early '80s heights.

During the 1980s heyday of the bathhouses some guys would have anything up to ten encounters per night. The bathhouses catered for all tastes what with the notorious glory holes, where you could be the giver; oral, accepting a penis pushed through the hole cut into the WC cubicle partition or the receiver, where you put your erect penis through the gap to be fellated anonymously by a giver. It meant that anyone could get or receive a blowjob, meaning that there was even a place for the fat, misshapen or downright ugly; that they too could a have a full and promiscuous sex life. There was even talk of a sub-culture for the unattractive. Still today, some guys hunting bears, they adored their men covered in hair, or chubby chasers, whose tastes led to the corpulent, there was even a part of the bathhouse designated pig-alley, for the truly foul and unattractive.

Not that any of these groups would have interested Big Mary, and this was before the days of AIDS. Big Mary had made it a point to learn all the statistics concerning the  AIDS epidemic. Better forewarned he’d thought. Although the western media ignored the Aids problem, it still had a terrible effect in Africa, particularly in the sub-Saharan region, where one in twenty adults had contracted HIV and over seven hundred children were dying from the disease each day!

Mind you, that was through their mother’s breast-milk not their lifestyle choice. In fact, sixty-nine percent of adults suffering with the HIV virus lived in the sub-Saharan area. It was incredible that the western world had buried it’s head when it came to AIDS, probably due to information overload during the 1980s and 1990s, what with the bombardment of charity gigs, and infomercials from minor celebrities joining the cause. It did not concern most of the American population as they had little or no chance of catching the ‘gay’ plague, and they quickly tired of the news items and tuned them out. Even today nearly forty million people worldwide suffer from the disease and an astonishing 1.6 million sufferers would die horribly each year from the syndrome, only to have 2.3 million newly effected victims replace them.

Big Mary would check his nightly conquests thoroughly, no point in taking chances, he’d thought. A rash or any sort of skin blemish would have him running for the hills, as would anyone severely underweight. He would check carefully for herpes-like symptoms around the mouth; blistering or evidence of cold sores would have him find a different partner. Flaky skin was another indicator, not that he would entertain sleeping with a guy with flaky skin however gorgeous he was. Flaky skin? Urgh, heaven forbid. He’d always give anyone with fever or flu-like signs a wide berth naturally enough. Big Mary was overcautious. He’d also shun a guy with a cold. He'd look elsewhere because there would always be more guys willing to spend the night, thank goodness, plenty more.

Only the best, most gorgeous, fittest — and healthy — guys were good enough for him, like Dave, Daniel or Danny. He was sure it began with a ‘D’. He wished he could remember, he wanted to wake him and send him on his way, he had things to do, people to see, fish to fry. He was a sailor, he remembered that much, there was a submarine in town and the clubs were brimming over with muscular sailors, who after months at sea playing it ‘butch’, could finally let themselves go.

And boy did they let themselves go.

He shook the guy under the sheets, he’d have to wing it regarding his name. “Hey wake up.” He shook the guy’s shoulders. No reaction. Kevin flipped back the sheets and gasped. Black lesions covered the guy's torso.

“Holy shit, he’s got Aids!” Kelvin leaped from the bed and paced the room, No, no, no, this could not be happening. The lesions weren’t there last night. He checked, he always checked. Yet these lesions looked different. His torso was black from where the ring-like lesions had multiplied. There also appeared to be lumps under the skin. He wrinkled his nose and detected the stench of feces. Christ, what had they done the night before? This wasn’t normal. He edged back the covers further to see the guy was laying in a pool of excrement. Kelvin felt tears running down his face and realized that through his carelessness the night before, he’d signed his own death warrant. He grabbed the guy and recoiled, as he was stone cold.

Stone cold to the touch and stone cold dead.

10:30 AM

Trooper Stanley Willis pulled away from the scene of the accident in his Miami-Dade Police Department dodge charger. He’d contained the situation and he needed to get to see his mother. She’d get agitated if he was even more than a few minutes late on his weekly visit. God he hated the visits and God he hated her and these goddamned inconvenient trips. If she didn’t hold the purse strings, he would have said; sayonara to the old bitch years ago.

His mother had put him down and belittled him all his life; he lived in constant fear of the domineering old bat. She had made his childhood miserable with her endless harping that nothing he ever did was good enough for her. He’d remembered when he told her he was gonna be a baseball star and she’d scoffed at him calling him a fool. He told her the Coach had told him he had a natural aptitude for the sport, but his mom had sneered and mocked him. Telling him, he’d amount to nothing, like his bum of a father, a feckless, work-shy bigot, who’d blamed the Negros for all his woes. Even when Stanley graduated from the police academy, she taunted him that they must’ve lowered their intake standards and that he’d always remain in uniform.

However, in spite of her he’d enjoyed police work and the comradeship of his co-workers. They had a bond, brought together by the events they experienced, that civilians could not comprehend, like having to attend to the aftermath of a murder. Be it a stabbing, shooting or plain old barehanded, cold-blooded strangling. The slaughtering of one another with whatever came to hand, pots, pans, toasters, needle, or scissors, it amazed Stanley. The murder, nearly always committed by one family member upon another family member; it was still by far the number one category of homicide.

Stanley could sympathize with them. God, he wished he’d had the guts to kill his mother years ago. Of course, now that she WAS dying he hoped he could prolong her life so that he could watch her die in painful agony for even longer. She’d often catch him smirking when the pain got too much. Yet a smile would cross her face and he knew, just knew, that she’d leave all her money to a cats’ home to spite him.

Yet, each week she’d summon him and each week he’d attend like the obedient slave he always had been. Roll on when the old nag was dead. He’d immerse himself in his job during the day and spend his nights in cop hang-out bars, maybe date a cop groupie — yes, there was such a thing — girls who loved to hang around cops, they even had websites. He’d give it a go soon, after the old hag had gone.

Tonight though, he’d have his regular bar cronies hanging on his every word, with his latest yarn, his story of the RTA — road traffic accident, he’d just left, that was a baffling case if there ever was one.

When he’d arrived at the scene of the accident, the paramedics were already there and had pronounced the motorcycle rider dead. He’d been decapitated so no argument there. Yet Sergeant Stanley Willis still had to go through the rigmarole of finding the cause of the accident. He crouched by the torso of the Hells Angel with ‘death or Glory’ tattooed on his arm. It didn’t matter how many corpses Stanley saw it still made his gag reflex kick in some, like this one, as fluid oozed from the raggedy stump of his neck.

He questioned the witnesses, who explained that the Hells Angel on the Harley Davidson fat-boy jumped the lights on red and had been sideswiped by a truck carrying industrial grade plates of glass, which had shot forward and decapitated the Hells Angel. His body continued on its journey until the motorcycle ran out of steam and toppled over. Even more gruesomely, the head smashed through the picture window of a Mexican diner where it spun on the floor spraying the diners in blood.

Unbelievably, none of that was the startling part of the tale, the kicker being that the Hells Angel's body was white and his head was black!

Stanley had spent the best part of an hour looking for another body, unable to believe the witnesses protestations that there was only one person on the motorcycle. He’d never seen anything like it in all his life. He had no explanation for it — a lily-white body with jailhouse tattoos pledging Aryan gang affiliations, yet with a face as black as coal. God image what Stanley’s Pa would’ve made of that!

He pulled up at his mama’s remote clapboard house and was apprehensive to see the front door ajar. He had his hand on the butt of his service weapon and approached gingerly. He pushed open the heavy front door, checked out the dark corners of his childhood home. He knew every nook and cranny, but there was no one there. He called out to his mama, gaining no reply, he quickly checked around and found it empty. He scratched his head. She was unable to get about on her own anymore, and if the home-help had taken her out, she would have locked up. He pushed open the rear door and went out onto the stoop, maybe she’d be back soon.

He spotted a black woman laid face down in the yard. “What the hell?” He marched over to the elderly woman. “What in god’s name do you think you are doing in my Mama’s house?”

She grabbed the cuff of his uniform pants, repulsing him. “Get off me, nigger. What the fuck have you done with my mama?” He kicked her hand away, crouched on his haunches and rolled her over. “Tell me, where is she? I demand to know!”

“Stanley it’s me…” she croaked.

He shivered in fright and crabbed backward across the yard, he fixated on her pox-ridden face, as she struggled to open her eyes. And when Stanley saw her baby-blues that he’d known so well for the first time in his life he wet himself.

10:45 PM

Jenkins Forest or prisoner 850416 to give him his official title, fiddled with the faucet of the metal sink, but once again no water came out.

“Goddamnit!” he said. What was wrong with this picture? How in the name of all that’s holy had this happened? He gagged for a drink. His dried, parched throat ached. He been on the john most of the night with the runs and was severely dehydrated. He marched over to the front of the cell that took him all of four paces, and banged against the bars of his cell. “Hey, there’s a man dying of thirst in here!” His voice echoed up and down the sixth floor of cellblock E.

The E block was for category A offenders, the habitual murderers and other life sentence prisoners with no hope of release. The sixth floor housed the worst of the worst, the uncontrollable, the scum of the earth. Proudly at the apex of this mound of human filth was Jenkins Forest, boasting that he was the king of the block, as if it afforded him some kudos amongst his fellow prisoners. Jenkins had been in and out of correctional facilities his entire life, first time as a mere boy in juvenile hall, where he killed another kid in an argument over a game of pool.

He had cheated though, Jenkins thought, justifying the slaying. He rarely thought of the game that had cost a boy his life and him his freedom. He’d never had much time for dwelling on his incarceration. He was like a shark, he had to keep moving forward, looking for something to eat and to survive another day.

Jenkins had killed many a man, mostly for money, sometimes for fun. It had no meaning to him, he’d snuff out a person for the most insignificant slight, as he’d done over the pool game all those years ago. Now incarcerated for life, having received four life sentences to run concurrently, totaling eight hundred years. You’ve got to love the Southern judges and their whacky sentencing. Eight hundred years, why he could be out in five hundred years with good behavior he thought with a smile. Not that good behavior was in his DNA. He’d killed at least three inmates since his last and final incarceration, and had the tattoos to prove it. Teardrop prison tatts dripping down from the corners of his eyes like tears, one for each verified death. The slaying needed witnessing by a reliable source though; you couldn’t go around having teardrop tattoos all willy-nilly trying to boost your standing in the jailhouse community. No, you had to have some sorta code.

Jenkins banged on the bars again. “Hey, where is everyone?” It was gone seven in the morning. That was when the lights came on with a bang, to start another monotonous day of drudgery. He started to get hungry; he could normally smell the food, for what it was worth, drifting up from the kitchens. However, this morning, not a thing. No food cart with the wonky wheel, pushed by Albert with the wonky eye, who dispensed the rancid lukewarm breakfasts to the killers on the sixth floor.

“Come on, let me outa here, I need water.” He slumped and rested his head against the cool metal of the bars. It was gonna be another broiling hot day. His dried throat hurt something rotten and he was already sweating like a pig. To top it all, the new prisoner they’d stuck in with him last night stunk to high heaven. “Hey, get me outa here. There’s something wrong with the new meat. I think he’s dying! You gotta get me away from him.”

He looked over at his new cellmate, Winston Kincaid, a serial killer sent down for five confirmed kills but rumored to be more, and up to twenty women if you could believe Winston himself, but then who’d exaggerate something like that? Killing women then molesting their corpses — why brag about that. Fucking pervert. He’d been dead against sharing a cell with him, put up all sorts of protests. Jenkins was a killer for sure, but he weren’t no twisted pervert. The dude should be in the nuthouse not in with them — the elite of the murderers. If he weren’t insane then execute him instead of wasting the taxpayer’s money and fouling up Jenkins air.

“Hey, you motherfucker.” He slapped Kincaid on the rump. How could he sleep so soundly? First night too, most new inmates spent the first night booing like a little baby. “Hey you,” he croaked, and swallowed hard, trying to make moisture for his aching throat. “Move to the back of the cell would ya? You’re stinking up the place, Jesus.”

The cell was only six foot by twelve foot and designed for one man; the stacked bed took up half of the width of the tiny cell and over half its length. The stainless steel sink and john took up the rest of the space.

Jenkins had spent most of the first decade of incarceration having the cell to himself and that’s the way he liked it. Since the government cutbacks, the authorities had installed the stacked beds and forced him to share the tiny floor space with a succession of murdering dross. However, this latest inmate was absolutely the pits. At least the previous tenants had the honor of being honest to goodness badass cutthroats not this twisted degenerate stinking up the place. He seemed to be suffering from some sorta ailment. He huddled into the corner of his upper bunk, seniority stated Jenkins took the lower one, and had coughed and hacked all night. Already on Jenkins shit list for keeping him awake all damned night, his chances of survival on the sixth floor were slim to say the least. His life was gonna be hell amongst the guys on E block, they had no time for rumored pederasts, they had their code where suspected child molesters were at the bottom of the pile — lower than bottom if there was such a place. As soon as the cell-door opened the guys would be lining up to inflict their justly retribution.

He didn’t hold out much hope of Kincaid lasting the next twenty-four hours. They could rely on the guards to look the other way. Especially the latest batch of new recruits, who to a man were only there for the paycheck, none claiming a vocational pull towards the prison service. Nope, they were on minimum wage and couldn’t care less what happened to the dregs, like Kincaid.

Jenkins throat felt constricted, he ran his tongue over his dried lips. Man, this was intolerable. He was dying of thirst, the blast furnace heat was something rotten and what was that stink?

The only source of the stench could be his new cellmate. “Hey, you, Kincaid, get outa ya bunk. Jesus, what is that smell? Have you shit yourself?”

He took a tentative step towards the recumbent figure. Kincaid stirred, rolled over to face him. Jenkins took a step back in shock when he saw Kincaid’s face covered in black rings of weeping pus. His bloodshot eyes swiveled to face him, and black blood oozed from his nostrils. His body shook and convulsed. Jenkins backed away, but bashed into the bars in no time, when to his utter horror Kincaid projectile vomited, and thick, foul smelling vomit ejected from him, covering Jenkins in puke.

Jenkins hit the bars frantically making as much noise as he could to get attention. “Guard!” he croaked. “Help me!” He slid down the bars, his eyes popped out on stalks, as he stared at the wretched, living corpse in front of him.

Jenkins Forest the meanest badass to have ever entered the Florida state correctional system started to blub.

10:55 AM

The dyed-blond Submariner Pete Williams sighed, thinking it would be months until he breathed fresh air again. He’d sailed from the port of Miami early that morning on the USS Amarillo, a nuclear powered submarine, which had a payload of forty-eight cruise missiles, the one vessel alone having enough power to wipe out half the population of the earth.

Ten of the submariners out of a complement of one hundred and twenty had failed to return and they were in all sorts of trouble. Ten no-shows was a record by nine. He could only remember one no-show before; you went AWOL on pain of death, which is what had happened as it turned out, as the no-show had died.

This was about the only reason for going AWOL, ‘Absent With-Out Leave’, and then only just, but ten? He’d seen Donny, one of the no shows, leave the Fairy Grotto with Big Mary, but no one ever doubted he wouldn’t be back for the subs departure. He and Donny both knew that the other was gay, along with many other crewmembers who were half-in or half-out of the closet on the vessel, yet even today in the 21st Century; it paid to keep their sexuality hidden.

Now they were off on a six-month tour. He sneezed and wondered if he should have seen the doctor and got himself signed off from the trip. The last thing you needed in the claustrophobic metal tube was a submariner with a contagious bug; it would spread like wildfire throughout the vessel and overwhelm them in no time. He sneezed again so violently that it made his nose bleed. It must have been the guy on the Metrorail he’d bet. That guy hacked up and sneezed right in his face. He’d wanted to punch him out for that, but managed to control himself, not wanting to waste precious shore leave detained by the police.

He wiped his nose noting that the blood seemed thicker than usual, and blacker.

His head pounded, he shivered with a chill and he ached under his arms, he undid his tunic and was appalled to see dark swellings. He rubbed and it burst covering his hand in thick oozing pus. He backed into the bulkhead and wondered if he had made a mistake by not reporting to the ships surgeon — a deadly mistake. Although, as it turned out, from a contingent of one hundred and twenty men, he would be the only person still alive in twenty-four hours.

CHAPTER 8

11:00 AM

At eleven a.m., Eastern Standard Time Sophie sat in front of her television and on the dot, as promised President Burgess addressed the Nation. Smooth as silk the President addressed the viewers. “Good morning, fellow Americans. It is with a heavy heart and after much soul searching that as of now I have placed southern Florida under quarantine… I’ll get to ‘why’ shortly, but it is not without reason that we would take such drastic action.” A map of Florida filled the screen with two dotted lines traversing across the state from left to right. “Everyone below the lower line, roughly from Fort Myers on the gulf coast to Palm Beach on the Atlantic coast are under quarantine, and, a curfew of 1900 hours, will be enforced. This next line approximately ten miles north, is no-man’s-land and will be policed vigorously, this is no time for pussy-footing around, anyone caught will we be detained indefinitely and any sort of resistance will be met by a deadly response.”

Kill civilians, he means, Sophie thought.

“Now,” continued the President. “You might think this is overkill, and I’d like to hope that it is, however, we don’t want another 9/11. They caught us with our pants down then and we’re still smarting. Let me tell you why we’re doing this and I think you’ll agree it’s the right action. We’re quarantining southern Florida as there has been a chemical leak.”

It’s not a leak, thought Sophie. It’s the Bubonic Plague. You must warn them. Tell them the truth.

“This is only a precaution, but we think the effects are contagious, so with immediate effect all airplanes are grounded, ships, boats, all water-based crafts the same. We’re patrolling the waters and no one is to leave. I cannot emphasize this enough, we must have a full quarantine or it does not work.”

“People of Florida, help is on its way. The military will be amongst you with medical staff, we will need to check you out and give you the all clear. We will have medical centers, the first one will be at the Marlins Park in Miami, and other sports arenas will follow. As this is a holiday weekend those of you that can, stay away from work-places.” His breathing suddenly labored and he paused briefly, and then corrected himself and smiled.

Sophie leaned towards her television; he’s not well, she thought, when something caught her eye. She pressed ‘pause’ on the remote control and the broadcast froze on the President’s image. She touched the screen. She had caught a glimpse of an IV tube by his wrist. She pondered this then pressed ‘play’ to hear the rest of the broadcast. “It’s best not to interact with your fellow citizens, cover your nose and mouth with cloth, and PLEASE make your way to the nearest refugee center where you will be given an antidote.”

There is no antidote. Sophie thought.

“Thank you for your co-operation and God bless us all.”

Sophie was thankful that Quinn Martell had managed to impress upon the President the gravity of the situation, even if they were burying the truth, which she could sort of understand, the last thing they needed was wide-scale panic. She smiled thinking of how Luke as a broadcaster would have loved to know the truth and blurt the story to the world without any thought of the consequences, as long as he had his all-important scoop.

Sophie believed firmly in the truth. She could still remember growing up in her Latin-American homeland, where the ‘truth’ was the least of her worries, where the tin-pot government ruled with an iron fist, shooting the protectors of the truth, the dissenters like her father, God rest his soul. He’d been a vocal political opponent, who’d naively believed that the truth would be his savior. She still remembered the night, when the government’s bullyboys kicked down the front door, and dragged him from his bed. Her mother screamed and was pistol whipped into silence. Her father bravely struggled, but was over-powered and dragged from their home fighting for his life, and Sophie never saw him again.

During the small hours of the following night, her mother had woken her, dressed her quickly and they’d fled in the clothes they were wearing. Two fishermen who were part of the underground network of sympathizers who wanted to overthrow the two-bit government met them. The fishermen hated the junta who dished out jobs for family and friends living the high-life, while the poor paid more taxes as the government provided less. Even the fishermen, were forced into minor smuggling to avoid starvation.

The trip was largely uneventful, although Sophie constantly thought the boat might capsize. They eventually made it to the Florida coastline where the coast guard intercepted them and instantly interned them into an enormous refugee camp. The encampment ran like their old county, gangs of roaming bullyboys demanding money with menaces from their weaker compatriots. Criminals normally put to death in the homeland had escaped and were now claiming political asylum, starting their criminal activities all over again in the adopted country.

Sophie and her mother processed through the system. Her mother a highly skilled surgeon, had trained in the US, and had been welcomed with open arms. Naturalized, Sophie was absorbed into the local state school. Her sultry latin good looks made her popular with the guys and therefore extremely unpopular with the girls. The in-crowd mimicked her accent, shunned her and called her a wetback. She tried to blend in, pinning her long hair up and wearing unfashionable glasses in the hope of gaining less attention from the boys. She would try and make friends with new kids, but before long she’d tell them her origins and the name calling started and she knew that she’d never be accepted as a ’proper’ American.

Her attention drew back to the TV where the animated news anchors analyzed the quarantine-zone to death, never having a story like it and never would again. It made her think of Luke again and she smiled. How he’d have loved to be in the thick of it, then she remembered he said he was flying to London. She wondered if he was on one of the recalled airplanes.

Her thoughts were interrupted by the doorbell.

She answered the door and was astonished to see two soldiers dressed in full biological warfare suits.

11:10 AM

At President Burgess’s Florida summer compound, doctors fussed over him the moment the broadcast ended. The message to the nation had physically drained him. He slumped back in his chair the second the red-light indicator blinked off the camera he had addressed. He sat at a desk in a mock-up of his office, and the doctor helped him back into bed.

The doctor checked his pulse and shook his head, “Sir, your blood pressure is off the chart. You must relax.”

“How the hell can I relax?”

“At least let me give you a sedative.”

“I cannot be subdued; I need my wits about me. There is too much to be done.”

“You must give control to the VP, otherwise I seriously doubt you’ll last the day.”

“As bad as that?”

The doctor nodded gravely.

11:15 PM

In the Pentagon war room after receiving the most important telephone call of his life, Vice President Hamilton Parker, a proper blue blood from the Boston upper crust slapped his hands together in glee. “President Burgess is incapacitated. Which means as of now, I’m in control. So let’s get things moving with alacrity.” He noticed the dumb-look from General Malloy. “Speed, Jack. Let’s get moving with speed. None of this ‘wait and see’ nonsense. If there’s a problem in Florida I will solve it with a force so strong it’ll make their heads spin.”

The general thumped the desk making people jump. “That’s more like it! Let’s nuke those wet-back, liberal faggots to kingdom come.”

Quinn Martell leaped up. “Now, hang on, one goddamned minute.”

The Vice President smiled and held up his hands to placate him. “We’re not going to nuke anyone — yet. However, we are going to step this up a few notches. My intel reports are telling me it’s more likely a terrorist attack. And if we’re attacked we’re going to damn well retaliate, fast and furiously.”

Quinn Martell said. “Mister Vice President, if you would indulge me for one moment,” Hamilton nodded and Quinn continued. “My sources tell me this has all the signs of a viral disease, and it’s vital we properly prepare for this. We need to quarantine the sick, evacuate the—”

“I’m not about to try and evacuate south Florida. Where would we house tens of millions of evacuees for Christ’s sake?”

“Hear me out before you decide — this is my area of expertise. Let me tell you about the Spanish influenza pandemic that swept the world in 1918 in places as remote as the Pacific Islands and the Arctic.” Quinn saw he was losing their attention. “During WW1 it was estimated that sixteen million men lost their lives due to the fighting; this flu epidemic in one year alone killed between fifty and one hundred million people worldwide, within months it had killed more people than any other illness in history.” The men sat upright and started to take notice. “More US soldiers died in one transit camp still on American soil than died in battle during WW1. In fact that one influenza outbreak was responsible for more casualties than all the wars of the 20th century put together.” Now he had them, thought Quinn.

“In that one year the average life expectancy in the USA dropped by twelve years.” He let that fact sink in. “To maintain public morale during those difficult war years the government of the day thought it prudent to censor the dire medical bulletins, which had a disastrous effect, as doctors and health officials could not identify the disease, each assuming they were dealing with a local epidemic not a global pandemic. As attentions were on the war effort no one knew the scale of the outbreak and when the government finally admitted to the havoc and sheer number of deaths the flu had caused, they were unprepared to deal with it — they had left it too late… let’s not make the same mistake.”

The military personnel stared at him in stunned disbelief. Hamilton smiled his reptilian grin, and as smooth as silk said; “I’m sure we’re all indebted to the Surgeon General for the interesting history lesson, but this is not the flu, we won’t be evacuating multi-millions of the population on a hundred year old possibility.”

“But—” Quinn said.

“No buts, Quinn. This is a terrorist attack, pure and simple. We’ll deal with it using the might of our military, with retribution on a scale not seen—”

“Should we not discuss this with NATO,” said Vice Admiral Reed. He smoothed an imaginary crease from his startling white uniform.

“We’re not attacking a foreign county, this is an American problem on American soil, and for once we can act without—” he made quote marks with his fingers, “‘Let’s open dialog and let’s have a vote’, crap. You know the usual delaying tactics of hostile nations.”

“Hear hear!” agreed the military leaders sat around the huge mahogany conference table.

“What are you suggesting, Mister Vice President?” Quinn Martell asked.

“That we stop pussy-footing around. We’ll go down there and wipe out the threat instantly with whatever it takes, no matter how unpalatable.”

“Are you suggesting killing Americans?” asked Quinn, fear etched onto his face.

“You know as well as I do, you shoot a rabid dog.”

“Yes, but—”

“It’s the humane thing to do.”

“Of course, but that’s talking about a dog—”

“And the virus dies with the host, does it not?”

The others around the table warmed to this, worrying Quinn Martell deeply, “Well, yes but—”

“Quinn, may I remind you, that you are here purely as a medical advisor. Kindly leave policy making to me,” the Vice President said nastily, putting Quinn Martell firmly in his place.

General Malloy backed the VP and jumped in. “The American public would thank us for saving them from this deadly threat.”

“What about the folk in Florida?” Quinn asked unable to stop voicing his opinion.

“Well, it’s just too bad.” Hamilton Parker replied. “Do you think the Floridian’s would give a rats-ass if it was happening in Alaska?” the assembled men murmured their agreement. “If you had a gangrenous limb you’d cut it off, simple as that, and, I’m afraid that’s what lower Florida has become. And the outcome won’t change, no matter how long we discuss it, the answer is the same, we need to amputate southern Florida.”

11:20 PM

Sophie blinked at the soldiers clad in their camouflaged hazardous material uniforms, confused by their sudden appearance at her door.

The Sergeant spoke with a metallic sound, the breathing apparatus distorting his voice. “Doctor Garcia? You must come with us.”

“I think there maybe some mistake.” She said hesitantly.

“You are, Doctor Sophia Garcia, correct?”

“Well, yes, but…”

“No mistake, ma’am. “We’ve been sent to escort you to President Burgess’s summer residence.”

“The President?” she repeated, thinking that she must be in a dream. “Why does he want me?”

“That information is above my security clearance level, ma’am. My orders are to make sure that you get there safely.”

Sophie’s stunned, “You are absolutely sure you have the right person?”

“Affirmative, ma’am. We’ve been instructed to guard you with our lives, because as of now, you’re the most important person in the State.”

12:30 PM

On the Boeing 777 flight 416 returning to Miami, Luke helped the fat man to lay comfortably in his chair-bed. He gazed around the cabin, noting that nearly all the business section passenger were showing symptoms of having the Black Death. Sheila Stone, the mature flight attendant, felt out of her depth. “What is going on? What am I meant to do? Too many passengers are sick,” she fretted to Luke.

He caught the eye of the only other passenger who looked unaffected, an elderly Asian man and went over to him. “How you doing, man?”

“I’m feeling OK, at the moment. What’s wrong with the other passengers? The flight attendant said it might be a virus, maybe a mild touch of the flu, but it looks worse than that.”

“Are you a medical man?”

“Not exactly, I’m a Red Crescent volunteer. It’s like your Red Cross; we go in some of the worst disaster areas in the world. I’ve seen death and disease many times, malaria, diphtheria, scarlet fever, all of these terrifying diseases, but nothing that disables so swiftly. They were all healthy when we boarded the aircraft, but I fear they won’t last the trip.”

“They won’t,” Luke told him in confidence.

The Asian leaned forward and whispered. “Do you know what it is?”

“I understand that it’s a new strain of the Bubonic plague.”

The Asian man muttered a silent prayer. “How can this be so? Is it a terrorist attack?”

“Nope.”

He pondered the information, and then said. “What are we going to do with the corpses? I know one is meant to distance oneself from the corpses?”

“Not a lot we can do, we’re in mid-air. But you and I appear to be immune. Some people are.”

“We must offer them aid. It’s the decent thing to do.”

“There is no aid. All the effected people will die. And it won’t be pleasant.” Luke shrugged, imparting this news.

“Is there nothing we can do to ease their suffering? We have to watch them die without lifting a finger? That is cruel beyond belief.”

“Well, I think we’ve got bigger problems.”

The Asian gulped and looked as if he did not want to hear further bad news, but still asked. “What, pray tell?”

At that moment, a young blonde flight attendant sneezed and was aghast to find that her eyes were bleeding. Luke nodded towards her. “The flight crew, or more importantly, the pilots.”

13:00 PM

Sophie sat next to the driver of the army jeep, accompanied by the sergeant in the rear. They drove up the I-95 interstate, traffic-free as each northbound entrance ramp had military roadblocks, whereas the opposite direction a never-ending convoy of military trucks. The Sergeant explained, from his seat in the back. “We’ve directed all the traffic south, all routes north are blocked.” He leaned forward. “We have a pass. You have special dispensation from the President himself, no less,” the sergeant told her, obviously impressed.

“But why does he want me specifically?” Sophie asked.

“As I said before, it’s above our security clearance. We have to get you there, whatever it takes.”

She did not like the way he had said, whatever it takes.

The driver sneered. “It’s the goddamned rag-heads you mark my words, it’s a chemical attack. A cowardly act of terrorism. Like 9/11, but even more sneaky. A typical camel-jockey trick.” He glanced at Sophie, taking in her dusky, latin looks. “…oh, sorry, doctor, no offence.”

“What do you mean?” she inquired sharply.

“I wasn’t thinking,” he apologized, circling his face and pointing at her.

“You think I’m Middle Eastern?”

“Your skin color, y’know?”

Skin color again? The soldier had seen her sallow skin coloring and thought her the enemy. She felt her temperature rising along with her temper. “This disease does not discriminate over skin color. Or cast or creed for that matter. It will kill without mercy, the rich, poor, black or white, it does not care, and it will mow down everything in its path. And for your information I’m Latin-American.”

The driver sneered under his breath. “American, yeah, sure, right.”

The Sergeant leaned forward; “I apologize for my colleague’s offensive remarks. He’s claustrophobic. The helmet’s giving him the heebie-jeebies. Making him irrational and speaking without thinking.”

The jeep lurched across the lanes as the driver sneezed three times rapidly in succession. The driver fought for control of the vehicle as he fishtailed down the interstate. Sophie held on tight as the driver swerved onto the shoulder spewing up gravel, he managed to straighten the jeep, when he sneezed violently and once again lost control. He yanked the steering wheel one way, over corrected, and then yanked it the other. Finally, he braked and squealed to a halt. He convulsed once more and sneezed painfully.

“Goddamn it! Aw, Christ. Look at the inside of my helmet; it’s covered in snot.”

Sophie turned to see the plastic visor splattered with thousands upon thousands of droplets of the deadly bacteria as the soldier had sneezed without the ability to cover his nose.

She froze in alarm when the driver started to remove his helmet. “Whatever you do, do not remove that helmet,” she said firmly.

The sergeant whacked him on the back of his helmet, “Leave your helmet on, soldier. That’s an order, do you understand me?”

“Yes, Sergeant.” He put the jeep in gear and continued forward. He maneuvered his head to see through the mucus on the inside of his helmet. “This is so gross,” he moaned as the fluid ran down the inside of the visor obscuring his vision.

The jeep picked up speed and hurtled along the I-95 at a fair clip; the sergeant leaned forward again and spoke quietly to Sophie. “We were told sneezing is one of the first signs of the … you know,” he paused trying to think how to word his next question. “I don’t suppose that his sneezing could be connected to the—” he could not finish the sentence as the driver turned and glared at him.

“No,” Sophie replied and smiled at the driver reassuringly. “As long as he has kept his helmet on.”

The driver's face dropped and his eyes swiveled from side to side. He acted in an agitated manner, which the Sergeant noticed. “You have kept your helmet on, solider?”

“Yes, sergeant. Well, except from when we took a leak at the rest stop. I quickly phoned my honey, but it was no more than a minute tops, sergeant. I had to take the helmet off to hear her.”

He clouted him on top of the head. “You idiot.”

14:00 PM

Sheila Stone, the chief flight attendant dabbed her bloody nose with tissue paper, she felt nauseous and had to hold on to the seats while she made her way to business section. In all her years of flying, she had seen nothing like this, she and her staff were totally unprepared. She knew that flying for a living had its fair share of dangers. She had trained against high-jacking or kidnapping, and even hand-to-hand combat, in the event of an attack by passengers. But in the small hours of the night she’d wonder about air-crashes, she’d be a liar if she didn’t dwell on the prospect once in a while, as each air mile she flew brought her statistically closer, however miniscule the chance, to the possibility of dying in a crash.

She’d had narrow escapes, she’d been in an airplane that had been struck by lightning. It had lost power and had to glide to the nearest landing strip, and made the unlikely safe landing only because of the pure skill of the pilot. Another time she’d experienced wind shear, a phenomena still not fully explained by science, but once experienced never forgotten, a situation where the airplane dropped out of the sky like a stone. Her drinks cart had stuck to the ceiling as they plummeted downwards at speed, along with the passenger’s cups and glasses, and then, when the pilot had controlled the situation, what goes up must come down, and the passengers had been covered with the contents of their drinks and she was struck a glancing blow by the falling drinks cart.

Her nightmares were becoming more frequent and always featured crashes, she would wake in the night in a cold sweat with the sheets clinging to her. She blamed her lack of faith in the inexperienced pilots, who seemed to be getting younger and younger, each year, as the airlines lowered their standards on each new batch of recently qualified pilots. No doubt to get cheaper, and often foreign pilots. Stop kidding yourself Sheila she scolded, it’s YOU getting older, but it did seem like the pilots were considerably younger.

When she had first started the captains’, co-pilots’, and flight engineers, they even had flight engineers navigating back then, had been rock-solid older men, with years of US air-force experience behind them. They were reliable and self-assured, they commanded respect and she knew she was in safe hands. Now with the competition in the industry and the ever changing bottom line, the companies had to chase the all-elusive dollar that much harder, which equated to a slip in standards — and in safety, if she was honest with herself. She saw the standards cut everywhere she looked, in the quality of the material in her uniform, through to the quality of the food they served, even now offering a no-food option, who’d have thought that would ever happen. She knew that the airline bought the cheapest replacement parts and the check-up intervals were less frequent and not as stringent. However, she never thought they’d scrimp on the quality of the pilots, although she’d been told time and time again that anyone could fly a plane these days, that computers guided the craft, that they could ‘fly by wire’, even land themselves. She was all for progress, but when it came to flying, or more precisely landing, she still preferred a pilot with years of experience under his or her, and there were some hers’, belt, rather than these two snot-nosed kids piloting today. One of them she’d heard, had his rich daddy to fund his training at pilot-school as he’d failed to make the grade, and did not have the inclination to join the air force and train in the usual fashion. That’s just great, she thought, when she saw the flight crew early that morning boarding the aircraft, just what I need, a high school dropout sat in the left hand seat.

Still, she reflected, none of that mattered now, it looked as if her days were numbered anyway and in a manner she could never of imagined in her wildest dreams. She dabbed her bloody nose on a napkin and approached Luke and the Asian man. “Gentlemen, would you mind following me?”

Luke followed apprehensively up the spiral staircase, through the first class lounge to the flight deck. She opened the door to the cockpit. He entered with trepidation and sure enough, both pilots were dead.

15:00 PM

Sophie eyed the driver nervously, he didn’t look good. She could see that his eyes were watering and blurring his vision, as he was unable to wipe them. He’d said that he only took his helmet off for a few moments, but she knew of course, that’s all it took to be exposed to the bacteria. It also meant the virus was further north than she had hoped. The soldier said he had made a call, while at a rest stop on his way down the I-95 to collect her. She knew the place, an ugly, brutal looking building, utilitarian, with no redeeming features, but functional, with the services you would expect. But now all those travelers would have been in touch with the airborne virus. She’d have to let the surgeon general know as soon as possible so he could revise his plan and extend the exclusion zone. Although, she privately thought it may already be too late.

The driver sneezed again, and swung hard on the wheel, Sophie screamed, and almost tipped from the motoring vehicle. He braked harshly, leaped from the jeep, and ripped off his annoying helmet.

“No, don’t!” she shouted, then stared in amazement as she realized that his face had taken on a black hue, mainly on the tip of his nose and ears. “Put the helmet back on,” Sophie said in an even tone.

“I think it’s goddamn obvious that it’s too late for me, don’tcha think?”

“It’s not for your safety it’s for the others. You are spreading the disease around.”

“Put it back on, that’s an order,” snapped the sergeant.

“No point wearing it now, I’m gonna die, and that’s a fact,” he replied.

“Calm down, soldier, we’ll get you attention,” the sergeant said. Yet the soldier stubbornly ignored his superior, enraging him further. “Put your helmet back on, or I’ll put you on a charge.”

The soldier sneered, “I’m dying. Do your worst.”

“That’s it, I’m writing you up. You’re on a charge, disobeying orders, get in the back of the jeep, I’m driving the rest of the way.” He hopped into the driver-seat and fired the engine, Sophie scrambled back into the front passenger seat. The soldier crouched down and vomited a thick, black, foul-smelling discharge.

He reeled back on his heels, and looked at Sophie pleadingly. “Help me… please.”

“Get in the jeep. We must get to the compound,” the sergeant told him.

“There’s nothing you can do for me. We were told that in orientation.” He wiped the black-colored blood from his nostrils. Sophie noticed his skin getting darker. She calculated that he would not make it as far as the compound.

The sergeant turned to the soldier. “Get in the jeep, soldier. Do not disobey me again.”

“Fuck you, Serge. I’m staying here.”

“Negative, soldier. You’ll infect anyone you come into contact with.”

The solider stood and stared out his superior challengingly. “So what? I don’t give a flying fuck about them.” He glared, then turned on his heels and walked in the opposite direction.

“I can’t let you do it, soldier, do not disobey me. Come back, halt or I will shoot.”

Sophie stared in disbelief as the sergeant raised his rifle and she yelled. “What are you doing?” She moved into his line-of-sight stopping him in his tracks.

“I’m following my orders, doctor. Stand aside.” He re-aimed, and shot.

Sophie starred open-mouthed as the bullet hit between the soldier’s shoulder blades; and exited his rib cage in a plume of blackish blood. She watched in horror, as the driver dropped to his knees, turned and caught her eye, blood bubbled from his mouth, his eyed registered total surprise. He tried to stand, wobbled, then flopped face first into the dirt.

CHAPTER 9

She steeled herself and tried to match the sergeant’s defiant glare. “I’ll report you for murder, when we reach the compound,” she declared, feeling her

self tremble with rage as she spoke.

“I followed orders, ma’am, nothing more, nothing less,” he said matter-of-factly.

“What orders?” she asked.

“For your information southern Florida is under martial law, and I have the authority to shoot on sight if I deem it necessary.”

“Oh yeah, sure, since when?” she scoffed.

He checked his wristwatch. “Since about thirty minutes ago.” He smiled mockingly, watching her face drop, taking in the information. “Now,” he said, indicating the vehicle, “Get back in the fucking jeep… ma’am.”

15:30 PM

General Malloy prowled the war room deep in the heart of the Pentagon. At last, finally the moment he’d been waiting his entire life for — martial law. Now, he’d be able to get the American people under control. To make the country great again, like it had been when he was a boy.

He remembered growing up in Alabama, and how his chest used to burst with pride when his parents acquired some new toy, be it a brand new Cadillac, boat, or camper van, flaunting their wealth and living the American dream. He and his elder brother, who he utterly adored, wanted for nothing. They regularly had new clothes, no hand-me-downs for Jack or his brother. They were always turned out smartly, kept their hair short and tidy, and had the latest must-have toys. Same with the other kids in the neighborhood, they had played in little league baseball and any sport they could discover.

Then desegregation was pushed through by the numb-nuts in Washington, where the lily-livered liberals forced their Northern standards upon them, what did they know? The South had gotten along for several centuries doing things their own way. They had stood up to them, until they sent in the National Guard to safeguard passage for the black kids to attend his school. He could remember even as an infant in the 1960s as the first black faces entered the school. Then as predicted, not so long after that they moved into the neighborhood and then the rot set in, first the graffiti, then stolen cars, and then burglaries.

Fifty plus years later and he still felt the slow toxic drip of the mixing of the races, which he thought patently obvious, would not work. It would weaken American blood and the American race. He’d noticed over the years that each new in-take of raw recruits were inferior to the last, as the American gene pool mixed and diluted.

Since then, there had been feminism and worse, far worse, as part of some mad, touchy-feely population experiment, they had even had a black President. Jesus H. Christ. A black President! Truly, the pinnacle of everything that was wrong with the once great country.

His pappy had never been the same since his elder brother died in Vietnam, one of the last, while they were evacuating from the American embassy. His father had collapsed and never fully recovered, falling into a gradual and irreversible decline. Young Jack had been mortified to hear of his brother’s death in Vietnam, the very day he was due back home. To die was bad enough, but for his brother to die on the last day of the conflict, was too cruel for them to suffer as a family.

Jack had signed up to join the same regiment as soon as he was able and had taken to the military life like a duck to water. He loved the discipline, the smartness, the order of life. He needed the rules and regulations to live by and rocketed up through the ranks to his current position, a four star general. He used every ounce of his forceful nature to make the Joint Chiefs of Staff quake in their boots and as he prowled around the enormous mahogany conference table in the war room, he had the floor and he had their attention.

Most were riveted, listening to his innovative plans and applauded his no nonsense approach to the impending disaster, his declaring of martial law and more importantly passing a law that plague carriers and objectors disobeying the military’s commands would be shot. No argument, no discussions, they would be shot dead and that’s the end of it. The Vice President had given him complete freedom to solve the Florida problem.

General Malloy couldn’t bring himself to utter the words, the Black Death, or Bubonic Plague. It was too archaic, to have the power to bring Florida to its knees. It had to be a hi-tech virus, man-made in a laboratory, just as he knew there would be an enemy foreign power behind the attack, and he was going to make them pay for that. He smiled to himself; he had recently received information that they had a lead in that direction.

“Finally,” he said to the expectant crowd of military men and women. “We have information about the suspected terrorists. They were seen escaping the island on a Jet Ski. These terrorists obviously have an antidote as they walked freely amongst the dying. It also appears they harpooned a man in their escape to freedom.” He waited for the information to sink in. He had their attention and he loved it. “A naval vessel tracked them, however the fugitives gave them the slip, but they are still in the exclusion zone and rest assured that we will track them down like the animals they clearly are. As of now they are public enemy number one.”

“Do we know who they are, General Malloy?”

“There is a woman of foreign appearance, possibly middle-eastern and she’s accompanied by a Caucasian man. We’ve managed to pull off some images from the hospital CCTV which seems to be the epicenter of the chemical attack.”

“Can we see them?”

“We’ve had the images beefed up and if you watch those screens these are the faces that are being beamed live to our troops in Florida to assist in there capture.” Slowly from the top of the screen, a series of lines whizzed across the screen until there were two grainy photographic images of Sophie, and Luke.

CHAPTER 10

21:15 PM

Luke sat in the left hand seat, the pilot’s seat, in the cockpit of the Boeing 777, flight 416 returning to Miami. The aircraft flew on automatic pilot on a heading back to Miami International. The enormous craft’s computers in theory could land the airplane. Luke doubted that the American public were ready for that innovation yet, they like he, needed the reassuring announcements of a calm, authoritative captain, and they would happily put they lives in his hands and not think about it again for a few hours until they were safely back on terra firma. He could not imagine many folk brave enough to fly on a pilotless airplane flown by computers, although the military had used pilotless spy-planes and drones for years, on a lesser scale but the same principle. No, Luke knew his major problem would be on the final approach and he would need to start preparing shortly.

Sheila Stone the chief flight attendant sat in the co-pilot’s seat, and murmured encouragement, although Luke could tell that she was rapidly succumbing to the virus. The Asian man sat strapped into the rumble seat behind him.

“You can do this, Luke,” she said. “I have faith in you,” Sheila encouraged.

“Yeah I’ll give it a go,” he shrugged nonchalantly. “How hard can it be?”

Sheila chuckled, which caused her to spit up a mouthful of blood.

“We’ll land in Moscow within the hour.”

“Moscow!” the Asian man said in alarm.

“He’s teasing,” said Sheila. “A little cockpit humor.”

“I do not care for this sort of joke,” said the Asian man.

“I mean,” continued Luke. “It’s like a car with an up and down stick.” He smirked.

The Asian man eyed him worryingly. “I thought you were telling me earlier that you flew?”

“I do fly — hang-gliders.” He noticed the Asian man’s face drop. “It’s the same principle, left, right, up and down, finding thermals. Oh, and I did have one flying lesson in a Piper Cherokee.”

“One lesson! We are going to die. We are in the hands of a lunatic,” the Asian muttered. “One lesson?” he then mumbled a silent prayer.

The radio crackled into life. “This is Air Traffic Control. Flight 416 please respond?”

Luke smiled inwardly at his early efforts to get air traffic control to believe that a civilian was flying the airplane and that the pilot and crew were dead.

Sheila took charge of the radio. “Flight 416 responding, go ahead.”

“We’re going to need you to adjust some controls, and get used to the feel of the airplane.” Luke followed the instructions and the aircraft started to slow, and consequently lowered in the sky.

“Stand by, 416… we need to get the sick to hospital. Can you estimate the number of the dead and dying?”

Sheila answered. “Approximately three hundred.”

“Could you repeat that flight 416?” asked the air traffic controller.

“That’s three, zero, zero, passengers and crew dead. That’s three hundred,” she said. “Maybe more.”

“OK, you have priority. Runway 27 has been cleared for you. However we do have a problem, they is another flight right in front of you. You’re both on the same heading, you have priority, but we have lost radio contact with them. We have them on radar and you are practically on top of each other.”

Luke glanced from the cockpit, scanning the dark outside but could not detect the nearby hazardous airplane. “Negative — nothing in sight.”

“We’ll keep you informed. What is your speed and altitude?”

Luke scanned the relevant dials. “Altitude three hundred feet. Airspeed two hundred knots.”

“You’re flight instructions will follow shortly. The autopilot will bring you in. You’re doing just fine, flight 416. These planes genuinely do fly themselves, you know. Sit tight and we’ll be talking again shortly.”

Sheila pointed to the lights of the Miami skyline in the distance giving him comfort, he was tantalizingly close to home, and smiled, finally having a glimmer of hope, when he saw a massive ball of flames as the preceding airline crashed into the sea several miles short of the city.

Sheila cried out in alarm, and Luke patted the back of her hand, then as the ATC read out instructions, he made the corresponding procedures and acknowledged the action with them. He stared dumbfounded at the burning wreck, unable to speak.

The Asian man cleared his throat, and tapped a monitor, “I’ve noticed that since they have changed our altitude that we are veering off the pre-arranged flight path to the airport.” Luke glanced at the monitor and saw that the diagram of the aircraft was now far lower than the predetermined course that would safely land them at the airport. The Asian man nervously asked, “You don’t think…?” He pointed at the burning wreck ahead, unable to vocalize his thoughts fully.

Sheila finished the question. “…That they would deliberately ditch us into the ocean, rather than have us crash into any of the tower blocks of downtown Miami?” She arched an eyebrow. “Hmm, let me see, an airplane with three survivors, or the likelihood that we take out a large section of downtown Miami?” she said sardonically. “What do you think, Luke?”

He answered by pushing forward on the thrusters and the engines responded smoothly, the nose of the craft lifted as they gained height.

The ATC were on it in a flash. “Flight 416 we’ve noted a difference in your altitude. Please respond?”

Sheila went to acknowledge, when Luke cut her off. “I don’t think so, do you?”

22:00 PM

The heat sapped Sophie’s energy. She could only imagine how the sergeant was coping in his hazmat suit.

“What else?” asked the sergeant as the jeep zipped along the freeway unhindered as they had the entire northbound freeway to themselves.

“Well,” she started, thinking best to keep the murdering armed thug busy. “With the Black Death, the symptoms include high fever, aching limbs, darkening of the skin, like we saw with your colleague, swelling of the lymph nodes, swelling of the glands in the neck, under the armpits and around the groin. Buboes develop and burst, you get ring like marks on the skin, then the blood coagulates, and of course towards the end even urine can thicken and even turn black.”

“Sweet Jesus…” he muttered under his breath.

As Sophie watched the convoy of military vehicles heading in the opposite direction, she thought back to how the original plague had wiped out entire villages overnight. How incredible, she thought, that a village population would retire for the night relatively healthy, maybe the odd sniffle or sneeze, come morning they would all be dead. The law at the time being if there was a known infection in the household the citizens were to self-quarantine and mark their door with a red cross to warn neighbors of their plight and potentially avoid the same fate. However, the contagion was too strong, and the ever-present black rat spread the disease from house to house, as the bacterium Yesinia Pestis was present in the fleas upon their backs and in turn infected the human occupants. London of the mid 1600s suffered especially badly; the timber framed Tudor houses were made of wattle, a mixture of straw and manure, easy for rats or fleas to pass through into the jammed together houses.

Sanitation in London city was a trough carrying effluence running down the center of the street, where residents would throw their slops; chamber pots full of urine and excrement, from the upper story overhang, often splashing the pedestrians below. The Tudor architecture did not help, with the overhang, often only at arms’ reach from their opposite neighbor. The inhabitants would keep their livestock inside their homes with them; the horses, donkeys, and sometimes pigs, were stabled below on the ground floor, their straw a perfect breeding ground for the numerous rats.

The city of London employed folk to collect the diseased corpses on handcarts, they would ring a bell and holler the notorious chant. “Bring out your dead!” Where the residents, should they be fortunate enough to have survived the night, would pay six-pence to the collector, gladly, to distance themselves from the virus-ridden corpse.

Nevertheless, whatever measures the elders took the death toll kept rising. The municipal cemeteries could no longer cope and with the bodies mounting the elders commissioned the digging of mass graves outside the city walls, where the carcasses were buried en masse, with no time for the sensitivities of a proper burial for the recently bereaved to attend.

However, even these mass pits could not cope, as thousands upon thousands died each night. Eventually the plague pits could not cope and they would dump the corpses in a heap outside the city walls. The piles grew so high that highwaymen could hide behind them before leaping out on the few travelers brave enough to venture from the city only to be robbed, by a villain with a cry of; “Stand and deliver!”

“Ma’am,” said the sergeant bringing Sophie back to the present, “Why is it spreading so fast?”

“It’s interesting, actually, because I think we are also dealing with a new strain made up partly from a septicemic plague which attacks the blood and pneumonic, which attacks the lungs, which is particularly worrying as pneumonic makes the virus airborne.”

“These buboes, you mentioned, the swellings, what happens to them?” he asked her timidly.

“They burst and then death follows swiftly… why?” However, his violent sneeze answered the question, and she regarded him with wide-eyed terror.

“Aw, fuck, one has just burst under my arm. I’ve got it!” He yanked on the brake and rested his head on the steering wheel. “Why me?”

“Did you remove your helmet?” she asked, horrified to be so close to a victim, yet still feeling sorry for him.

“Briefly, at the rest-stop. These suits are so damned hot and what with the freak weather we’ve been having, I was boiling.” His shoulders shook as he cried in self-pity.

“Let’s get you to the compound they’ll surely help,” Sophie suggested.

He removed his helmet and looked at his reflection in the side-view mirror. “Dammit, look!” he screamed. “I’m turning black!”

She regarded him sadly, not knowing how to comfort the dying man. She patted his hand but it felt like a useless gesture.

“Level with me, doc, how long have I got?”

“It’s impossible to say,” she answered weakly.

“Days, hours, minutes? Please, the truth.”

“Each person is different, but I would say a few hours. I’m sorry….”

He pulled himself together. “Ma’am you must continue to the President’s summer residence. It’s imperative to the nation. You can drive. The GPS will take you right to the door.” He handed her the papers. “Show these documents to the guards, you’ll have no trouble.” He flicked a brisk salute.

“Are you not coming?” she asked worried for her safety.

“I feel I might be a hindrance on this mission, ma’am.” He handed her his sidearm, “I’ll keep the rifle. You take the pistol. Do you know how to use it?” She shook her head. “Well, it’s easy enough, I’ve taken off the safety, anyone gives you any trouble, aim at the center of their body mass.” He placed his hand on his chest. “Here, and pull the trigger.”

She started the engine without any further argument. “Good luck.”

“Doctor, is it going to hurt… I mean, more than it already does, because, you know.” He indicated his rifle. “If it’s going to be agony, then…” He mimed shooting himself in the mouth.

She weighed up telling him the truth or not and thought there had been enough lying. “I won’t lie to you, the pain will be unbearable.”

“Thank you for being so candid. Is there—” He sneezed violently and black blood gushed from both nostrils. “Goddamn it. Is there anything else I should look out for?”

Again, she wrestled with her conscience. “Does your skin feel tight anywhere?”

“It does, now that you mention it, my cheeks feel tight. Why?”

“It can rip open… while you’re still alive.”

As she spoke, he rubbed his hand against his cheek causing the fragile skin to tear. He screamed in agony as the torn skin exposed the muscle and bone below. He doubled over in pain and vomited a puddle of black-colored vomit.

She watched in open-mouthed horror as his other cheek slowly tore open. He screeched and scrambled with his rifle, but no matter what he tried, the barrel was too long to enter his mouth. “Shoot me!” he yelled at her.

She turned the trembling pistol towards the soldier who lay prone on the street. “Do it,” he begged, then convulsed, sneezing black blood.

She pointed the gun at him, but could not pull the trigger. “I, I… can’t.” she trembled.

He rose up on his knees, and pointed at his heart. “Aim here. You must.” He howled in tortured pain. “Please.”

She pointed the gun at him in a two-handed grip, but once more she turned away unable to take a human life no matter how much pain they were in. “I’m sorry, I can’t do it.”

He cried out in anguish as the skin on his chin tore open. “For the love of god have mercy! Kill me!”

Sophie steeled her resolve, aimed, but then lowered the weapon….

CHAPTER 11

23:00 PM

At the radar station aboard the aircraft carrier USS Thomas Jefferson the Boeing 777 Flight 416 returning to Miami blipped on the radar screen monitored by the signalmen, who calculated its position ten miles from shore, five minutes from landing. Commander Roscoe leaned over intensely staring at the blip on the radar monitor. He bellowed into an internal phone, red-faced in anger at the young gunner at the other end of the line who disobeyed him. “That is an order! Fire the missile, now!”

Gunner Lofthouse operating the surface-to-air Sea Sparrow anti-aircraft missile trembled and shook his head. “I can’t do it, Sir, that’s an American civilian airplane, I will not murder Americans in cold blood!”

“I’m coming down there and if you haven’t blasted that aircraft to kingdom come I will shoot you, then I’ll shoot it down myself. Is that clear?”

The young gunner visibly paled. His colleague said. “You should do it. We’ve been given an order.”

“Then the order is wrong. Maybe it’s a trick?” squeaked Gunner Lofthouse, as his mouth dried up, knowing he’d ruined his career and would spend many years in a brig, but still he could not bring himself to fire on fellow Americans.

“They are no longer American they are a cargo of death, carrying the Bubonic Plague. Our task is to remove them from American soil. You should follow your orders,” urged his colleague as other sailors crammed into the small metal room. They could not believe their ears, firstly to hear that they were firing on a civilian American aircraft and secondly that gunner Lofthouse had disobeyed a direct order.

__________

Commander Roscoe’s ramrod straight figure filled the doorway, there was an audible intake of breath as the men shrank away from him. “Bring that plane down, now! You shoot down that goddamn aircraft before it reaches land, I command you!”

The gunner turned puce but shook his head, defiantly. “Negative Commander.”

“You follow my order, or suffer the consequences.” He unclipped his firearm to emphasize the point and glared at him menacingly.

“Then, you’re gonna have to shoot me, bec—”

The gunshot echoed around the small chamber. Gunner Lofthouse slumped over dead, blood arcing from the small hole in his temple.

The commander turned to the others. “Move this piece of shit — quick!” the sailors stood frozen in shock for a long moment, then jolted into action and swiftly pulled gunner Lofthouse’s corpse clear. Commander Roscoe jumped into the vacant seat and noted perversely that it was still warm. He spun around, locked onto flight 416 and took aim….

CHAPTER 12

23:15 PM

“Flight 416, please respond.” The air traffic controller kept up his monotonous appeal.

“We’re still too high, you’re going to kill us all,” said the Asian man, in a state of panic, as he broke into a sweat.

Luke ignored the comment and tried to concentrate, feeling the stiffness in the steering column. “If I go much lower we won’t see the runway.”

“You need to lose height, look at the monitor.”

Luke threw a quick glance at the screen and saw that they were indeed too high. “Sheila would you read off the dial to me?” Luke asked.

“Airspeed, one hundred and ninety knots,” she said.

Too fast, he cursed to himself, pulling back on the yoke to correct the path of descent dropping the nose of the Boeing 777 significantly losing height rapidly, the four enormous engines screamed in protest, but they were descending much too quickly. A warning buzzer filled the cockpit alarming him greatly, putting fraught nerves even further on edge. “Airspeed. Airspeed. Airspeed,” it repeated continually. He grimaced and fought with the controls to level out the giant beast.

“We are all going to die!” screamed the Asian.

“We ain’t gonna die,” said Luke calmly, but silently cursing the idiot. He smiled confidently at Sheila to reassure her of their safety, when another looped taped message kicked in, continually informing them that they were going to stall.

23:20 PM

“Shit,” said Commander Roscoe removing his finger from the trigger. “We’re too late. That airplane would explode over the city now.” He leaped from his seat went outside and kicked the corpse of gunner Lofthouse. “Look, what you’ve done, you piece of shit. You’ve only gone and lost me my promotion, entirely right too, in my opinion. What sort of commander am I, if I can’t get my subordinates to follow simple instructions. Maybe I’ve been too soft.” He saw a look pass between the men as if this was anything but the truth. Most were staring in disbelief at the corpse of their comrade and friend. “Well,” he said, pointing at the carcass of the gunner. “You can see what I think of sailors disobeying my commands. Am I clear on this?” he snarled at the assembled men. They muttered quietly. “I said, ‘do I make myself clear?’”

“Crystal, sir,” they said loudly in unison.

“We’ve got a few minutes before the next airplane is over land. We’re going to shoot this bastard down and this time they’ll be no mistakes.”

23:25 PM

“Full flaps,” Luke said more to himself and he carried out the action. Almost immediately, a synthesized voice filled the cockpit, “Airspeed! Airspeed!” Luke took evasive action, corrected the speed, making the electronic voice stop.

He took a deep breath, as he averted another disaster. He pulled back calmly on the yoke until the noise stopped and then continued a gently, controlled descent.

Sheila said, “I’ve done this flight hundreds, if not, thousands of times. I know where the runway is, you’ll see it any moment.”

“You get us to the runway, baby, and I’ll land it.”

The Asian man spoke urgently. “Lose more speed! Lose more speed!” He tapped the monitor plotting their course. “Otherwise you are going to overshoot the runway and kill us!”

Luke rolled his eyes, took a swift glance at the monitor to confirm what the man had said and gently pulled back on the yoke having a feel for the controls, he made small adjustments and the airplane responded smoothly.

The skyscrapers of lower Miami loomed closer into view and Luke thought they were far too close to the airport. What had the city planners been thinking? Had they not anticipated such a drama as they were experiencing? Why take the risk? Then it came to him, of course, the all-powerful dollar, pack more buildings in, meaning millions of dollars passing through greasy palms, all for profit. Still, no point worrying about it now, he thought. He corrected the angle of attack to miss the tall skyscrapers as they looked for visual contact of the runway and the craft lowered farther still.

“Flight 416, do not attempt to land.” Cut in the air traffic controller. “I repeat, do not attempt to land.”

“What the fuck does he want us to do, stay up here all night?!”

“There!” pointed Sheila excitedly, she spotted the runway lit up and lined with fire trucks and other emergency vehicles. Luke let out a huge sigh of relief at the welcoming sight and knew he could get the beast down on the ground, when the lights went out on the runway leaving him literally flying blind.

CHAPTER 13

23:30 PM

In the Oval Office at the White House in Washington, Vice President Hamilton Parker slumped wearily into the most powerful seat in the world. “Now, this is more like it.” He rubbed his hands together in glee. He’d only been the acting President for less than half a day and already he had made decisions that would change history, and goddamn, it felt good!

Hamilton had never doubted that he would one day sit in the Oval Office, as if pre-ordained. His family money, or more precisely his father, had oiled the wheels of the colossal machinery, which led the way to his rise to the top, making sure he was at the right events, dated the right sort of celebrity, and got his name in the papers as much as possible. All he had to do was keep his nose clean, not such an easy task considering he had such a wayward streak. Although, it was mostly misdemeanors that had in fact boosted his appeal with some of the voters. No one wanted a squeaky-clean candidate, as long as it was the ‘right’ sort of trouble. A night in the tank through too much booze and not drugs was fine. A brawl with immigrants was also fine, but nothing untoward involving the gentler sex. Although there had even been one or two occasions of that, and, once again his father had stepped in and made the right donations to the right sort of police benevolent fund and the trouble went away.

He knew he lived a charmed life; he sailed through college, and had a natural aptitude for history he studied at Harvard, scraping through as he only applied minimal effort, then onto Oxford, where he scraped through again with an acceptable grade.

From Oxford to foreign climes, he volunteered with the ‘right’ sort of charity organization. He’d help to re-build houses for the homeless after a hurricane, always a fantastic photographic opportunity, and not doing anything remotely dangerous.

His silver-spoon upbringing had given him a love of the ocean and he'd sail the family yacht whenever possible, or speed in one of their fleet of luxury cars.

Too young for the first Gulf War, he busied himself at Oxford during the second. However, he did make a name for himself as a flyer for the National Guard, with tons of photos of him in his smart uniform, or in the pilot seat, had the national press drooling for more. In fact, his career boiled down to that one set of photos, that and his boyish grin, and a passing resemblance to JFK, had him firmly in the right place at the right time for the presidency nomination.

Each event he attended forthrightly promoted, as he preached for a new America, an America to be proud of, and an America that could hold its head up on the world stage. Moreover, he was the man that would regain America’s place as the world leader in every field, without exception. He advocated a new America, a time for the old regime to admit it had failed and step aside. The media lapped up his sound bites and they got behind him on his campaign for a brighter future, and rallied behind him as the man to lead the way. He was far ahead in the polls and about to accept the nomination, when the aging old guard sprung their choice for Presidential candidate in the form of James Burgess. He was staid, casual, sensible, like an elderly uncle, or even a granddad with his silver fox hair, and old style movie star looks, a latter day Cary Grant. He instantly appealed to the older taxpayer and the swaying voter. He even delivered his speeches from a rocking chair! His slow, thoughtful style of delivery, reminded the voters of better times. Of old America, a safe America, of an America that cared, and he breezed though for the nomination of the Republican party, he accepted that a young voter wanted what Hamilton had to deliver, and offered him to join him as his running mate.

At first, Hamilton refused, furious at the turncoat American electorate. How could the voters be so fickle? One minute fawning over him like a rock star, the next treating him like last weeks’ news. How dare they? They wanted him for their second choice? Second choice? Hamilton had never been second to anything or anyone.

His father pointed out he would be the second most powerful man in the western hemisphere, and that he would be in the thick of it in Washington, listening, learning and waiting, because as his father told him, President Burgess was very old. Older than that old fool Regan when he took office. His father had it on good authority that the President was suffering with a dodgy ticker that he covered up and hid from the good American public. The information was gold, and they decided to sit on it until the right time. He would wait and be ready for the fateful day, or if it didn’t happen quickly enough, then who knew… accidents can happen.

23:40 PM

“Maaan!” Luke exclaimed. “Those bastards!” He strained his eyes to where the runway and their safety had been.

“We’re all going to die!” yelled the Asian man, assuming the crash position.

Sheila nervously asked. “What are you going to do?”

Luke kept to the pre-arranged descent. He scanned the area in front of them as they passed close to the first of the skyscrapers, he then had an idea and smirked. “Well, luckily they haven’t thought to turn off the fire-trucks lights, I’ll aim alongside them.”

“Terrific!” Sheila said.

“Read off the dials for me please.”

“Altitude, one hundred feet. Airspeed, one hundred and thirty knots.”

He lowered the craft, and almost immediately, a synthetic voice blared around the cockpit. “Landing gear! Landing gear!”

He frantically searched for the control, and saw the giant lever and grabbed for it, “Here goes,” he said and lowered the wheels, which locked noisily into place. “Good luck everyone.” The runway was just below the front of the Boeing. He gritted his teeth as the Boeing 777 bounced with a painful screech of the tires, onto the tarmac, then surprisingly the aircraft took off again, Luke pulled on the controls and lowered the nose and the wheels bounced once again. This time the landing was so hard that luggage fell from the overhead lockers behind them, until finally they were down.

However, they were still hurtling towards the perimeter fence at a breakneck speed. Luke threw the engines into reverse, which screamed in protest, throwing them forward, as the aircraft slowed, but they were still too fast.

With a gut-wrenching, deathly squawk the wheel assembly below them snapped. The front of the airplane hit the runway with a horrific squealing of metal, sparks flew from the impact and Luke feared that the aircraft might ignite and explode.

Sheila copied the Asian man and took up a crash position. The Boeing 777 lurched to the right, the wing tip dragging along the tarmac slowing them further. Sparks ignited the engines on the starboard wing. The glow from the flames illuminated their way. Luke no longer had the ability to steer but struggled with the controls anyway. The noise of the metal screeching along the tarmac filled the cockpit adding to the feeling that they had descended into hell as four hundred tons of twisted metal hurtled along the runway at over one hundred miles an hour, with the rescue vehicles trying to keep pace with them. It shot off the runway into a sand bank at the end of the tarmac purposefully built for this scenario, and over the ditch and into the perimeter fence. The hulking great metallic beast snapped through the perimeter fence with ease and into the grass field beyond, cutting a semicircular groove into the grass until it lost its momentum and finally ground to a halt.

Sheila drew on her years’ of experience and decades of practice and engaged the emergency exit hatch, which in turn banged loudly as it ignited the emergency chute. She stood back and indicated for the Asian man to go first. He gratefully took her up on her offer and jumped onto the chute. “Cross your arms,” she shouted after him. He screwed up his eyes, as he whooshed down the cute to the safety of the ground.

Luke nodded for Sheila to go next, she wasted no time arguing with him and she hurtled effortlessly down the chute. He waited for her to clear the bottom, then launched himself after her and moments later he hit the ground hard and tumbled over and over. Sheila helped him up from the tarmac, and he brushed himself down and checked for bruises.

The Asian hugged him. I knew you’d do it! Bless you! Bless you!”

Sheila held out her arms to him, and then stopped remembering that she had the dreadful disease.

Luke grinned at her. “Don’t worry about it, not after all we’ve been through.” He hugged her with all his might.

The Asian man gave her a perfunctory handshake. “Madam, it’s been a pleasure,” he said politely, then quickly wiped his hand down his leg.

Luke saw the emergency vehicles sprinting toward them and let out a sigh of relief as they were finally, thankfully, unbelievably, safely on the ground. Despite the odds and despite the ATC’s attempt to destroy him and he took a few moments to enjoy the feeling, when suddenly he heard a boom and saw a surface-to-air missile blast an airplane from the night sky. The airplane disintegrated mid-air and the raging fireball fell harmlessly into the ocean. His mouth dropped open in horror, and he watched stunned as the debris fell from the heavens.

He slowly turned his eyes from the god-awful scene to the arriving vehicles and his heart sank further. They were not ambulances to take them to the safety of a hospital, but military vehicles, each with a soldier standing with a rifle trained upon them.

CHAPTER 14

12:00 MIDNIGHT

President Hamilton Parker slouched back in his chair and put his feet up on his desk, behind him the Washington skyline. He offered a Cuban cigar to General Malloy who took it gratefully. He lit the Cohiba and puffed on it lustily. “Outstanding!” He blew out a plume of blue smoke when a thought struck him.”You sure we’re allowed to smoke in the White House?”

“Hey, I’m the acting President; I can do what I like!” he grinned from ear-to-ear. “Now, to business, we’ve implemented road-blocks, we’ve blockaded the ports and grounded all aircraft. Nothing’s coming in and nothing’s going out. That’s the official line. But we’re still getting reports of people trying to escape and even some half-wits trying to enter the exclusion zone.”

General Malloy said. “What else can we do?”

“I’m going to escalate this mission, we going to be proactive, take control and wipe out this pestilence.”

“What are you suggesting?” the general asked slyly.

“The medical reports are claiming a ninety-nine percent death toll, so let’s speed that up to stop the disease spreading. We go in, kill the contagious, save the healthy.”

“That won’t go down well with the voters.”

“That’s why we’re not going to tell them. We’ve declared martial law, we can pretty much do what we what.”

The general slapped the desk. “Now you’re talking my language. This is what I’ve been waiting my entire life to hear. But logistically it’ll be problematic.”

“I’ve thought of that, we’re designating sports-grounds and other such venues as refugee camps, for the diseased to go to voluntarily, we’ll step that up and give the troops orders to round up undesirables, take them to the camps and we will take care of them in one fell swoop.”

“You, sir, are a genius,” said General Malloy. “What about President Burgess?”

“What about him?”

“He’d never go for it. If he gets better and comes back…?”

“Then we will stop him from getting better, won’t we?” The vice President grinned.

“We?"

“Well, you actually. There’s a helicopter waiting for you.”

He grinned slyly. “I would enjoy that very much, Mister Vice Pres — or should I say Mister President?”

00:15 AM

Quinn Martell stomped down the echoing corridor from the war room, entered his temporary office and slammed the door. He searched through the papers on his oak desk, found his i-pad and connected with President Burgess.

James Burgess’s pale face filled the screen almost immediately. “Good evening, Quinn, what can I do for you?” The President heaved himself up into a sitting position in his bed, the effort tiring him.

“It’s Hamilton, sir. He’s drunk on power and making all sorts of crazy decisions.”

“Aw, he’ll get over it. It’s all new to him. I’ll soon be better and when the Bubonic Plague has blown over, I’ll be back.”

“That’s just it, Jim, word has reached me that he’ll do everything in his power to stop you ever coming back. He has extended the exclusion zone further north to include your summer residence. Effectively you are now trapped in the Bubonic Plague exclusion zone.”

“What! That’s outrageous! I’m the President and—”

“You gave him the power, sir, to make such commands.”

“But we’re twenty miles north of the previous zone.”

“It’s legitimate, Jim, I’ve checked.”

“Goddamn him, that slippery snake. I’ll get him for this you see if I don’t,” he raged, his face flushed red, he clutched his heart and flopped back on his bed,

The surgeon general leaned forward towards the screen, reaching towards it wanting to help somehow from his great distance. “Jim! Jim, are you alright?” He watched his life-long friend clutching at the sheets in agony. The monitors beside his bed went haywire, alerting the crash-team who rushed in to attend him. “I’m OK, I‘m OK, stop fussing me,” He waved the medical staff away. “I thought about this, there’s no one here at my compound that’s disloyal to me. Not one person would try to confine me here if I chose to return.”

“He’s thought of that, Jim. He’s sending General Malloy down there to enforce the quarantine.”

“Jumpin’ Jack, that sonofabitch? I’ll sort him out don’t you worry.” His face flushed an angry red.

“I thought you two had history?” Quinn reminded his friend.

“Don’t sweat it. That’s old news,” the President said, then calmed. “I blocked his promotion to a four star General a couple of times, but he got there despite me. That’s water under the bridge.”

“My information is, and I quote, ‘he’s going to make you see the error of your ways’ should you make an effort to return to DC.”

“Ha! What’s he going to do — shoot me?”

Quinn switched off his i-pad. He turned to look out of his office window at the pitch-black sky above the Washington skyline. He sighed heavily with a sense of foreboding. He would not put anything past General Malloy.

CHAPTER 15

00:30 AM

Sophie slowed the Jeep and approached the guardhouse at the President’s summer residence north of Palm Beach. She could see that the two young guards were staring at her incredulously. One rapidly raised his rifle to his shoulder and aimed at her as she approached, driving what was clearly a military vehicle.

She showed her identification and the documents the sergeant had been carrying and after a few telephone calls was permitted into the compound.

It was still a stiflingly hot night and Sophie found herself feeling anxious as she prepared to meet the President of the United States. She composed herself, and breathed deeply. It seemed so surreal to her, that she, of all people, should be having an audience with the President! She swallowed down her anxiety, when the guard accompanying her, knocked on the door and after being granted access, opened the door for her. “Doctor Sophie Garcia, Mister President.”

Sophie’s mouth dropped open when she saw the President lying in bed wired to monitors. “It’s erm, I had no idea…”

President Burgess waved his arm around the room as if it was nothing. “Don’t let all this high tech gadgetry fool you, I’m fighting fit, and fit as a fiddle. This stuff is my doctor over-reacting, as usual.”

“It’s an honor to meet you, Mister President.”

“Doctor, the honor’s all mine, I’ve heard nothing but high praise from the surgeon general of you and of your work. He tells me that you are an expert in the field of the plague this great country is facing. Now, please sit.”

“Thank you,” she sat next to the bed and quickly scanned his medication, noting the drip in his arm and knew that he was far from all right, and was indeed, an extremely sick man.

“Is it bad out there, doctor?” he asked her.

“Both of my escorts succumbed to the plague on the journey here,” she said gravely. She remembered them and shuddered.

“My god…” he said deeply worried. “I thought they were wearing protective suits?”

“They had each taken off their helmets momentarily—”

“It’s that quick?”

“They must’ve passed a carrier while their helmets were off. Just unlucky, I guess.”

“There’s no time to lose,” he said. “Bring me up to speed. I need to know everything you know about the Black Death.” He pointed to solemn men hovering nearby. “These are my advisors and are privy to everything you have to tell me. I can’t be shocked, so hold nothing back and be as candid as you like. Let’s see what we are up against. Take us back to the beginning I’m a little rusty on my medieval European history.”

“I’ll start back in the mid thirteen hundreds, but interestingly the Bubonic Plague has reappeared regularly in small doses even as recent as 2012, Madagascar off the African coast had an outbreak. Here in the US there were outbreaks in San Francisco, and New Orleans in the early part of the last century, and a one-off death of a park ranger in California, who’d contracted the disease from an infected squirrel.” The President paled, taking in the news. Sophie continued. “The Black Death reached Sicily in October 1347 and by January 1348 it had reached Venice and Genoa, a few weeks later Pisa in northern Europe, then France, Portugal, Germany, Scandinavia, and England and by the fall London had succumbed.

As communication was virtually nil, mainland Europe was ill prepared, having no knowledge of the pestilence that was about to wipe out one third — some experts say half — of the population.” The men sucked in breath. “It was particularly virulent; striking indiscriminately from the lowest to the highest in the land, dukes, duchesses, even a member of the Spanish Royal family succumbed to the awful disease, which had a fatality percentage of ninety to ninety five percent of all who came into contact with it.” Sophie noticed the President shiver, not sure if it was from the news or from whatever he suffered from.

“The clergy,” she continued. “Immediately stepped up their sermons and blamed the Plague upon unhealthy living. They begged their parishioners to turn to God in their time of need. But many found God wanting and oddly enough blamed the Jews. Persecuting and slaughtering them particularly in Toulon, France, and Barcelona, Spain. In Strasbourg, Germany, they burned nine hundred Jews alive on Valentine’s day, even though the plague hadn’t affected their town.”

“You may have heard of the flagellants?” The men shook their heads collectively. “They were a highly religious order who went from town to town whipping themselves hoping to rid the great pestilence by their penance, but of course their efforts were useless.”

“That plague changed the sociology of Europe, as the workforce was decimated there weren’t farm laborers to gather the crops, which in turn failed, leading to famines, and it took one hundred and thirty years for the population to get back to its pre-plague days.

That plague would rear its ugly head another six times before the end of the century.”

“Three hundred years later the Black Death, the Bubonic Plague, cut a swath through Asia followed by Europe once again. The Bubonic Plague carried by ship rats, quickly passed to their land-bound cousins and in turn to the human population via fleas.”

“The Black Death, although occurring nearly four hundred years ago is well documented. In England for example, they knew that it arrived near Weymouth, on the south coast and in less than a month it had marched unstoppable to London, and this virus was even more deadly.”

“The symptoms being fever, chills, swellings, nose bleeds, vomiting blood, blood seeping from the eyes, ears, nose even from the rectum. Buboes like giant boils under the arms and around the groin. These would burst, and worst of all the skin would rip.”

“My God!” exclaimed President Burgess. “While the victim is alive?”

“I’m afraid so, sir. I witnessed this happening on the way here.”

“And which plague are we dealing with? The 1300s version, or 1600s one?” the President asked.

“Both. In addition, possibly the septicemic plague mixed in. All the worst parts of the plagues, and this time it’s airborne.”

“Right,” said the President turning to his aides. “We must act immediately; we need to get the cure to the infected on a scale that the world has never seen—”

Sophie cleared her throat. “Erm, Mister President?”

However, the Chief Executive was on a roll. “The military can corral the masses on the ground, the Air-force to airlift in the cure—”

“Mister President,” Sophie said louder, the men turned to her, “Excuse me, but there is no cure.”

CHAPTER 16

00:45 AM

Luke stood with his hands in the air. He watched while the soldiers in the camouflaged hazmat suits unloaded the dead from the airplane. It was a slow process as the cumbersome suits hampered the men. The heat made the temperature inside the suits unbearable, so much so, that several men fainted.

Luke, Sheila and the Asian man had rifles aimed at them, while the soldiers checked and double-checked their credentials and they repetitively answered the same questions. Sheila’s nostril started to run with thick, black blood. The soldiers stared at her aghast. The Asian tried to distance himself from her but was quickly made to change his mind by one of the soldiers prodding him with his rifle. Sheila fell to the floor, and vomited. The soldiers were helpless to offer her assistance and she sneezed again.

“Shoot her!” said the Asian. “She has the plague, please, before she infects us all,” he begged, when to his utter horror he sneezed too, and instantly knew the significance. “Oh no… please God, no…”

The sergeant major had difficulty in receiving a radio message as the hazmat suit’s helmet prevented him holding the walkie-talkie close to his ear. He barked orders and men scattered in all directions. He jumped down from the Humvee, and manhandled Luke towards a covered wagon. “You. Follow me.”

“Where we going?” Luke asked, but the soldier ignored him. “Answer me, Damnit; I have a right to know.”

“Southern Florida is under martial law, which means you no longer have any rights. You’re to follow military instructions to the letter, or else.”

“Or else what?” Luke asked with a flinty tone to his voice.

The soldier stopped dead and eyeballed him menacingly. “You do not want to find out, sir, believe me.” He waited until Luke got the point and then dragged him towards the wagon where Luke caught a glimpse of other civilians inside.

“You’re being taken to an encampment, where you’ll be assessed and depending on your state of contagion, will be treated.”

An explosion rocked the night sky as another missile launched from the warship off the Miami coast, and moments later, Luke saw it strike its target and another civilian airplane shattered into a million pieces. He gasped and watched appalled as the debris fell into the ocean. Even the sergeant major winced, before saying. “Tough times call for tough measures. Now get into the truck.”

Luke moved to the rear of the truck, “What about the others?”

“They are clearly in an advanced state of the virus—”

“What’ll happen to Sheila and the—”

“You’re being separated purely on symptoms. Two batches. Those that can be saved and those that can’t.”

“But—”

“There’s no time for, ‘buts’. You should be thankful you’re in the, ‘can be saved category,’” the sergeant major said trying to keep his voice even as he slowly lost patience with Luke.

“Sheila had the plague for sure, but the Asian man?”

“As skin color is the most obvious visual sign that’s our starting point for segregation.

“That’s his natural skin color.”

“That’s too bad,” the sergeant major said nastily. “Now get in the truck. It’s not your concern.”

Luke clambered into the back of the truck and turned. “Why ain’t they coming with us?”

“They will be processed, dealt with by, ah, a different department,” he replied, when Luke heard two sharp rapports from a pistol echo around them.

The significance of the two shots hit Luke like a thump to the chest. He glanced back to see Sheila and the Asian slump to the ground in slow motion, after being executed. The sergeant major locked eyes with him and said. “Tough times, sir. Tough times.”

Luke flopped heavily onto a wooden bench between Jake, a sun-bleached surfer dude and an elderly, hefty African-American woman who shifted her bulk to make room. He finally spoke. “They… they executed two Americans in cold blood.”

Jake chuckled. “Duuude,” he made the word last three syllables, “Where have you been? This has been going on all day.”

Luke reacted doubtfully. “It’s true,” Winnie said. “It’s been escalating since it got dark — they’s killing on color. You can imagine they don’t gonna argue that. They came into the neighborhood ‘bout six just shooting randomly.”

Luke shook his head trying to absorb all the facts. “This can’t be happening? Word must be getting out, telephones, e-mail, twitter, they can’t possibly contain this monstrous news.”

“Jammed it all,” said Jake. “Something to do with the Patriot’s Act. We’re in lock-down, roads, airports, seaports and you’ve seen what they’re doing to the incoming flights.”

“Sure, I landed one of them.”

Jake eyed him doubtfully. “You’re a pilot?”

“It’s a long story.” He rubbed his aching arm and thought about the recent events. “How deadly is the contagion?” Luke asked.

Jake said. “From my own experience it’s one hundred percent.”

“Shit…” He looked at Winnie who nodded slowly.

The truck’s diesel engine rattled, and the wagon vibrated as it started. The driver crunched it into gear and pulled away.

“Still, we’re considered savable, ‘cause, you know, “Jake said. “They’re taking us to a, like, one giant refugee camp, where they’re gonna to treat us.”

“You’ll be lucky.” Luke scoffed.

“What do ya mean?” asked Jake.

“There is no cure, man.” He shrugged and let the message sink in. “So, why are they rounding us up?”

Luke heard rapid gunfire and saw from the back of the rumbling truck yet another execution squad dispatching more victims and his spirits sank.

Winnie said. “Why are they saving some and killing others?”

“Beats me, although…” Luke tailed off, not liking the thought, then continued. “Let’s say this disease is ninety-nine percent fatal. In this part of Florida we’re still talking about hundreds of survivors trying to escape. They can’t protect the borders indefinitely, and if word gets out about the indiscriminate killing, then there’d be mass panic and everyone left would try either to escape, or hide. My guess is they’ll act all friendly, make out there’s food and shelter and a cure at these refugee camps and, well, kill us all at once in a convenient, enclosed venue.”

“Duuude,” drawled Jake, “that is so sick.”

“It makes sense logistically. It’s what I’d do. And of course they need to consider the disease ridden corpses, how do you get rid of hundreds of thousands of dead bodies.”

Winnie snorted. “So you reckon they’ll take us to their version of a concentration camp where they’ll kill us systematically?”

“Yep, that’s about the truth of it,” Luke told his dazed companions.

01:30 AM

General Malloy’s entourage motored down the freeway unhindered. Although dark, he wore aviator sunglasses, sat up front of an open top jeep at the head of a procession of heavily armored vehicles. The convoy chugged from the freeway and approached the gates to the President’s summer residence, they slowed at the gatehouse that appeared un-manned and the entrance barrier pointed straight up in the air letting anyone into the President’s compound. “Sloppy,” snarled the General, “Very sloppy.”

The armored vehicles trundled under the barrier unchallenged. “This is the goddamn President’s home, and it’s been left unguarded.” He snatched a walkie-talkie. “Sergeant, take some men, find those damned sentries, and bring ‘em to me — no, scrub that — line ‘em up against the wall and shoot ‘em for dereliction of duty.”

“But, General…” came a hesitant reply.

“That’s all, Sergeant.” He switched off the walkie-talkie before further protest. He smiled when he saw in the rear-view mirror that a jeep near the back of the convoy veered off, performed a k-turn and went back to the guardhouse.

The sergeant yanked the jeep to a stop, by the illuminated guardhouse, “Serge, shouldn’t we be wearing one of those hazard material suits?” asked a nervous rookie.

The sergeant grinned. “Not this far up-country, soldier, we’re twenty miles north of the previous exclusion zone which was already fifty miles north of the outbreak, don’t sweat it, we’re safe.”

They strolled towards the guardhouse taking their time. “Serge, we got time for a quick cigarette?” asked the rookie.

The sergeant watched the general’s tail-lights disappearing down the avenue leading to the President’s home and nodded. “Make it quick, and I’ll have one.” He lit up and inhaled deeply, pondering the general’s instructions to shoot the errant guards. It sure was one major fuck-up to leave your post when you’re guarding the most important person on the planet, but to do it when a four star general is due to arrive? Jesus, that has to be the dumbest thing he had ever heard. He couldn’t wait to meet the pair of numb-nuts who were playing hooky. He took another puff on the cigarette keeping his eye on the brightly lit guardhouse.

Nope, still no sign of the idiot guards. The more he thought about it, the less bothered he felt about executing the fools. He ground out the cigarette butt underneath the sole of his heavy boot and marched towards the guardhouse. “C’mon, let’s go find these dopes.”

“You’re not really going to execute these guys, Serge?” Queried the rookie.

“Not me, Soldier, you are.” He grinned in the dark and watched the boy pale at this instruction. “These guys are too stupid to live. We’ll be doing them a favor, putting them out of their misery.” He booted open the door to the guard house and drew his weapon. The other soldiers did likewise. “Yo! Anybody here?” He waited for an answer then pointed at two of his colleagues and signaled for them to go on ahead.

Their training kicked in and they slinked on ahead hugging the walls, taking it in turns to cover open doorways, until they were in the control room, the rookie gasped as he saw the two blackened guards on the floor laying in a pool of thick blood and vomit. “Holy shit.”

CHAPTER 17

Sophie Garcia watched as the team of doctors finished their hourly battery of tests upon the President. She noticed the sly glances pass between them, and as a student of body language, she knew the results were not good. The President’s personal physician waved his assistants away. “Let’s give the President some room, he needs his rest.” He ushered them from the bedroom, and clicked his fingers towards Sophie including her in the room clearance.

“No,” said the President weakly. “She stays; I want to hear more of what we’re up against.”

The doctor spoke to the President gravely. “That would not be advisable, Mister President, you must have your rest.”

“I don’t have the luxury of rest. I’m still the goddamned President of the United States of America and will do my utmost to protect my beloved country right up until my final breath, do you hear me!” His face raged red. Shocked by his outburst, the men retreated as fast as they could.

He smiled at Sophie. “I know they mean well, but sometimes they worry too much. However, I think I will shut my eyes for a moment — stay with me. I’ll only be a moment. Please feel free to freshen up, the bathroom is through there.” He pointed, then leaned back on his pillows and within a moment was fast asleep.

Sophie opened the door to the en suite bathroom and gasped at the opulence in the President’s private bathroom suite, a cross between Louis XIV’s boudoir and a Hollywood starlet’s dressing room. She washed her face, and brushed her dark, wavy hair wondering what her mother, God rest her soul, would have thought of her only daughter using the facilities at the President’s house.

She had to pinch herself to believe it was true. The vast bathroom had double french-doors out onto a patio area where she could see a bar-b-que pit and wooden garden furniture. She heard the murmurings of male voices and presumed the doctors’ had returned.

__________

President James Burgess jack-knifed in bed and clutched his heart as his bedroom door burst open and General Malloy marched in purposefully, accompanied by armed troops.

“What is the meaning of this?” hissed the President. “You burst into my bedroom like some jack-booted Nazi!” The monitors strapped to his body beeped in protest to his rising anger. Sophie heard the commotion and peeped through a crack in the bathroom doorway, and recognized General Malloy. “How dare you!” continued the President in anger. “Marching in here and barking at me like some jumped up scrap-yard dog! I’m the Goddamned President!”

The General whipped out his pistol. “Correction—” he calmly shot the President between the eyes, “- were.”

Sophie gasped in shock, and General Malloy swiveled towards the bathroom door, and flicked his head for one of his lackeys to look.

The Soldier took a cursory glance around the bathroom, could not see anything untoward, looked out at the patio, no one could have gotten far and shut the french-doors.

He re-joined the General, “Nothing, General,” he told him.

“Let’s check the security monitors just to make sure, we don’t want any loose ends.”

02:00 AM

The canvas-covered military truck carrying Luke halted with a squeal of air brakes. He tentatively glanced through the gap in the flaps. He’d stopped watching from the back some time earlier, sick of seeing the death squads dispatching the plague-carriers.

They arrived at the Marlins Park, built on the site of the infamous Orange Bowl. The Stadium was a hive of activity, with helicopters circling overhead shining searchlights down into the arena. A continuous parade of military trucks pulled up and unloaded its human cargo. Hazmat wearing Soldiers with loudhailers ordered Luke and the others down from the truck. They were frog-marched single-file down a hastily made wire enclosure, towards the stadium under the watchful eyes of armed guards. A skinny youth made a run for it, the sergeant major snapped up his rifle and shot down the kid mid-stride.

Luke entered the stadium under an armed escort where the harsh floodlights burned his eyes. He quickly scanned the arena for an escape, but found it well guarded, he estimated one guard per hundred refugees. They were up makeshift towers, in the stanchions of the flood light towers and evenly placed along the roofline.

“Duuude,” Jake drawled. “Don’t even think about it.” A crack of a rifle shot rang out and a man fell with blood spewing from his forehead and was dead before he hit the ground. Luke wondered what minor crime the man had committed. A sharpshooter on the stadium roof taking credit for the head shot.

Luke was quickly marched passed the body, and allocated a space on the grass, allotted by a towel to indicate his personal space. He was approximately on the centerline and found it ironic to be on the hallowed turf where the Orange Bowl used to be, where his favorite Miami Dolphins once played. A life-long fan, and in his youth he would daydream of playing for the Dolphins at the ‘Bowl’ one day, where a live dolphin would celebrate a touchdown by doing back-flips from its water-tank one end of the arena.

Well, he was here now, he thought somberly and wished the hell he wasn’t. He listened to the tannoy announcements telling them to wait patiently, that food and water would be brought around shortly, that there would be escorted comfort breaks, and that medical staff would pass amongst them in the near future, the announcer thanked them for their co-operation during this difficult time.

Luke listened in disbelief as the internees applauded and whistled as if they were at a rock concert. “Can you believe ‘em?” Luke said. “Didn’t they see the shootings?”

“Dude, people see what they want to see. They’re not going to cry over a couple of spicks being shot.” He slumped, realizing their situation was bleak.

Winnie snorted, “I’ve witnessed this sort of bullying my entire life, the so called liberal-minded citizens looking the other way. It ain’t gonna change now. I also know we’s gotta get out of the stadium, ‘cause in here we’re sitting targets.”

“How?” asked Luke.

“You’re the smart one, slick — figure it out,” she said in a voice that broached no argument.

02:00 AM

General Malloy sat in the communications room at the President’s summer residence, scanning the multi-monitors as they played back the CCTV footage of the previous hour. His eyes flicked from side-to-side, surveying the various flat screens, each one showing a different part of the compound at high speed.

“Permission to speak, sir?” a corporal asked.

“Granted,” General Malloy replied without taking his eyes off the high-speed footage.

“We need to get moving if we’re to stick to our itinerary.”

“No one was in the bathroom, general.”

“I heard something, soldier, I sensed it. I’m like Spiderman, I have this sixth sense, you may scoff but it’s saved my life more than once.”

“But, sir—” He stopped when he heard a commotion from the corridor. The sergeant left at the security gates to find the missing guard detail burst through the door.

“They’re dead, general, all dead!”

“Shot?”

“Not shot, General. It looks like the Black Death.” The words resonated around the communications room. Eventually the sergeant spoke again. “General, shouldn’t we be wearing the hazmat suits to protect ourselves?”

“Negative, son. It’s not the plague we are a good seventy miles north of the danger zone.”

“They were black, sir, and covered in boils.” He trembled, remembering the sight of the bodies.

“It’ll be something else. Trust me, this has all the hallmarks of a terrorist attack, a real subtle attack, misdirecting us into thinking it’s an ancient disease. But we’re too clever for that,” he paused. “Boys, we’ll go down in history for the courageous way we’ve acted.”

“They had the swellings under the arms, the black blood—” the sergeant persisted.

The general rocked on his heels and evaluated this new information. “Then it’s worse than I thought,” he told them. “There must’ve been an advanced hit squad, making it look like the Bubonic Plague has killed everyone at the compound, including the President—”

“The President’s dead!?” the sergeant gasped in amazement.

General Malloy realized that he had slipped up. “Affirmative, son,” he admitted, the soldiers murmured in utter shock at the news. “He was assassinated by terrorists. This is top secret for obvious reasons. That is why it’s imperative we watch these security tapes, we need to discover who committed this atrocity.”

“But the bio-hazards suits sir — the plague?” the sergeant persisted.

“If it is the Bubonic Plague, and that’s a big if, then it’ll already be too late for us,” he said. This caused a ripple of murmuring amongst the troops, then he returned to scanning the screens. “There. Stop the tape. Goddamnit, it’s her!” He pointed at the frozen image of Sophie.

He watched intently as the soldier at the controls, tracked Sophie’s image across the various screens on her journey into the inner sanctum of the President’s compound, right into his bedroom.

“Jesus H. Christ, how did this happen? She’s just waltzed right through each security check! She’s the terrorist from the hospital. We sent her image to every military base and installation, including this one to be on the lookout for her.” He thumped his fist down on the table.

“Spool through the tapes let’s see if we can find her. She can’t have gotten away, she’s—”

The sergeant bounced nervously on the balls of his feet. “Erm, General, I think she may have a vehicle.”

The general did not hear and continued. “We’ll guard all exits and—”

“General,” he said louder. “I think she has transport.”

Jack Malloy fixed him with a steely stare. “Go on?”

“Well, our, erm, our jeep is missing.”

02:30 AM

Even though nearly midnight, the heat inside the stadium was almost unbearable, Luke's clothes stuck to him with sweat. He couldn’t imagine what the heat was like for the soldiers inside their hazmat suits. He hoped it would be torturous, as this would help him with his escape-plan.

A buzz went around the stadium as part of the crowd made an escape bid en masse, and Luke knew the distraction would aid his escape. It was now or never. He nodded to Winnie, and she immediately writhed in agony upon her towel. Jake waved to the nearest guard, who waddled slowly over in his ponderous hazmat suit, who in turn beckoned to another guard.

Luke told them. “She’s turned black in the last hour.”

A look passed between the guards, which Luke expected, as the troops had not changed their routine since they had arrived. The soldiers awkwardly bent over, to heft the woman up, and braced themselves, because of her weight, slipping their rifles over their shoulders, to get a better grip, when Luke and Jake leapt into action and snatched a rifle from each of the startled soldiers.

CHAPTER 18

Outside the stadium Luke struggled within the confines of his stolen hazmat suit, he’d had trouble adjusting to the breathing apparatus initially, and the heat combined with the weight of Winnie, were causing him great difficulty. He staggered as he lugged her weight with Jake’s help. He grunted and groaned as they carried Winnie between them. They made it to the outside where a guard directed them to the back of the circular stadium. Luke could see an orange glow from the rear of the Marlin Park and as he rounded the curve of the stadium he was astounded to see a massive funeral pyre. He was glad he wore the hazmat suit grateful for the breathing apparatus. He could only imagine what the stench of roasting human flesh was like.

He waited while the soldiers in front of him swung their plague victim onto the fiery mound. Much to Luke’s horror the man was still alive, and writhed in agony in the burning flames as his flesh melted upon him. He attempted to crawl from the pyre, but the flames beat him back and he rolled over with a blood-curdling scream and died.

The soldiers laughed and mimicked the victim’s limb-flailing, agonized death-throes. Luke hated them instantly. He placed Winnie gently on the ground and Kung Fu kicked one of the giggling soldiers in the back and sent him head-first into the funeral pyre. The soldier flapped and screamed. His colleague rushed to help and rolled him onto the ground to extinguish the flames, which gave Luke, Winnie and Jake a chance to slip away undetected.

Amongst all the chaos and the coming and going of military vehicles, they kept their cool, and strolled from the parking lot to freedom. When they were some distance from the stadium they calculated that they had a better chance of staying free if they were to split up, they said hasty goodbyes and slipped away into the night.

The wash of the rotor blades of a heavy Huey helicopter blew waste paper around Luke. He glanced up and watched as the chopper dropped its cargo into the stadium and almost immediately heard the screams of the refugees and noticed the yellow vapor cloud emerge from the arena.

He tried to tune out the wails of the dying, “Gas…” he muttered to himself. “The final solution.”

03:00 AM

Sophie headed southward on the I-95 in the stolen army jeep, passing swiftly through Boca Raton, and Pompano Beach, back the way she had come assuming her pursuers would automatically have expected her to flee northwards away from the danger. Her journey was unhindered, but she knew she would not be able to get past the roadblock. She tried to think ahead, and thought of the jeep’s 4 X 4 all terrain driving ability and thought it better to journey around the unmade roads through the northern end of the Seminole’s reservation.

She turned off the freeway and doused her lights, slowing the engine and using moonlight to guide her on the surface streets, until she found the northern entrance to the Native-American reservation. She switched on her sidelights giving her some illumination, until she felt far enough away from the freeway and screened by the thickening forest, for a random army patrol to spot her, where she reverted to main beam.

The further she drove into the forest the more potholes she hit, and although the jeep could take them, she had to slow considerably. The jeep bounced over the compacted ruts. The lack of rain and the present heat wave had concentrated the mud into hard, uneven ridges. She navigated the dirt roads, little more than tracks, hardly ever used by the Seminole, but once shown to her by a tribal leader, when out there on her monthly visit. She remembered the pleasant tour around the extremities of the reservation. She thought it most beautiful, left in its natural state the way it had been for a hundred years. Not like the consumer park, designated for the tourists, who would flock in their droves to the ‘show’ reservation to buy trinkets, such as tomahawks, tribal headdresses and mini totem poles. The tourists watched the re-enactments of the Native American way of life, and of course the number one attraction, an ‘Indian Brave’ wrestling with an alligator. Although frowned upon lately as cruel to the gator, even if it was only a baby, well cared for, and practically a pet, they always over-fed it before a show to make sure it would be catatonic.

These days the tourists demanded more than the Disney version of the Native-American way of life. The reservation moved with the times, and due to a quirk in the law, was able to offer bingo, and even a full-blown casino for the more adventurous. She entered the main arena and recalled seeing the dead and dying sprawled around. When was that? Had it only been yesterday? She thought back to the bodies littered about like the aftermath of a nuclear war, with buzzards pecking at their fleshy parts, the eyes evidently a distinct favorite.

She shuddered inwardly, and tried to concentrate on looking for the track out of the encampment onto interstate 75. She drove from the arena and back onto another dirt road, through the over-hanging mangrove trees. She counted on the military patrols to be checking the northbound streets. She skirted around the deep bear-pit and continued southward, changed down a gear and popped out onto the interstate 75, which ran east to west.

She felt home free, she’d stick to the surface roads and back streets, and would be home in her condominium within twenty minutes. She sighed with relief, when all of a sudden she was lit up from behind by a fast approaching military vehicle.

The High Mobility Multipurpose Wheeled Vehicle (HMMWV) commonly known as the Humvee rapidly gained ground. The driver aimed at her, trying to ram her from the freeway. Quick as a flash, she spun a 180 degree-turn, leaving a circle of rubber on the road surface, thinking her best bet was back into the reservation, hoping her superior knowledge of the dirt roads would give her the edge in her bid to lose them.

The Humvee shot past, the soldier operating the roof-mounted M2 heavy machine-gun gawped in amazement. She used the four-wheel drive facility and drove down into a drainage ditch beside the freeway, while the slower Humvee turned around to give chase. She neared the dirt road she’d emerged from earlier, and drove up the embankment and bunny-hopped back onto the track into the reservation.

“There she is!” shouted the machine-gunner. The Humvee accelerated gaining ground. Sophie hurled the jeep around a sharp right on the dirt track, spitting up a cloud of dust. The lights of the Humvee locked upon her; the vehicle aimed at the turning, but the driver misjudged the vehicles maneuverability and crashed into a mighty tree trunk. The crash rattled the occupants of the vehicle, but did little damage to the armor–plated machine, although it wrecked the cypress tree.

Sophie slowed and turned off her lights using the moonlight to guide her, she saw the familiar curve in the dirt track. The machine gunner had her in his sights but as he bounced on the uneven dirt road, he lost his grip on the machine-gun, he lined up the M2 once more. He had to duck quickly before he was hit in the face by an overhanging branch, and then a slow bend in the track made it impossible for him to fire.

She stopped, waiting for the military vehicle to catch up. Sure enough, the Humvee rushed towards her at top speed and at the last second she drove off the track, between two study trees, knowing that the Humvee would not be able to follow.

The dumbfounded driver watched her disappearing through the trees to his left, he decelerated, but not quickly enough, because when he looked forward he was heading towards a steep curve in the road ahead. He braked for all his worth, but the wheels locked unable to gain purchase on the dirt, it shot into the curve, crunching into the bank of earth and teetered on the edge of the deep bear-pit. The driver held his breath, as if that would have any effect, but the momentum of his approach made the six thousand pounds of armor-plated vehicle drop into the depths.

Sophie shook her head at the ease in which she’d tricked her pursuers into the bear-pit. She made her way home without incident.

As she edged closer to the city she could see tracer bullets lighting up the night sky as if she was in Beirut or some such place. What was going on? She thought it prudent not to park the army jeep outside her condominium, and dumped it a street away. She trotted the last hundred yards, yet the humidity, even at that time of night sapped her strength. When she entered her street she saw an army patrol vehicle parked outside her condo.

She ran through the list of the other occupants of the building and could not think of anyone else that the military might have an interest in. Plus, it was all too much of a coincidence, her being an eyewitness to the assassination of the President of the United States. She’d tried to phone Quinn Martell, but her cell-phone service was down. She’d stopped at a payphone but that didn’t work either. She’d try her email when she got home, but doubted that would work. She assumed that it was part of the overall plan to stop communication leaking out of Florida.

She stealthily crept through the trees and bushes on the opposite side of the street, which lined one of the multitude of canals that crisscrossed Florida, she took her time, slowly approaching her building and crouched behind tall sea-grass, hiding behind the thick foliage, hoping to pick up bits of conversation. The soldiers were lazy and only focused on her front door, with the occasional cursory glance up and down the street. She had passed on the other side of the street completely unnoticed. She decided she’d better go elsewhere and slowly stood when a hand clamped across her mouth….

CHAPTER 19

03.30 AM

General Malloy called a meeting of the Chiefs of Staff. He addressed them from the President’s summer retreat using the video-link. They were at the War Room, with Quinn Martell there to make sense of the medical information over-load, landing on their desks and translate it into a form of English they would understand.

When they had taken their seats General Malloy cleared his throat and said; “Gentlemen it is my sad duty to inform you that President Burgess died at approximately 0200 hours this morning.” The Chiefs’ of Staff were astounded by the news and the abrupt manner in which it was delivered. “Vice President Parker is being sworn in as we speak, and he has given me the authority to do what I must, however unpalatable it may be, to sort out the Florida problem.”

Hamilton Parker kept his ear tuned to the General’s speech to the Chiefs of Staff via video-link while being sworn in as the next President of the United States of America. He and the general had worked out a strategy earlier and realized they needed the co-operation of the other armed forces, knowing some, by their inherent weak nature would object, yet he had confidence in General Malloy to lay out the plan and persuade them.

He could hardly contain his joy and sat in the sumptuous leather chair behind the expansive desk in the Oval Office. He regarded the briefcase upon it. The briefcase that could launch a nuclear war, little more than a laptop these days and he was awe-struck to think of the doomsday destruction the slim case held. He’d had one quick lesson in how to find the launch codes and activate them. He had a boy-like fascination with it, like being told not to touch wet paint, he had an overwhelming desire to open it, press a button and unleash hell! He managed to resist the urge knowing it was only for a retaliatory nuclear strike or even an offensive strike if it came to it. He might need the weapons sooner rather than later, he thought ominously.

He sent the advisors away so that he could concentrate on the General’s statement to the Chiefs of Staff.

General Malloy continued, “He was assassinated by the female terrorist that we have identified as being at the hospital where the Bubonic Plague has so far been tracked back to. For her to be present at both locations as an innocent bystander is too much of a coincidence — and I don’t believe in coincidences. She is now our number one suspect.

A hazy image of Sophie filled their monitors, Quinn Martell recognized her at once. He knew that she was not capable of the crime, but to announce that he knew her would mean he would have to reveal her name and ultimately it would lead to her capture. He saw the general staring at him and guessed his face had given him away. He thought he better have a cover story. “The President told me that he had invited her himself. She’s an expert on ancient communicable diseases and he wanted to hear from her first hand. She’s the foremost expert on the contagion.”

This threw the general for a moment, and then he found his voice. “Nevertheless, she’s our number one suspect and—”

“Hold on a moment, general, are you trying to say that out of all the experts in the world he could have called upon to advise him, he picked YOUR number one suspect, and invited her into his home?”

“Well, that’s what happened.”

“I thought you didn’t believe in coincidences?”

“Nevertheless, she has been identified as the assassin and has fled the scene in a stolen vehicle. Hardly the actions of an innocent advisor. We have people watching her apartment and all personnel have been issued with an image of her and instructed to shoot her on sight.”

The surgeon general sighed. “General Malloy, when will you understand that this is not an attack by some foreign power. It is the Black Death, the Bubonic Plague. It’s here, and we need to deal with it. Stop chasing mythical terrorists, you’re barking up the wrong tree. We need to concentrate the military on taking care of the good folk of Florida—”

“Don’t worry, doc,” he sneered. “We’re taking care of the Floridians, and you can trust me on that.”

04:00 AM

Sophie turned around and was shocked and delighted to see Luke. He put his finger to his lips, and she nodded. He took his hand away, and they backed into the darkness of the bushes. He explained that he’d come to find her, claiming he thought it a good idea to be with the expert on the disease, and that for some reason they seemed to be immune to the Bubonic Plague, he paused then said with a grin. “And I wanted to see you, again.”

They moved northward, then ducked into a doorway as a patrol zoomed past them tracking down a young girl on a scooter, the gunner on top of the Humvee aimed, fired, and hit her square between the shoulder blades, the bullet exited her chest in a cloud of red blood. She fell forward onto the handlebars, and then slumped from the scooter, which carried on down the street before toppling over.

Sophie gasped in shock. Although Luke had told her what had been happening, it still jolted her to see American troops murdering American citizens. She told him about General Malloy killing President Burgess and his plans to annihilate the residents of Florida. He explained that it had already started, he told her of the execution squads and of the mass gassing at the refugee camp. They moved north along Biscayne Boulevard and were fast becoming immune to the atrocities. They kept to the shadows as they saw looters shot, their bodies joining the many others littering the streets, left to rot.

04:15 AM

“Hello?” Submariner Pete Williams called out aboard the nuclear-powered submarine, the USS Amarillo. It’d been over an hour since he last found someone alive, albeit only for several minutes as that sailor too, succumbed, noisily and painfully to the virus. He made his way around the narrow metal tube. Claustrophobia overwhelmed him. He’d never known he’d suffered from it until now, but he had become aware that the tight metal coffin had him trapped. Everywhere he went the sailors were dead, strangely turning black first, some appeared to have died almost instantly. Dying sat at their posts. Friends he’d seen alive and healthy an hour or two earlier, now stone-cold dead, sat upright in front of their work stations, staring at their computer screens too frightened of their superiors to ask to be dismissed, with what they had perceived a bug, thinking a good night’s sleep would see them alright.

He made his way down to a lower deck where the thrum of the engine got louder. “Hello… anybody?” He felt fear rise in him and tears streaked his cheeks. He didn’t care who would see them. He wished there would be someone alive to see his obvious cowardice. He wondered what would happen if the nuclear reactor overheated? He did not have a clue what to do to stop it overheating. He was the last man standing and had been found wanting.

A more heroic sailor would save the day, and possibly the nearby population, for that matter, whereas he contemplated suicide, thinking it preferable to a slow lingering death. He thought the air had warmed up, and that he sucked in the deadly microbes with every breath. He only wanted to get to the surface, to breathe clean air his only ambition now. He didn’t care if no one found him he just needed clean fresh air. However, he didn’t know how to surface the vessel and his despair worsened.

He found himself in the communications sector, and thought of the radio, there must be a link to the mainland. Someone there would know where he was and rescue him. He felt elated and sat before the microphone, he’d seen the guys making calls enough times, he pressed the button, and spoke. “Mayday, mayday, mayday! Hello, can anybody hear me, this is Submariner Peter Williams on board the USS Amarillo, please respond…” He heard his voice echoing around his metallic hellhole. “Hello, can anybody hear me, this is Submariner Peter Williams on board the USS Amarillo, please respond…”

Fort Jenkins, a short squat building near Key West was a facility big enough to dock submarines for servicing and repairs. It was also responsible for communications between submarines and HQ. However because the USS Amarillo was on a top-secret mission, no messages were expected. The captain of the submarine knew better than to break radio silence, it would cost him his job to do so.

The Submariner did not know how many violations he broke, nor would he have cared, his thin, reedy voice, tinged with hysteria rattled around the room. The message came through loud and clear, sadly there was not one human left alive in the room. The sailors were dead at their posts, and the ever-present rats, greedily devoured the human flesh.

04:15 AM

“We’re pulling the plug on southern Florida,” said Hamilton Parker the incumbent President. He addressed the War Room via a video-link from his desk within the Oval Office at the White House.

General Jack Malloy spoke via the video-link from the ex-President’s summer residence. Quinn Martell was with the chiefs of Staff at the Pentagon’s War Room.

“You can’t be serious,” Quinn Martell said.

“We’re pulling the plug on Florida, all the way to the outskirts of Orlando.”

“That’s inhumane?” spluttered Quinn.

“Wouldn’t it be more inhumane to the rest of the population to expose them to the deadly virus? Wouldn’t that be morally wrong?”

“Of course, but we haven’t finished our studies. If we could isolate—”

“We don’t have the luxury of time for your flapping around, Quinn. All our evidence is that we cannot wait. It would be too late. Our men on the ground can only do so much.”

“So we quit, just like that, on millions of US citizens?” Quinn asked in disbelief.

“Most are dead or dying, we’re talking about a handful of survivors that are resistant to the bacteria, but they may still succumb.”

“That’s why we must do the tests, we need—”

“It’s too late, doctor,” said the new President. “To be frank, there are too small a number to risk the safety of the rest of us. It’s unlucky for them, sure, but if the shoe was on the other foot, who's to say…”

The men around the table murmured their agreement. “It’s time for bold decisions for the sake of the future of our great nation and I’m the man to do it. We’ve already cut all communication to and from the exclusion zone, we’ve got the ports, airport and roads blocked, and patrols mopping up the darkies—”

“The what?” Quinn asked appalled.

“The “darkies”, it’s what the troop’s are calling the plague carriers, their skin darkens in the latter stages of the disease.”

“And if a person is African-American?” Quinn asked. “How do we distinguish between them and a plague carrier?”

“Again, it’s too bad. In all likelihood, they are going to die anyhow. As I said, we’re talking about a handful of people.”

“May God forgive us,” Quinn mumbled in defeat.

“We’re controlling the information, and when the danger is over, and enough time has passed, our actions will be vindicated. We may even be hailed for our bold, brave decisions, that have not only saved the country, but more likely the world, we’ll go down in history—”

“We’ll go down in history all right,” Quinn scoffed.

“You’re comments are duly noted,” Hamilton Parker said not meaning it for a second. “Now, we have key people in the zone, manning nuclear installations, and other highly sensitive organizations, but they are being stretched thin.”

“We need the citizens to go to the refugee camps. We’re offering food, medicine and shelter, yet there’s still too much resistance. We have round-up patrols but they are taking up too much of the military’s valuable time. So, I have decided to pull the plug, to force the more independently minded to hasten their way to the camps.”

“What do you mean, Mister President?” asked Quinn. “How are you going to force the population to the camps?”

“We are literally pulling the plug.”

04:30 AM

From Orlando pretty much bang in the center of the peninsular of Florida down to Miami the average ground height above sea level is just twelve feet. Much of the coastal districts even lower still, and what with the latest trend in scare stories of global warming Floridians now had the specter of a tsunami to contend with along with their annual and often fatal hurricanes. Florida had experienced a tidal-wave centuries ago, an earthquake off the coast of Portugal, had caused a tidal-wave that swamped the present day Miami and almost five miles inland. What with the boxing day tsunami in 2004 and the more recent 2011 event in Tohoku, Japan, triggered by an earthquake that had a devastating effect on the local area and was still fresh in Japan’s collective memory, it was a wonder anyone lived in such low lying areas. It was claimed that Cinderella’s castle at Disney World was the highest non-residential point in Florida.

Luke appreciated Florida’s flat as a pancake landscape, because it gave him a birds-eye view positioned from on top of the Coral Tower, the thirty story incompleted condo, that skirted the I-95 freeway gave him an unobscured vantage point.

Luke thought about how fantastic it would be to soar from the top of the tower on his hang-glider. To catch a thermal and soar around and around the tower and would probably be able to land back on the top.

He turned to Sophie and said; “I’d love to jump off the tower.”

“Excuse me?” she said as her jaw dropped open and she thought her travelling companion had suicidal tendencies.

He saw her confusion and laughed. “No, I meant on a hang-glider. That’s how I like to spend my time, soaring around like a bird.”

“You would not catch me in one of those contraptions, far too dangerous.”

“Not if you know what you’re doing. I’ll take you for a flight, you’d love it.”

“Uhuh, not me. I’m happiest with my feet planted firmly on the ground thank you very much.”

He smiled at her and returned his attention down below, where he could watch troop movements, and could see them coming from miles away.

__________

The Coral Tower had stood empty for two years since erected. A white elephant that demonstrated not all buildings will have a line of salivating buyers with open pocket books. The builders had speculated on a glut of eager buyers, but gotten their predictions badly wrong, ending up going bankrupt in the process.

From the deck on the roof, the views were spectacular. Luke observed a nearby private airstrip, wondering if anyone was contemplating a low-flight escape, but it was too far away to tell. He guessed that he could see roughly thirty miles to the south, he could easily see the glow of the Miami sky scrapers and about the same to the north, he could make out the Atlantic coast-line and although could not see them, he knew navy vessels were lurking out there.

Waiting.

All at once a block of skyscrapers in downtown Miami plunged into darkness, followed swiftly by another and then another. He tapped Sophie on the shoulder and pointed. She watched open mouthed as block-by-block the skyscrapers were swallowed by the night.

“Man, can you believe it?” Luke said in stunned surprise.

They watched in shocked silence as Miami went black, followed by Fort Lauderdale suffering the same fate, as grid by grid the city descended into darkness.

03:39 AM

Alvin Borelli had broken into the convenience store at the ground level of the luxury block of his ocean facing penthouse on Miami’s south beach. He loved the art deco architecture of the oceanfront blocks. They divided opinion — you either loved them or hated them, no middle ground. He naturally enough loved them. The shapes of the buildings resembling ocean-liners or as others had unkindly described them, as wedding cakes. The beachfront had fallen into decline some time ago and had gained a sleazy reputation. However, the area had been cleaned up recently and now commanded premium real-estate dollars to gaze out onto the beach and ocean beyond.

Alvin ignored the TV broadcasts and mobile military loudspeaker announcements for all civilians to make their way to the designated refugee camps. Yeah, right, he thought. How foolish did they think he was? He did not intend to be crammed into a sports arena with potential Bubonic Plague victims. No chance! It made him shudder to think of all those people polluting his air. God, how disgusting. It would have played havoc with his lifelong claustrophobia, he could just about bear to get into the elevator to his penthouse apartment. And even that was a private elevator. No way could he have those unclean sweating bodies crushed against his in the main elevator. He counted himself lucky that his career had afforded him the luxury of not only a penthouse apartment but a private elevator, straight to the top, not the interminable waiting as the elevator creaked from floor-to-floor on it’s deathly slow progress to the top of the building.

His lucrative career being the supply of heroin into Florida since the early ’80s, where gentlemen, like himself, at the top would do the deals and make the contacts, no macho posturing was necessary, they dealt with it like any other business and everyone made money.

That was before the wetbacks had muscled in, mostly Castro’s garbage. The criminals and the gibbering insane had swamped the city, and the greasy filth had upset the apple cart for a while, under-cutting him on price, cutting the merchandize making it a dangerous product, with their ridiculous policy of tit-for-tat killing of their rivals, the ‘you kill one of ours we’ll kill one of yours’, nonsense, was bad for business. What was the point of all the he-man theatrics, it meant no business sense?

The ’80s and ’90s had been a bad time, until the families took back control and rebalanced the power, and then it was back to business as normal, of supply and demand, that would never end, well, until the user inevitably died, but there were always more, plenty more addicts to take their place.

The ‘families’ had been slow to realize the potential of heroin, strangely taking a moral high ground against drugs initially; yet happy to force underage girls into prostitution, disregarding the misery that money-lending and protection rackets caused, yet drugs had them clutching at their under-skirts like maiden aunts. It had been a massive mistake, not just from a lucrative point of view, but it had let the coloreds get a foothold in the supply and distribution of the illicit commodity, not dissimilar to booze during prohibition, the mobsters had no qualms about making and distributing. It was strange that they had been reticent about drugs and heroin in particular, that was in the early days, of course, but not anymore.

He dealt with the supply and shipment of the product in an organized professional way, same as any other business, the equilibrium restored once more and Alvin Borelli counted himself blessed, because as a top-level mobster he had gotten into the trade early and made a fine living at it. He had no sympathy for the junkies, in fact, he despised them for being so weak-willed and no one had put a gun to their heads and forced them to take the narcotic in the first place. So why bleat about it once hooked? In fact, it gave them another income stream, because the hopeless junkie would turn tricks in desperation for the cash they so badly needed. If they were lookers he’d use them himself, but junkies aged prematurely, getting creased and wrinkly, often losing their teeth, and they would soon slide down the scale until they were out on street corners offering blowjobs for ten bucks a pop.

The male junkies went the same way, happily selling their bodies so long as they got their heroin fix. Didn’t seem to matter what they looked like, how much they let themselves go, there was usually a pervert for every type of junkie. Nope, they brought it on themselves and good riddance to the feeble-minded idiots. Did they not watch the news? They knew it was dangerous, and highly addictive, yet they still tried the product.

He wandered the empty concession store, filling his shopping-cart. He piled it high with all the luxuries that made his days bearable, Bollinger champagne, and Beluga caviar, not that he could not normally afford it, he ate and drank it most days, but it would taste even more delicious now due to the fact that he had stolen it.

He heard a noise and he went for his pistol tucked in the front of his pants, he froze, listening for more sounds, he knew instinctively that it wasn’t an army patrol. So it must be one of the plague carriers, he withdrew his pistol, he’d have no hesitation in shooting them dead if he had to, carrier or not, he wasn’t going to take a chance. It’s not as if he hadn’t ever killed anyone before. He’d lost count of how many ‘hits’ he’d done during his professional career. He’d killed for the first time at thirteen. A pretty girl, who lived on his block and had befriended him, wanting someone to call a friend. They spent most of that summer together, until one day he’d misread the signs and had inexpertly groped her. She screeched like a banshee, and in an effort to stop the sound he had covered her mouth, but her panic had gotten worse until he had dragged her screaming over to a water-filled barrel, and pushed her face into it. Her thrashing around had aroused him, especially as she went limp, he knew she was dead and that he had killed her. He had covered his tracks, gone home, and played the innocent when questioned, even helpfully joined in the hunt for her. He felt nothing for her. He displayed no emotion, yet he wasn’t a sociopath, because once retelling the story to a psychiatrist he went on to say that, he’d cried when a hit-and-run driver killed his beloved dog. Therefore, proving he was capable of feelings. Strong feelings as it turned out, of hatred in particular, as he’d tracked down the driver and ran him over. In the driver’s own car, no less — a nice touch of poetic justice, he thought. This action had made him one of the family’s youngest ever foot soldiers.

No, he managed to square away a ‘hit’ as another business deal and not think about his catholic upbringing and the commandment, ‘thou shall not kill’. He still believed in God, and supposed he would have to answer for his misdeeds when he reached the pearly gates, but that would not be happening for a long time. He planned to repent before the end, for the church loved a sinner, and boy, had he sinned. No, he’d make it right, before his time was up. He chose not to think about it too much, as his demise was a long way off, unlike this motherfucker creeping up on him, either to attack him, or at the very least suck in his clean air and replace it with his polluted contagious breath.

He abandoned his shopping-cart, he could make another trip later and crept to the store doorway, he could see his private elevator a few yards away. Tantalizingly close but blocked by a crowd of plague carrying victims. He held his pocket-handkerchief to his nose, wondering how far the germs could carry on the air. He had to get to the elevator and fast, but the man, woman and two children, seemed in no hurry to leave the foyer, no doubt hiding from the troops. The woman caught his eye, and smiled gently, “Oh, Hi,” she realized she had startled him, and smiled reassuringly. “Sir, can you please help us?”

He calmly raised his pistol and shot her between the eyes, she fell back into the man’s arms. The kids screamed and he shot them too, but the man knocked the gun from his hand. Alvin Borelli rushed to his elevator, where he fumbled with the key. The man lunged at him with hate-filled eyes. Alvin neatly sidestepped the man, sending him crashing into the wall, Alvin karate-chopped him across the throat, and the man slid down the wall choking with a broken larynx. Alvin picked up his pistol, when more people poured in through the broken doors attracted by the commotion of the gunshots and screaming.

He fired into the crowd hitting two or three, he heard the private elevator doors swish smoothly open behind him and he neatly stepped back into the comfort of his private sanctum, when the choking man on the floor grabbed his legs. He quickly shot him in the arm and the limb withdrew. But as the doors closed again a multitude of hands held them open. He fired rapidly until finally, thankfully, the doors hissed closed, and he breathed the biggest sigh of relief he could remember.

He wondered about the Bubonic Plague carriers and suspected that some germs had probably gotten into the elevator with him so he held his breath. It was only a minute to his destination he could manage that. No problem, he thought, when the elevator juddered to a halt and the lights dimmed and then finally, terrifyingly, went out.

CHAPTER 20

03:45 AM

Luke could only wonder about the effect that no power and total darkness would have. He wasn’t concerned for the half-crazed and dying; but for the healthy who’d decided to wait out the pandemic in the modicum of comfort that their own homes provided. If they had enough food, then there was no reason to venture outside, where looters might attack them, or make contact with the plague carriers unnecessarily. If they sat it out for a week, it would’ve passed over and by which time the government would have arranged for their evacuation.

Now their food would spoil and the air conditioning units would be inoperable, and the present heat wave would surely drive them outside. And that, of course, Luke realized, was the reason, to draw the survivors outside, where they'd be rounded-up and transported to the refugee camps, or now, more likely executed on the street.

He shuddered and thought of the infirm and elderly fumbling their way around their homes disorientated by the darkness, making their own homes potential death traps.

He watched the power grids extinguishing block-by-block towards them, and then pass behind them blinking out into the horizon leaving South Florida in total darkness.

He and Sophie agreed that the Government was not going to rescue them and were more likely to destroy them. Sophie said, “They told me at the President's compound that they were sending up spy-planes and drones, and were re-positioning our satellites.

Luke nodded. “We know that the roads, ports and coastlines are being watched for outward movement, maybe are chances are better if we head inland and go up the middle.”

“Speed is essential,” she said. “Before they swamp the area.”

“There’s a small landing strip nearby, I saw it before the lights went out. If we fly central and low, we might just make it.”

“What about radar?” Sophie said.

“That’s the beauty of it; I did a news story once about drug running, if you stay low and away from major airports, you can fly undetected.”

Sophie brightened considerably. “You can fly?” she asked.

“Well, I landed a jumbo jet earlier,” he smirked at his recent escapades involving the Boeing 777.

On any other day she would have laughed out loud, thinking it was some sort of cheesy pick-up line, pretending to be a glamorous airline pilot, but tonight she took him at his word. “That’s good—” but she noticed by his expression that it was not. “What’s the problem?”

“I landed one — I’ve never taken off or flown one. But, hey, how hard can it be?”

She eyed him suspiciously, and then laughed. “What the hell!”

“Come on,” Luke said. “We need to keep moving.”

__________

Luke and Sophie clattered down the unlit internal staircase. It would take a long time to make the descent. Sophie said. “Diseases have wiped out civilizations before you know? You must remember that from school?”

“Remind me,” he said.

“When Cortes and the Spanish invaders landed on the shores of Mexico in 1519 it was the heart of the Aztec Empire. An Empire numbering between five and ten million people. Within the year the Aztecs rose up in rebellion and the heavily outnumbered Spanish fled, leaving the bodies of their dead behind — along with smallpox.”

They descended two more flights of stairs, the heat sapping their strength.

“During Cortes’s absence,” she continued. “The smallpox virus decimated the Aztec population and when he returned in 1521 he found the Aztec army in ruins, the remaining soldiers were too weak to fight and were easily defeated. It was claimed that the Spaniards could not walk through the streets without stepping on the bodies of smallpox victims.”

“And I don’t have to tell you what happened to the Incas.” She smiled.

“Remind me….”

She looked at him sideways. “Well, suffice to say, the Inca Empire with a population of between six and twelve million suffered an even more devastating ending where smallpox annihilated up to ninety percent of their society.”

Luke’s shirt stuck to him with sweat, he tugged at it to no avail.

“And I don’t need to tell you about the Native Americans,” she said.

He scrunched his face, and then made a carry on gesture with his hands. She stared at him incredulously.

“Remind me,” he said flatly.

She stopped dead, and regarded him balefully. “Didn’t you go to school?”

“Sometimes.”

She sighed heavily, and descended the stairs. “The combined Native-American nations were thought to be around ten million strong when the Europeans arrived from the Old World. The Native-Americans’ only needed to see the white man before succumbing to the disease. It's believed that a virus from the Old World had decimated ninety to ninety-five percent of the New World. Smallpox had been single-handedly responsible for killing nearly all the native inhabitants of the Americas.”

“Maaan, I didn’t know — I mean, I forgot.” He quickly corrected.

“The invading Europeans realized what had happened and decided to speed up their demise; the Natives gave them food and the settlers traded smallpox-infected blankets.”

“Not our finest hour,” Luke agreed.

“It was possibly the world’s first attempt at ethnic cleansing.”

“And germ warfare.”

“That’s precisely what happened next — the Native-Americans figured out that the white man had deliberately given them this awful contagion and decided to repay the betrayal. They would creep into town under the cover of darkness, and wipe their saliva around door-handles, they even put infected bodies into the town’s water supply.”

As they neared the bottom of the building their pace quickened. “During the 20th century it was estimated that smallpox was responsible for between three to five hundred million deaths.”

“Man, this is incredible. I could do a news item on—” He stopped as he remembered that there would be no item as there was no longer a news station.

Sophie noticed and continued her story hoping to distract him. “As recent as 1967 the World Health Organization calculated fifteen million people contracted the disease and over two million died in that one year alone.”

“But there’s a cure now, right?”

“Yes, after a succession of successful vaccination campaigns the WHO certified the eradication of smallpox in December 1979. To this day smallpox is the only human infectious disease to have been completely eradicated.”

“So, why ain’t the government learned from history and prepared for this?”

“Beats me. I guess they leave it to the Center for Disease Control to handle. They can deal with the odd local pocket of exotic disease; but nothing on this scale.”

“Do you think the government has grasped the enormity of the problem?”

“Doesn’t look that way. But only a complete fool would treat the plague lightly.”

__________

Hamilton Parker stretched out on the luxurious king-sized bed in his opulent White House bedroom. He rolled onto his side and stared down at the cute young, blonde lying next to him. She was cute all right — and young. Too young and in all probability could land him in jail.

Pity Washington wasn’t in Alabama then she’d have been eligible to have been married five years ago. They only had to be twelve or was it fourteen to marry in Alabama, or did they have to be cousins? He could never get his head around the South and their peculiar notions and as for the way they clung onto the past. ‘The South would rise again’ they liked to toot. The hell it will, that way of life ended with the conclusion of the civil war. A war that’d ended a hundred and fifty years ago. For Christ’s sake, get over it.

The cute blonde-haired teenager stirred, saw him and smiled. She gazed around the vast bedroom seeing it properly for the first time. “Whoa! Your bedroom’s bigger that my mom’s trailer.”

“Well, you won’t be going back there anytime soon, that’s for sure.”

“Does this make me the first lady?”

“You’re my first lady, baby.” He smiled at her. She’d been his mistress for a few months now, extremely hush-hush obviously. Ever since he saw her center-spread in April’s addition of Playboy, he was smitten. She had an air of innocence about her, a naivety that simply poured from the page. He had to have her, and what Hamilton wanted, Hamilton got. Their affair had to be discreet, very discreet, even more so since becoming President.

She giggled and slid her hand down his flat stomach and he felt himself stirring again. She did things to him the first lady wouldn’t, couldn’t, perhaps he even shouldn’t. Things he wouldn’t dream to suggest. No, Miss April had been the best thing that had happened to him. Talk about bad timing. Any when else he could have set her up in an apartment, she would have wanted for nothing, and no one would be the wiser, but now all eyes were upon him. Luckily, he had a gang of loyal friends from college days that would act as decoys, to throw the press off his trail.

She kissed around his neck, and then moved down his chest, “Thanks for getting me and mom out of Miami.”

“You’re welcome, honey.”

“I was so scared. I thought we would get the plague if we stayed much longer.”

“Think nothing of it. You’re safe now. Besides, what’s the point of being the President if you can’t pull a few strings?”

“You’re the best, Hammy,” she said and giggled as her hand slid further down his body followed by her head.

“Oh boy….”

__________

Luke and Sophie eventually made it to the bottom of the thirty stories exhausted and panting for breath. Both glad to be out in the fresh air for what it was worth. It was still swelteringly hot, and they were drenched in sweat.

He heard an engine in the distance of a car travelling at great speed, he ushered Sophie back further into the foyer. Moments later a dark green Cadillac with a solitary passenger zoomed past, trying to put as much distance between him and the god-awful pestilence behind. They heard loud rock music blaring from his open window, and watched as the tail-lights disappeared down the street, followed by the softening of the drumbeat.

Luke stepped forward to continue their journey, but Sophie held him back. “Wait!” Luke craned his neck, and sure enough heard in the distance the rumbling of a military vehicle. They crouched back into the foyer as the heavily armed Humvee flashed past, and moments later they heard gunfire, the squeal of tires and subsequent crash.

CHAPTER 21

DAY THREE

SUNDAY JULY 3rd

06:45 AM

“Gentlemen,” President Hamilton Parker appeared on the screens in the war room via video-link. The gathered Chiefs of Staff looked surprised by the President’s disheveled appearance, he’d taken his jacket off and his tie hung loose. “We’re fighting a losing battle in Florida… I’m sure you’ve all got your own sources and know this to be true. As fast as we catch one darkie ten more take their place. We cannot let any get out, I cannot stress this enough, we’ve all seen the diagrams and have read the forecasted predictions, well, I can tell you that they were wildly underestimated,” The Chiefs of Staff absorbed this news with horror-stricken faces, before the President continued. “We have less than twenty four-hours to save ourselves.”

“What about Florida?” Quinn Martell asked.

“Florida’s gone,” the President replied as easily as if writing off a lost sock.

The Joint Chiefs of Staff gasped their disbelief.

“I know it sounds callous, but we now have to concentrate on the rest of the country, and I can assure you at this moment in time OUR future is not certain.” He paused for the notion to sink in.

“My god…” exclaimed Vice Admiral Reed.

“It is time for bold action and I have a plan as a last resort. But if any of you can think of anything to stop the fugitives heading north let’s hear it now.” No one spoke. “This is the problem we face, we’re trying to police fifteen hundred miles of freeway, another ten thousand miles of highway, probably double that including the other streets, and tracks and what have you. The navy is trying to cope with seventeen hundred miles of coastline and on top of that in the middle there are two million acres of the Everglades, and don’t get me started on the interconnecting lakes, rivers and waterways.”

“So,” he said, taking a breath. “As you can see, the problem is enormous and frankly, nigh on impossible to solve.”

“But aren’t the victims dying off, won’t that be the end of the problem?” said the vice admiral.

“Sure, they’re dying in their hundreds of thousands, which causes another problem, all those bodies are infected and need disposing of. We’re burning the corpses as fast as we can, but it’ll take months to clear the back-log, and then we’ve got those goddamn rats, spreading the disease around further. The survivors will be minimal, but we still don’t know if they’re incubating the disease and will succumb later, or that they are carriers, and will infect the rest of us.”

Quinn said; “But they could be fine, healthy human beings?”

“Well, I for one, am not willing to find out.”

“What are you suggesting?”

The President smiled weakly. “You’re not going to like it…”

07:10 AM

Jenkins Forest awoke for the second day without food or water and groaned aloud when he remembered his predicament. He lifted himself gently from the lower bunk in his weakened state and staggered to the metal bars hoping that things had changed, but none of the comforting sounds of other survivors greeted him only a deathly silence. He leaned his head against the metal bars, even the metal had warmed up in the incessant heat.

He had to face it; he was trapped in his cramped cell with Kincaid who was suffering with what he could only assume was advanced Aids. The sonofabitch puked on him, and Jenkins was convinced that some got in his own mouth. Ain’t that one of the ways the gay plague transmitted? Sonofabitch would pay for that. Although he doubted Kincaid made it through the night.

Jenkins wondered how much longer he could survive without water. His stomach had rumbled through lack of food all damned night. However, it was the lack of water that was driving him insane. He’d never known anything like it. It was agony and if that wasn’t bad enough he was stuck in this shit-hole with the puke-monster.

He quickly glanced at Kincaid, slumped over the john. He was breathing, just. He absolutely reeked. He puked up most of the night and if it wasn’t one end it was the other, although by the look of him he’d just soiled himself again, and not bothered to use the can. Vomit, urine, excrement and blood splattered the tiny cell floor.

He’d concluded that everyone else must have died too. There were no sounds on the wing from his fellow inmates, no guards, no orderlies, nada. The lights had burst on at seven a.m., regular as clockwork and that gave him a glimmer of hope, but then he remembered that they switched on automatically and would do until the prison’s electricity generator finally gave up the ghost, then he’d be in total darkness to add to the misery.

The stifling hot cell and the odor made him gag. Maybe it was god’s punishment after all. He was paying for his sins, well and truly.

Kincaid stirred and grinned, making the pus filled rings on his face weep. He did not have the energy to wipe it away; he was beyond caring.

“What you grinning at, fool?”

“You; trapped in here with me.”

“So what?”

“Getting what you deserve,” he said though cracked lips.

“You think? You maybe. Not me.”

“I’ve studied you, you could say.” His dark black tongue flicked around his lips trying to give them moisture. “You act like the big, tough guy, but you’re just a bully. I know about you, beating woman and kids.”

“What you saying?”

“Jeanette Dumas, remember her?”

“No.”

“You had one date with her, she didn’t want a second, said you gave out a bad vibe,” he hissed.

“So?”

“So?! So, you poured acid in her face. You disfigured her for life.” His voice rasped as he drew in labored breath. “I’m guessing she wasn’t the only one?”

“The bitches deserved it. If I ain’t gonna have ‘em, no one else will.”

“You really are a twisted fuck.” He sniggered.

“Shut your mouth or I‘ll—”

“What? What can you do to me? You seriously want to touch me and be infected with this?” He pointed at himself and scratched at one of the numerous black lumps that bulged from his neck. It popped and liquid oozed down his neck.

Jenkins recoiled at the sight. “What you got, man — Aids?”

Kincaid snorted. “No. I was as healthy as you, yesterday morning when I arrived. I caught this here, along with everyone else by the sounds of it.”

“If it ain’t Aids what is it?”

“This is payback.”

“I don’t deserve this.”

“I’m accepting my fate,” he said his voice hardly registering. “I DO deserve it, but I was born with my urges. I couldn’t keep them under control and now I’m being punished by this pestilence from God. But you? You had a choice. You chose to maim, blind and kill without compunction.”

“Fuck you man. I don’t deserve this shit.”

Kincaid tried to laugh but only a gurgle emitted from between his cracked lips. “You’re going to die, no doubt about that, and it’ll be in torment.”

“Oh yeah? Well, at least I ain’t got your weird disease.”

“You’re the only one that hasn’t.”

“That right I’ve been singled out by your God to be immune.”

“You’ll be begging for death before the day is out.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Dying of thirst is the worst excruciating agony known to man, you’ll go insane. You’ll climb the walls, as your internal organs shut down one by one, you’ll be begging to catch my disease; to die far more quickly and mercifully.”

Jenkins felt the hairs raise on the back of his neck at the prospect of what the runt told him, when Kincaid sniggered.

“What’s so funny?”

“Before nightfall you’ll be so parched and insane from thirst that you’ll be drinking the shit-filled water from the toilet.”

Jenkins shuddered as Kincaid’s high-pitched cackle filled the cell.

07:20 AM

It was another blistering hot day as Luke and Sophie stood by the chain-link fence next to the metal gates guarding the small private airstrip; the tarmac shimmered with a heat-haze, making the main office in the distance appear like a mirage. A small crowd had gathered. Luke touched his firearm for reassurance. “They’re probably friendly.”

“How do you figure that?”

“They’re civilians trying to escape.”

How are we going to get in? She asked, pointing at the padlocked gates. Luke eyed a nearby truck. She followed his line of sight. “How are you going to start it?”

He jumped in the cab. “Friends in low places,” he said and yanked wires from under the dash. “Misspent youth. The noisy diesel engine clattered into life, he smirked. “Jump in.”

She hopped up into the cab, and he shifted the stick into gear. “I still don’t see how this is going to get us into the airstrip?”

He concentrated on the gates, and once again, she followed his line of vision, “Oh no…” she held on tight as Luke revved the engine, slipped the clutch and catapulted across the street, smashing through the gates easily. They dragged underneath with a terrible screeching of metal, alerting the crowd by the main office.

A short fat guy raised a rifle, as did the other armed members of the crowd. Luke alighted from the truck cab, with his hands raised. “Get back in your truck.” said the fat man. “And drive away.”

“We wanna escape — same as you,” Luke said evenly.

“Let me see…” said a lanky pencil thin man standing on the wing of a private jet. “How much they’re willing to pay?” he said.

“Hey, you already agreed my price,” a blonde woman said indignantly.

“There’s only one seat and it’s going to the highest bidder.”

“That’s disgraceful,” said Sophie in disgust. “Take a larger plane, then you can take more people.”

“Listen, lady, I ain’t no charity, I’m getting me out of here. Now, if I can make a few bucks auctioning the other seat, well, that’s just the American way. So do we have any higher bids?”

“I’ll give you my house!”

“In plague city, uhuh, I don’t think so.”

“I’ll give you my car.”

“Why would I want a car when I’ve got a plane? I’ve told you; it’s cold hard cash. No more bids? OK Blondie, I’m all yours.”

She glared at him angrily, and then trotted over to the small-two seater Cessna TT. The crowd surged towards him, and he waved his pistol threateningly at them. “Don’t tempt me, I’ll shoot.”

Luke said; “Fly it low, man, and away from the major airports, otherwise—”

“Are you a pilot?” he asked. The others in the crowd turned hopefully towards him.

“No, but—”

“Then shut the fuck up. I’ve been doing this for years. It’s going to be pedal to the metal up, up and away.” He opened the aircraft door, clambered into the driver’s seat to leave the blonde woman standing on the wing.

“I don’t think I want to go…,” the blonde woman said nervously.

“Don’t go. Stay. I don’t care. But, I’ll tell you this, I’m keeping your money and I’ll sell the seat to someone else.”

“Me!” shot up a hand.

“No, me!” said a man, yanking the previous bidder back so hard he fell over onto the cement. A lady stepped on him to raise herself and catch the pilot's eye.

“Me, sir, I’ll do anything to get out of Florida!” she begged.

The pilot looked her up and down and sneered. “Not my type.”

A young man pushed the lady out of his way and she tripped over the prone man still on the ground. “I’ll do it, anything you desire, just get me out of here!”

The blonde-haired woman noted their desperation and reluctantly climbed in.

The crowd groaned, but the youth jumped on the wing. “You ain’t going anywhere without me.” He walked towards the door and the pilot raised his pistol and shot him in the stomach, the boy staggered back, looked down in disbelief at the blood pumping from between his fingers and fell off the wing.

Sophie gasped at the dead teenager and shuddered at the pilot’s cold-heartedness, but the message got through to the crowd and they backed away as the single engine propeller chugged into life.

“Come on,” Luke said galvanizing the crowd. “Let’s see if one of the private jets has been left unlocked.”

The gang spread out, rattling handles, when Luke eyed a nine passenger Citation XLS-seater high wing luxury jet, he muttered a silent prayer as he looked heavenward, he tried the handle and it opened. “Cool!” he turned to the others. “Over here, this one’s unlocked. We can all get on it.”

“You’re gonna fly us out of here?” Sophie asked in surprise.

“I’m going to do my damndest,” he said and smiled confidently.

“Don’t tell me, ‘Friends in low places — misspent youth?’”

“Well, if you’re going to crash it, make sure it’s into the Four Points Hotel,” a scruffy ex-soldier grumbled. “Jumpin’ Jack’s commandeered it; made it his campaign head-quarters.”

“General Malloy is here in the zone? Are you sure?” asked Sophie.

“I served under that bastard in Iraq. I’d recognize him anywhere, even in a hazmat suit. An army buddy of mine has been watching them set up. The communication post is on the roof. Long and short wave antennas, satellite dishes, you name it, they got it. It’s how they organize the death squads so efficiently.”

Sophie explained to the crowd Luke’s lack of credentials as a flyer, yet they all scrambled aboard anyway. Luke flicked some switches and the dials flipped into life. His eyes flicked around the instrument panel familiarizing himself with them. “Altitude, wind-speed, knots, fuel…” he read out to himself.

Luke watched the light aircraft taxiing up the runway, and he followed suit. The pencil thin pilot revved the engine, shot down the runway and climbed as high and as fast as the craft could handle.

Sophie sat next to Luke in the co-pilots seat and kept her eye on the departing Cessna as it zoomed up into the clear blue sky and on its way to freedom.

She said to Luke. “Do you know what you are doing?”

“More or less, how hard can it be?” He grinned at her winningly, and pulled back on the control yoke, making her head thrust back into the headrest. “When we reach maximum speed it will pretty much take off on its own, at least that’s the theory.”

He trundled down the runway, at full throttle, gradually gaining speed, but they were fast running out of space. “C’mon… c’mon!” He growled willing the jet to reach optimum airspeed.

Sophie watched the light aircraft in front as it soared higher and higher into the early morning sky, when a surface-to-air missile whooshed from the direction of the ocean towards the Cessna and blew it to kingdom come.

Luke swiftly pushed forwards on the throttle and his aircraft slowed, enough to abort take-off, but not enough for them to miss the perimeter fence. “Not again!” he yelled. He could hear his passengers in the back screaming and he aimed for the gates. “Breath in,” he joked to Sophie as the fuselage of the jet squeezed through the gap in the gates, and the wings cleared the top of the fence by a whisker, then they were out of the airport and speeding down the street, where they overtook a lone army jeep.

“Holy shit!” said the startled driver as the wing passed over his head. He screeched to a halt leaving a trail of rubber behind him. He took a few moments to recover, then gulped and picked up his radio handset. “This is Bravo-William One. You are never gonna believe what’s heading your way, over.”

Two trucks and two commandeered buses filled the street making a makeshift road-block, a humvee and a tank defended it. The troops had had an easy time as folk had either given up trying to escape, or had died. “Say again, Bravo-William One, a what is heading our way? Over.”

But before his comrade could reply he heard the roar of the engine and his eyes popped out on stalks, shocked beyond belief to see a civilian jet hurtling along the street towards him at great speed, smashing through the road-block with a screech of twisted metal and a cloud of sparks, knocked aside the buses with ease.

The soldiers were caught off guard, and slowly recovering from the shock, drew their weapons and fired at the retreating metal monster.

The tank commander barked an order to the gunner, whose military training kicked in, never questioning the order to fire, aimed at the departing airplane trundling down the street ahead making a bizarre target in his view finder; it would be hours later that the oddity of it would make him shudder.

“Fire!” ordered the commander, and the tank recoiled with the blast and a split second later the projectile blew the Citation’s starboard wing clean off, fragments flew into the air and hit the cockpit. The remaining portion of the wing caught fire.

“Man, that ain’t cool,” said Luke.

Sophie stared at him incredulously for a long moment, and then asked. “Now what?”

“I’ve had another brilliant idea…”

“Go on.”

“We’ll use the airplane as a decoy—” A huge chunk of masonry from the building ahead exploded as the tank’s next shot missed. Large chunks of stone hit the windshield cracking it.

Sophie watched mesmerized as the building teetered, and wobbled in front of them, but thankfully, the Citation XLS passed by before it tumbled over in a massive cloud of dust, blocking the pursuing tank and troops.

Luke told Sophie how to initiate the escape door that automatically engaged the escape chute, and he lined up the aircraft, or mobile bomb as it had now become in his plan. The passengers crossed their arms over their chests as instructed and slid down the chute to the street, where they rolled over with momentum.

“Go!” said Luke to Sophie, as he used his belt to tie on the throttle at maximum, the jet engines spooled up, responding immediately and the airplane picked up speed.

No, I’ll wait for you…” she replied, then her eyes widened when she saw his intended target. “…Oh no…”

CHAPTER 22

07:45 AM

On the roof of the Four Points Hotel General Malloy scanned the district on all four sides with his German-made field glasses. In each and every direction he saw the insurgents being chased by his men, sure they were being caught and shot, but it was time consuming and inconvenient and not economically viable. He had formulated a strategy with President Hamilton Parker, who’d agreed that their plan needed to be bold, courageous, and fearless. They had to make sure no one remained in the southern part of Florida and that no one would ever desire entry into the area ever again.

He knew it was going to be a hard sell for the President. Most of the chiefs of staff were soft when it came to a battle. They were desk jockeys who’d never been up the sharp-end in combat, not like him. He’d killed the enemy with his bare hands and wouldn’t have any qualms about doing it again.

That’s how he thought of the population of Florida, as the enemy, and enemies needed destroying by whatever means were at his disposal, however distasteful most American’s would find it. In time, they would know that they’d made the right decision, and that he and Hamilton’s quick thinking had saved millions of lives.

“Gen… General, you might wanna see this…,” said a timid soldier, pointing over the safety wall and downward.

The general peered over the wall and his jaw hit the ground. “What in god’s name is that?” He looked again expecting the vision to have been a mirage. “Is that a—”

07:48 AM

Luke pushed Sophie from the open doorway, following her as the engines spooled up to maximum power. She hit the chute half way down and bounced onto the pavement, he followed a moment later, hitting the street headfirst. Luke and Sophie sat on the ground and rubbed their scrapes. “There goes ten million bucks,” he said as they watched in awe as the Citation passenger jet loaded with over six thousand pounds of kerosene jet fuel hit the foyer of the Four Points Hotel at over one hundred miles an hour.

07:49 AM

The hotel shook from the explosion and the general fell to the deck. A fireball shot up into the sky and a plume of thick, black smoke added to the confusion. The antenna masts tipped over, as did the satellite dishes. The general got onto his knees, and stood, then wobbled and toppled back over.

“General!” shouted a soldier, waving at him frantically. “Follow me, sir. The stairs, while there’s still time.” The building shook once more and the general lost his footing again, falling onto his back. “General, this way!” The general took a moment, glanced around at the devastation, stood, cursed, and limped to the stairwell.

08:10 AM

Vice Admiral Reed gulped; he and the chiefs of staff at the Pentagon heard the news in shocked disbelief. He addressed the empty video-link screen, connecting them to the White House. “Mister President? Sir?”

“I’m here,” replied Hamilton Parker, his face filling the screen. “What can I do for you, Admiral?” he looked tired and drawn.

“We’ve, erm, we’ve lost all communication with General Malloy, Mister President. Everything, sir, radio, sat-links, the lot.”

08:20 AM

Luke and Sophie watched the flaming hotel in silence. The aircraft was firmly wedged into the foyer of the hotel and burned fiercely. Black smoke billowed up into the sky. Soldiers operated fire trucks valiantly, but losing the battle to extinguish the flames. The fire had gotten a hold and the structure of the forty-floor hotel was in danger.

While the fire distracted the soldiers, Luke and Sophie ran up behind a slow moving open-topped truck. They jumped on the footplate, climbed the ladder, then Luke helped Sophie hop over into the back of the cargo hold, where to their utter horror, discovered it was full of dead plague victims.

Sophie screamed and landed heavily on the bodies, slipping down amongst them. The smell made her retch and gag, as sore-covered limbs appeared to suck her down to the bottom of the heap. Luke got a grip of her arm and yanked her up out of the rotting corpses. She spluttered and choked at the stench.

He stared in horror at the victims’ wounds, at their weeping, oozing sores, the congealed blood from the eyes, ears, and nostrils, their blackened, torn skin. Each face had their agonizing death etched deeply upon it and he shuddered. He peeked over the top of the cab as it trundled towards the coast. He watched grimly as groups of soldiers shot civilians in execution squads. Seemingly having little regard for whether they carried the Bubonic Plague or not. The truck stopped abruptly with a squeal of airbrakes and Luke wondered if they'd been caught.

Luke listened to the distorted voices of the truck-crew talking through the radio mikes of their hazmat suits, but couldn’t hear clearly. Suddenly a body flew over the side of the truck and Luke just managed to duck in time, as the carcass passed over his head to land in a crumpled heap.

A second body sailed over the side of the truck. Luke yelled as he was half-covered by the woman and splattered with the blood pumping from her stomach wound.

“She’s not dead.” Sophie hissed.

“How do you know?”

“When the heart stops pumping, the blood stops flowing. She’s bleeding — she’s alive.”

The woman’s eyes widened, looking at Sophie. She couldn’t comprehend the smiling pretty woman, crawling across the pile of rotting corpses towards her.

“Don’t be alarmed, I’m a doctor, I can help—” she halted abruptly as another body flew over the side of the truck and landed awkwardly on the woman, breaking her neck, and killing her instantly.

Sophie sobbed in despair and Luke hugged her to him, she let him comfort her for a moment, then the truck crunched into gear and chugged on it’s journey. “She would never have survived a gut-shot,” he whispered to her gently.

“But I needed to try and save her. I really did.”

“I know,” he said soothingly. She rested her head on his shoulder and saw the woman’s dead eyes staring at her accusingly. Luke hugged her some more, when the truck slowed to a halt and released its air brakes with a squeal.

They moved to the cab-end of the cargo-hold assuming the soldiers wouldn’t throw the bodies near to the cab, fearing it might land on the top and be a hazard.

Luke helped her climb up the pile of bodies acutely aware that they were clambering up and over human beings. The back of the truck began to rise on its hydraulic lift, he tried to hold Sophie away from the mass of bodies, but as the cargo-hold tilted, the floor was too slippery, covered with blood, vomit and excrement. As the angle steepened, Luke lost his grip and they tumbled down the slope head-over-heels, along with the rest of the corpses to the bottom….

CHAPTER 23

08:40 AM

President Parker screamed. “They blew up what!” He looked to the sky for help. “With a what?” his face flushed puce and the veins in his forehead were visible.

At the Pentagon War Room Vice-Admiral Reed watched Hamilton Parker rage around the office popping in and out of view on the giant video-link screen. He looked to his compatriots around the conference table and shrugged. “According to the latest intel., Mister President, General Malloy’s command post at the Four Points Hotel, has been destroyed by an aircraft.”

“You were meant to be watching for flights. How did this happen?” he screeched.

“It erm, wasn’t a flight, Mister President. They didn’t fly the airplane into the building.”

“Explain?” he said with malice in his voice.

“They drove it down the street, sir,” he said and gulped waiting for his next outburst.

“What!” He slapped his hand on his desk so hard that objects jumped into the air. “You said they, who are they — foreign terrorists?”

“The reports are sketchy, Mister President. But it looks like local survivors.”

“Say that again?”

“It appears to be survivors, sir — fighting back.”

At the White House President Hamilton Parker swept the objects from his desk, then overturned it and kicked his swivel-chair out of view, he followed after it and they could hear him curse as he destroyed more of the Oval Office furniture.

Quinn Martell calculated the cost of precious antiques reduced to matchwood by the President acting like a vandalizing, drunken, spoiled frat-boy.

Vice-Admiral Reed leaned over to the surgeon general. “He’s losing the plot, Quinn.”

“What can we do?”

“We need someone at the White House, for when the time comes, who has the authority to section him.”

“You said, ‘when’ surely you meant ‘if’?” Quinn pointed out.

“I know what I said. He’s out of control and hopefully his lunatic side-kick General Malloy got killed in the attack.”

“Who can section a serving President?”

“Well, let’s see,” drawled the vice-admiral. “That’d be you.”

Quinn paled, his skin ashen. “Me? But how?”

The vice-admiral shifted his weight. “There’s a few of us waiting for the right moment,” he paused knowing the gravity of the conversation they were having. “That time is now, while Hamilton’s vulnerable without General Malloy to support him.”

“What are you suggesting?”

“We’re going to attempt a coup.”

Quinn stared wide-eyed. “You’re talking treason?”

“We’ve had interesting information leaked from the former President’s compound.”

Quinn gazed around the table to check no one could overhear. “I’m listening.”

“Well, for one thing, that girl did not assassinate President Burgess—”

“I knew that.”

“We watched CCTV footage smuggled out and she wasn’t even in his room when the gunshot is audible. The motion detectors have her in the President’s personal bathroom.”

“Do we know who did kill him?” Quinn asked slowly.

“Rumor has it there was only one armed person in the room at the time of the gunshot.” he paused and let Quinn finish the sentence.

It came to him like a thunderbolt. “General Malloy.”

The vice-admiral allowed himself a slight smile, knowing he’d won him over. “So, are you with us?”

08:50 AM

Luke tried not to cry out as the putrid, rotting corpses buried him. When the pile of human cargo was finally still, he opened his eyes to find that he was half-submerged beneath the crushing heap.

The driver and his buddy had already dragged Sophie from the mound of bodies. “Hey, what have we got here?” the driver asked.

“She sure is pretty!” said his colleague. He approached her making smacking noises with his lips.

Sophie recoiled imagining the worst, but any sort of sexual attack meant the soldier would have to remove his hazmat suit and expose himself to danger. Surely he was not that stupid?

“Don’t be shy my pretty one. We only want to be friendly with you.”

“Have us a little ‘R’ and ‘R’,” his pal said, leering and showing broken teeth.

Sophie stood erect. “Never! I’d rather die.”

“Well, see that’s option two — death.” He chuckled. His colleague whispered in his ear. “Good one! We’ve now got an option three; we kill you AND have sex with you. You’ll still be warm. Don’t bother me neither way, in fact—” He raised his weapon. “- Option three is looking better and better!”

He chuckled some more, and sent his buddy into giggling fits. He aimed his rifle at Sophie’s head and she closed her eyes welcoming death over what they had in mind for her.

They took it in turns to cover her with a rifle, while they stripped out of the hazmat suit.

“You don’t want to remove your suits,” she said.

“Oh, I think you’ll find we do,” he sniggered.

“I meant you’ll catch the Plague.”

“No we won’t, we’ve been injected. We only wear the suits as an added precaution.”

“Injected? There is no injection for this strain of the Bubonic Plague,” she told them.

They stripped out of their shorts. “Enough of the sweet-talk, lady. What’s it gonna be, dead or alive?”

“Most definitely dead,” she said glowering at them defiantly.

“Very well, it’s your choice.” He picked up the rifle and aimed it at her chest. “Say bye-bye to this cruel world, bitch!” He taunted, when Luke erupted from the pile of corpses and smashed the gunman in the face with a severed arm, knocking him out cold.

His pal stared frozen in fear at Luke’s gruesome appearance, covered in blood and slime and looking as if one of the dead had come back to life. Luke took advantage of the man’s inability to move and caught him on the backswing with the severed arm, an upper cut that sent him sprawling into the pile of bodies.

“Run!” Luke grabbed Sophie’s hand and they fled into the welcoming darkness.

The men looked at each other dumb-founded, choosing not to speak of the incident, quickly dressed, and climbed back into the truck to fetch their next consignment of bodies.

Sophie let out a sigh of relief as the truck disappeared, but moments later, a yellow dumper truck replaced it. The driver lowered the shovel and scooped up the corpses like firewood, and added them to the top of a funeral pyre, then repeated the procedure.

Luke wiped the slime from his face as best he could, when the odor of burning flesh reached him and he gagged. “Come on, we’re nearly at the docks.”

“We’ll get caught. We need a disguise,” she told him. “Got any more brilliant ideas?”

He smirked and nodded. They waited for a break in the activities, and then sneakily entered a trailer that was doubling up as a changing room and donned camouflaged hazmat suits. They lumbered from the trailer and walked anonymously amongst the soldiers, who were too busy robbing the carcasses of their jewelry, to notice them.

Sophie shuddered as they passed the burning human remains, glad that the suit has breathing apparatus so that she did not have to smell roasting flesh ever again.

09:00 AM

General Malloy made it two floors down from the roof when he felt the building tremble. The hastily rigged string of emergency-lights attached to a portable generator flickered. A soldier behind him lost his footing and fell onto him pushing him face first into the wall. Goddamn it, son!” he snarled.

“The stair came loose. I tripped, sir,” he mumbled in apology.

“How in hell can a concrete stair come loose? Lemme see it, gimme that flashlight, son,” He shone the beam onto the concrete stairs and sure enough one of the steps had eroded away. He scratched his head pondering the implication and followed a hairline crack up the wall and sighed deeply.

The sergeant crossed himself. “You ain’t thinking, 9-11, General?”

“That was a one off, son, but we ought to keep moving.” He signaled for the small group to continue their downward flight, when a muffled explosion from below rocked the very foundations, the building trembled and Malloy held onto the wall. He shone the torch back at the crack, which had widened considerably. A dust cloud billowed up the stairwell, “get going,” he instructed.

“What if that’s a fire down there, General? asked a young private nervously.

“It’s dust — not smoke. Get moving, that’s an order, on the double,” the soldiers made hast as they ran and jumped the stairs to get to the bottom and fresh air. With a mighty roar the ceiling above them collapsed, large slabs of concrete dropped down killing some outright and blocking the passage of the rest. The dust swirled upwards clogging the general’s throat, and stinging his eyes. He choked on the dust, filling his lungs and drying his mouth. “Goddamn terrorists, they are going to pay for this,” he croaked.

“What now, General?” the private asked.

“We continue—” He paused as the hotel groaned and trembled, loosening more debris upon them. Dust poured through the newly formed fissures, like sand in a never-ending hourglass. The poor lighting flickered, and the private whimpered.

“Man up.” Snapped the general. “And start digging — all of you. We’re getting out of here, one way or the other. All construction these days has to withstand the impact of aircrafts, and stairwells are the designated escape routes, therefore — safe. Now stop you’re whimpering and get moving!”

The soldiers moved the slabs of masonry blocking the stairwell, teaming up to heft the heavier chunks. Sweat poured down the private’s face, he heaved and grunted to move a door-sized reinforced concrete block, but it wasn’t happening. The general looked around and shone the flashlight beam on the ceiling above, noticing cracks spidering across, a rumble from below brought more dust and debris down upon him. “Hurry, you useless grunts, put your backs into it, or you’ll be on a charge!” The soldiers re-doubled their efforts, more scared of the general, than the impending collapse of the building. They grunted, groaned, and managed to lift the slab a few feet up in the air. “Go, General!” the private shouted through gritted teeth. The general did not need telling twice, he ran towards the newly formed gap and slid through on his side, Indiana Jones style, and it slammed down behind him with a deafening roar, trapping the others.

He brushed himself down and made a mental note that he would send troops to find them when he reached the safety of the ground. He smiled to himself and his constant good fortune; he had a knack of getting out of sticky situations unharmed. He took the stairs two at a time; he rounded another floor, twenty more to go, he thought, when with an ear-splitting screech the walls started to tremble, and the floor moved as if suffering from an earthquake, making him fall through the gap to the floor below. He tried to stand, as parts of the ceiling dropped around him, and dust billowed up the stairwell engulfing him in a choking dirt cloud.

CHAPTER 24

09:30 AM

On the video screens in the Pentagon War Room, a wobbly picture from a hand held camera showed images of the Four Points Hotel collapsing like a deck of cards, “Oh…my…God,” whispered Vice Admiral Reed. The dust cloud appeared to topple the cameraman and dust obscured the screen. The forty-story building fell down on itself as if demolished with controlled explosions set by experts.

The men stared in wide-eyed amazement. Hamilton Parker asked; “Any news on General Malloy?”

A high-ranking air-force officer said, “Our latest reports have him in the building, his last message from on top of it.”

“Any chance he could have survived that?” the President asked.

“There’s always hope, sir. The troops will do their best to find him.”

The President took the news badly, looking decidedly ill, seeming to have lost all his former vigor. He said no more, leaned forward and switched off the monitor filming him, leaving a black screen and the men in the room looked to one another wondering what to do next without the President to make executive decisions.

09:31 AM

A rumbling of what Luke first thought might be thunder drew his attention back behind him, he watched in disbelief as the forty floor structure, that had once been a shining example of how wondrous a skyscraper could be, collapsed in on itself. The soldiers ran to hide from the approaching dust cloud. Luke felt the vibration through the pavement beneath his feet. A cloud of billowing dust swirled towards him at speed. He instinctively knew they could not out run it, especially in the hazmat suits. He signaled for Sophie to follow him in taking refuge behind a truck and sit low as the dust cloud whooshed past them. Once again, the hazmat suit’s breathing apparatus saved them, but is was still a claustrophobic, disorientating feeling as the dark cloud obliterated the sunlight.

“Where did that come from?” Sophie asked, wiping a film of dust from her visor.

“I’m guessing it’s what’s left of the communications post.”

“Yes!” she said triumphantly. She smiled brightly. “Strike one for us!” They high-fived.

He grinned widely. “We’ve gained ourselves a few hours grace while they regroup,” he told her. “And more importantly, it’s a perfect diversion; all eyes will be on the military bases and installations, expecting more attacks. They’ll go into defensive mode.”

“Thank God, maybe someone will break through the cordon and get news to the outside world of what is going on down here.”

“And I’m gonna make sure that ‘someone’ will be us.”

09:35 AM

In the war room, the intelligence came in fast and furiously and without exception each new piece contradicted the last. The heads of the divisions promoted their own intelligence as being correct and the most accurate information. Without the President to oversee the chaos and make decisions it resembled an all out knock ‘em down and drag ‘em out schoolyard scrap. Each division putting their latest predictions onto the giant monitors, each one inevitably predicted a dire future, not one had a glimmer of optimism.

When, to Quinn Martell’s alarm, a grainy head shot of Sophie filled the screen. Vice Admiral Reed tapped the table to get their attention and the men turned to look at the screen. “This is from CCTV on top of a mobile unit parked down the street from the hotel just before the airplane was used as a mobile bomb to attack the Four Points Hotel,” he informed the gathered personnel, the murmuring stopped as everyone in the room fell silent. The screens showed a poorly lit video of an aircraft trundling by. “If you look at the top right hand corner of the screen,” he froze the image. “You can see that the escape-hatch opens, the chute deploys, and the terrorists jump from the plane.” He moved the images on a few frames and Sophie’s face filled the screen.

Hamilton Parker over-rode the footage and his face replaced Sophie’s on their monitors, and was back to his cocky self. “Well, well, well, look who it is? Anything to say, Quinn?”

All eyes swiveled to the surgeon general. “I’m telling you—”

“I remember you telling us before—” cut in the President, he prowled the Oval Office, fully back in charge. “- That she wasn’t involved in releasing the virus at the hospital, that she wasn’t involved in the former President’s murder, and now, I suppose that she’s not involved in this atrocity? How gullible are you? Let us examine the facts, she was seen sneaking away from the island, the very hospital where this plague started—”

“We don’t yet know where it started,” Quinn Martell argued back.

Hamilton was on the attack, he held up his index finger to emphasize the point. “Yet, there she is right there in the thick of it, right at the very start. Next the former President is assassinated and who appears on his security cameras fleeing the scene in a stolen vehicle in her bid to escape?” He held up a second finger. “And now an audacious attack on our premier command post in the danger zone, driving an airplane into the building no less, and who appears on nearby CCTV cameras?” He held up a third finger.

Quinn was on the ropes but defended his protégé. “There will be an explanation, if—”

“I think we’ve all heard enough from you, Quinn. We’ve delayed action because of you and your procrastinating and it cost General Malloy his life. I’ve been discussing this with my advisors—”

“His advisors?” mouthed Vice Admiral Reed to Quinn Martell. “What advisors? Surely we’re his advisors?”

“We’re going to Defcon two—”

“Defcon two?” Queried Reed, “The country has only ever been at Defcon two once, that was during the Cuban missile crisis. We did not do that even after 9/11.”

“This terrorist threat is far worse—”

“It’s not terrorists, for Pete’s sake—”

“We estimate that five million people are already dead from the chemical attack. And if any of these carriers break through the blockade, it will run into hundreds of millions dead,” he paused and ran his fingers through his hair. “Now my advisors figure that the suspect identified as Doctor Sophia Garcia — foreign born I should add — is not working alone, but at the moment she is the only one we can identify for sure. She obviously has an antidote and is able to move freely amongst the carriers. So she, and more importantly her antidote, is the most essential element to the survival of the United States of America.”

“But,” started the Vice Admiral cautiously, “Hasn’t she escaped… again?”

“Yes. We figure she has a network of followers aiding her, but as we speak we have operatives on the ground infiltrating these groups and sending out the message that there is an extraordinary reward for anyone assisting with her capture — something irresistible.”

A murmur quickly started in the room, and the consensus was that this was an excellent plan. They all agreed — except Quinn. “Your plan is solid, Mister President, except for a couple of things,” he said. “The fact that she is NOT a terrorist, and has NOT developed this new strain of the Bubonic plague, therefore, and more importantly has NOT invented an antidote.”

He looked around the faces of the military personnel gathered around the large conference table but no one looked at all interested.

Hamilton Parker grinned. “Their silence speaks volumes, Quinn. I think we’ve all heard more than enough from you. Your function here as the Surgeon General was as an expert on communicable diseases… but your expertise has come up short, you have come up short. Your services are no longer required.”

“But I…” stammered Quinn in shock. “I have a wealth of—”

“Don’t embarrass yourself, Martell, you’re dismissed,” the President said firmly.

Quinn gazed around the table at the gathered men and woman of the armed forces, none of whom would even look him in the eye. He stood and gathered his belongings and left the room with as much dignity as he could muster.

Vice Admiral Reed cleared his throat. “We have also isolated this man, as another person of interest, he was seen at the hospital with Doctor Garcia, and we’ve taken this image from the same CCTV camera near the Four Points.” A grainy headshot of Luke filled the screens. “He’s been identified as Luke Spencer.”

CHAPTER 25

12:00 MIDDAY

The noonday sun scorched the street. Richie Carpenter could see a vapor haze trailing up from the pavement surface, making the building opposite shimmer like an oasis. He was on the corner of Sunrise and 48th Street, in Fort Lauderdale. The heat as intolerable as ever, had sapped his energy. He lit a cigarette and stayed in the shadows as a military truck zipped past him. He headed to a huddle of people hanging near the edge of a park. All had scarves covering their noses and mouths in a vain attempt to protect them from the virus.

Carpenter, flicked away the cigarette, pulled up his neckerchief, and waved to them in friendly greeting.

Jake, the surfer dude, spotted him and raised his hand slightly in welcome. “Hey, Dude, you clean?”

“I ain’t a darkie; I’m good, take a look.” He twirled as if on a fashion catwalk and lifted his shirt. He smiled knowing that he would pass their test, as he didn’t have buboes or darkening of the skin.

Jake ginned. “He’s clean, welcome to our gang.” The others eyed him nervously and nodded to him. “How did you find us?”

“I’ve been tailing you for a while, making sure you guys were clean. How come you ain’t gone to the refugee camp?” Carpenter asked.

“Don’t trust the government, if you get my drift.”

“I hear you loud and clear, partner.” They slapped hands in their newfound bond. “I thought I could be more use in a partisan gang, than on my own.”

“We ain’t no uprising,” said Winnie who had stuck with Jake after they’d escaped prior to the gas-attack at the stadium. “We just trying to survive and get out of this hell-hole.”

“I hear you, sister,” he said, noticing Winnie bristle at this remark. “So; you guys ain’t behind the attack on HQ?”

“HQ?” Winnie asked, raising a quizzical eyebrow.

Carpenter gulped and quickly covered his error. “The Four Points Hotel, has been turned into the military HQ for South Florida, I thought everybody knew? I’ve been watching and reconnoitering looking for a chink in their armor—”

“You a one-man resistance unit?” Winnie asked with a sneer in her voice.

“I’m trying to be. I assumed anyone not escaping or going to the refugee camps must be resistance fighters,” Carpenter replied.

“Not us, we only want to stay alive,” Jake told him.

“Anyhow,” Carpenter continued. “There I was reconnoitering the HQ, when — Jesus! I could not believe my eyes! This jet came whizzing down the street, crashed into the hotel and exploded. Jesus, I ain’t seen anything like it.”

“What happened to the hotel?” Jake asked.

Carpenter made a toppling action with his forearm. “9/11, man, a goddamned 9/11.”

The gang gasped as they digested this newest piece of information. “We heard the explosion, dude.” Jake whistled. “And you thought that we were behind the attack?”

“Fucking A. I was kinda hoping. That’s my sort of retaliation,” he said. “Cut them off at the knees.”

Jake smiled and said. “Good luck with that, buddy. We don’t want a war. We just wanna get out of here. You’re welcome to tag along. I’m Jake.”

Carpenter shook his hand, “Lei –, Lew –is, Lewis Carpenter.” He covered. “So, how are you planning on escaping?”

Jake started, “Well, we thought our best chance—”

Winnie cut him short. “You ask a mighty amount of questions for a stranger.” She gave the newcomer the evil eye. “Well, what you got to say for yourself, hmm?”

“No offence ma'am, I’ve been on my own since this started and I wanted to talk to a fellow human being. The loneliness has turned me into a chatter-box, I meant no harm.”

This convinced Jake, he signaled for him to sit, as did the rest of the group and they settled back down to an impromptu meal. Jake offered him an opened can of beans. He sat and ate the baked beans, cold, and straight from the can. Winnie eyed him suspiciously. She pulled Jake aside. “This is too much of a coincidence. Look at him; he ain’t starving. He ain’t been out on the streets, trying to survive. His shoes ain’t even scuffed.”

“You think he’s a plant?” he asked, then after a moment said. “Why would the Government do that?”

She pondered the question, and then shrugged. “Well, no, it don’t make no sense, but he’s up to something. I don’t like it.”

“We’ll keep our eyes on him. But I just can’t think why they’d send in spies.”

Carpenter saw Winnie whispering to Jake who seemed to be the self-elected leader of the little group. He took off his boot, pretended to rub his foot as if it were aching, then twisted a cover from the heel and flicked a transmitter switch on a tiny GPS tracker hidden in the false heel.

Mission accomplished, thought Lieutenant Carpenter with a smile.

CHAPTER 26

Lieutenant Carpenter’s movements were now being monitored. He was on a top-secret mission entrusted to him by General Malloy himself, no less. He felt honored and could not wait to tell his mom and pop, after a suitable period of course. It was a top-secret mission, after all. He would not let the general down. He thought of him crushed under the collapsed hotel and sighed. Still if anyone could survive the catastrophe, it would be him. He was the toughest son of a bitch he’d ever met, no desk jock neither, he led from the front, not like those Washington pussies who’d never been up the sharp end. No, you could respect a man like Malloy.

Carpenter had thrived in the army, and his natural cunning had made him rise to the top, he applied for airborne training and knocked them dead at Fort Bragg. From there he’d been recruited into a special forces brigade, where his unusual knack for becoming a local effortlessly, made him perfect for counter-terrorism. He could blend seamlessly and could quickly pick up the patois and vernacular of the local population. Commended many times, Major Osborne took him under his wing as his rising star, and pushed him forward to General Malloy for his special mission.

His mission was of the utmost importance, to track and infiltrate the terrorists. They knew the terrorists were being helped, probably by little rag-tag armies like this band of losers. To fool the little gang had been a cinch. They had taken him on face value, apart from the old coon — she was watching him. He’d snuff her out if needs be, the general had given him a blank check to track the terrorists, he had unlimited resources, and a license to kill — just like James Bond, his all time hero. The mission simple, to flush out the terrorist Sophie Garcia, he had a bribe that would be irresistible for any information leading to her capture.

He knew that in the present climate there was no honor amongst thieves and if the misguided folk hiding the terrorists knew that squealing on them would earn them the most tremendous reward, then now might be the right time to drop it into conversation, while everyone was eating, feeling full, relaxed, and content. “Have you heard about the reward?” he asked casually.

“Reward, what reward?” Jake asked, tossing his bean can and opening a coke.

“For information leading to the capture of the terrorists,” he replied nonchalantly, scraping the bottom of the bean can, feigning starvation.

“What terrorists?” Winnie asked, her eyes narrowing. “We ain’t heard nothing about no terrorists.”

Lieutenant Carpenter smiled at them. “The terrorists responsible for this catastrophe — the virus.” he prompted.

“You saying it’s not a natural epidemic?” Jake queried, totally baffled by this. He gazed around his gang, noting everyone else was listening to the newcomer avidly.

The lieutenant shook his head in dismay. “A man-made virus manufactured by some rag-headed haters of the US.” He smiled. “Or the Bubonic Plague, here, in present day United States, I mean, Come on.”

Most of the gang seemed to agree with this theory. It was what they wanted to believe rather than some ancient microbe coming back to wipe them out. “Makes sense,” said a bald man in a Kiss t-shirt.

“How come you’re so well informed?” Winnie asked suspiciously.

“Firstly, I personally think hijacking a plane is not the work of the Bubonic Plague,” he said sarcastically. “Or crashing said plane into the military HQ is not the work of the Bubonic Plague. Secondly this.” He reached in his pocket and unfolded a flyer. “I took this from a tree down the street, it’s offering a reward, and has a couple of photographs of the people they’re interested in.”

“Let’s have a look.” The gang were keen to read about the reward. “How much money are they offering?” asked the guy in the Kiss T-shirt.

The gang’s sudden greed surprised Jake. It disturbed him. He took the flyer and saw a grainy photo of Sophie and his recently made friend, Luke. “This ain’t right. I know for a fact this dude ain’t involved.”

“Do you know him, where is he?” Carpenter asked a little too quickly.

“It ain’t him, I’m telling you,” he said firmly.

“If he’s innocent then he can prove it, can’t he? Meanwhile you’ve pocketed the reward,” Carpenter said fairly.

The crowd jumped up on their feet. “What about the reward?”

“Think about the money!” shouted another.

“How much is the reward?” a woman wanted to know.

“Oh, the reward is not money…” Carpenter answered cryptically, drawing it out, “It’s better — much, much better than money.” He smiled broadly knowing that he had them hooked.

13:00 PM

Luke and Sophie trudged wearily towards the docks, soaked in sweat, the hazmat suits doubled the heat and their exhaustion. “I remember a speedboat hire place up ahead. I did a story on it once, because they don’t lock their boats at night, as apparently, the replacement costs to fix the locks were astronomical. Yet on the odd occasion that one of them was taken for a joyride it was usually abandoned somewhere nearby, it made a quirky story because it was cheaper to leave the speedboats unlocked and let them be stolen.”

“So, we’re hoping for an unlocked speedboat?” she asked not enthused with the plan.

“It’ll be cool, don’t worry.”

She gasped as several rats ran across the sidewalk in front of her. She stopped dead to let them pass, feeling a revulsion towards them, as if they somehow represented the Bubonic Plague.

Sophie and Luke turned a corner to see a pack of dogs fighting over a corpse, one ran off with a string of intestine. She cringed. “Has this really all happened over the last twenty-four hours? It’s as if civilization collapsed overnight. No planes, cars, trains — no transport. No telephones, computers, e-mail, no medical help, no help, period.”

They were shortly at the docks where brightly colored signs advertizing fishing trips, tours around the bay, dolphin watches, or hiring speedboats by the hour. “This is the place,” said Luke.

As they approached, a figure stepped out from the shadows pointing a rifle at them. “Freeze!”

CHAPTER 27

14:00 PM

General Malloy stirred from under a mound of rubble in the stairwell of what was left of the Four Points Hotel. He moved the bigger pieces of masonry until he was in an upright position. Dust swirled around in the gloom. He would kill for some light right now. He tried wiggling his toes, and they appeared to function. That had to be a good sign, although there was a crushing weight on his legs that he could not see. He waited for his eyes to adjust. He tried to guess which floor he was on, was he still halfway up, buried under twenty floors of glass and stone, or did he have all forty stories on top? Alternatively, had he fallen to the bottom, he recollected that there were two sub-floors, containing the kitchens and delivery bays. Still, he was alive and he was damn well going to get out of there. He pulled at the weight on his legs and was shocked to find it was a body. He yanked with all his strength and the upper torso of a man, flew up and over his shoulder, covering him with innards. “Damnit,” he said, wiping his face picking offal from his chest. He wriggled some more and freed his legs, stood and brushed himself down. He kicked a discarded flashlight. Retrieved it, switched it on — nothing.

He rattled it some, tried again and had a beam. He shone it around to get his bearings and discovered bleakly that all exits were blocked. He felt a slight breeze on his face, took out a box of matches, struck one and was elated when he saw the flame flicker. He followed the source of the draft until the match burnt his fingers. “Damnit.” He dropped the match, lit another and tracked the source of the draft and possible escape to a hole high up in the air. He allowed himself a smile, knowing that the stairwell would be at the side of the building and that the hole should lead, eventually to the outside. He clambered up the pile of rocks, as he neared the top, a mini avalanche sent him back down the pile of slabs. He tried once more, carefully picking his foot-holes. He was tantalizingly close to the hole and freedom, when a hand gripped him around his ankle.

14:15 PM

“We’re civilians, man,” Luke said to Lieutenant Carpenter, who pointed a rifle at them.

“Then how come you’re wearing military-grade hazardous-material suits?”

“We swiped them, to disguise ourselves, worked pretty damn good; we walked right on through the soldiers and the patrols ignore us.”

“If you’re civilians,” the bald man said. “You must be immune to the plague.”

“That’s right.” Luke said.

“And therefore, you wouldn’t mind removing your helmets.”

“It’d be a pleasure,” said Sophie glad to be out of the stifling helmet. She shook her hair free and Luke was stunned once again by her beauty. He was mesmerized as she removed the rest of the heat-retaining suit and he didn’t notice Carpenter’s surprised reaction to Sophie.

Luke unfastened his helmet, and heard a voice from behind exclaim, “Duuude!” He turned and was delighted to see Jake. “This dude’s a friend,” Jake told his gang and hugged Luke vigorously, “I can vouch for him, let them through.”

Carpenter stared at Luke in disbelief, checked the images he had of the wanted terrorists and couldn’t believe his Luck.

Luke nodded hello to the semi-circle of ten survivors, including Winnie, and beamed at her,” Hey, Winnie, how’s it hanging?”

“I’ll live,” she grunted. Jake introduced them to the group, including the gunman, who initially stopped them. “And this is Lew Carpenter, who ironically is a carpenter by trade.”

“No way, man,” Luke said taking them all aback. “You’re military.”

“Not me, I’m a humble carpenter,” he lied unconvincingly.

“Not the way you handled that weapon, you’ve had training, it’s something you don’t lose.” Luke glared at the man, and they were at a standoff.

“Dude, what’s with the hostilities?”

“He’s military, listen to the way he speaks, ‘military-grade hazardous materials suit’? Who speaks like that? He’s not a carpenter, that’s for damn sure.”

Jake said; “Live and let live, that’s my motto.”

Luke calmed. “There’s something ‘off’ with you, man,” he glared at Carpenter, who matched his stare, giving him the deadeye.

Sophie tried to ease the situation with logic. “If he were military, sent to infiltrate, then he’s got to be pretty dumb, because he’d have to be on a suicide mission.” A look passed over Carpenter’s face. “He has signed his own death warrant just by being here in the zone with us. Without a hazmat suit means certain death.”

This appeased Luke, as it made sense. He quickly explained his plan and they moved towards the docks, although Carpenter hung back, removed his boot and fiddled with his transmitter.

When they reached the rent-a-boat shack, Luke led them down a rickety ladder onto a wooden pontoon, where half a dozen speedboats were moored. He helped Sophie, then Winnie down after him, quickly followed by the others.

“Six speedboats, with keys, at your service,” he gestured with the flair of a game-show host.

“How’d you know these speedboats were here, dude?” Jake asked incredulously.

“It’s a long story. Right, are we agreed on the plan?”

Sophie said, “Sure, we hug the coast-line heading north, if any boats approach we separate and hopefully some of us will make it to safety.”

Winnie acted uncomfortable and Luke noticed. “Winnie, what’s wrong?” he asked her.

“Oh Lord, I am so, so sorry,” she uttered unable to meet his gaze.

Jake said, “Dude, we owe you our freedom.”

“We’re not free yet, man.” Luke reminded them.

“No dude, I meant our freedom,” he indicated the group of ten, who shuffled their feet not looking at Luke or Sophie. “Not yours.”

Luke heard the click of many firearms locking and loading. He looked up to see half a dozen soldiers lining the quayside above with their rifles trained on him.

“Sorry, dude, but he told us—” Jake said pointing at Carpenter. “There’s a bounty on your heads,” he said apologetically.

“I knew it…,” Luke said under his breath. “Tell me you don’t trust them?” Luke nodded up at the soldiers. “Winnie, are you in on this?”

She looked ashamed and studied her feet. “I know, I owe you my life, but we’ve been promised freedom if we turned you in. It’s something I’ll have to live with.”

“Man… Well, I hope you live long enough to regret it.” He could not believe his ears. He locked eyes with Sophie who was in despair, being caught in such an underhanded manner.

The soldiers herded them back up the ladder to the quayside under gunpoint. Major Osborne, a short squat man, waddled over in his hazmat suit. He approached and oozed charm. “Major Osborne.” He saluted Jake smartly, then turned to the others. “We are forever in your debt, and as a representative of the US government I will honor the agreement that led to the capture of the traitors—”

“Traitors! Us?” Luke choked on the words. One of the soldiers whacked him in the temple with the butt of a rifle, and he crumpled to his knees and fell forwards, he shook his head from side to side but it only made the pain worse.

“Hey, dude?” roared Jake. “We gave you to him, but there’s no need for that.”

“What you think is insignificant to me. These two traitors will be shot like dogs. You may watch if you wish, and then we’ll lynch them from lampposts as a warning to the others.”

“My God…,” whimpered Winnie. “What have we done?”

“You promised us freedom,” said the man in the Kiss T-shirt.

“I will honor the agreement, if you pass the plague test, then you will be transported north to freedom—”

“There is no test,” Sophie said. Lieutenant Carpenter slapped her across her face. She trembled with rage, and she turned to him. “You’re the biggest idiot, walking around here without a suit on.” He slapped her face once more.

Luke raged. “I’m gonna kill you!”

“That, my friend, would be a pretty neat trick,” Carpenter laughed.

“Cut it out,” said Jake. “The US army does not brutalize women.”

The major regarded him balefully. “Do you want this test or not?”

Jake looked ashamed and looked away. “Up to you,” said the major. “I’ll leave you to think about it.”

The rest of the group had no such qualms. Hands shot up. “Me, I’ll take the test!” A soldier snapped open a test tube, and indicated for the man to open his mouth, and inserted a cotton bud, much like taking a DNA sample, put it back in the tube where a liquid turned black. “He’s a carrier,” said the soldier.

Major Osborne swiftly pulled his pistol and shot the man between the eyes, the stunned man fell back off the quayside into the ocean with a mighty splash.

“He had the plague,” the major explained. “He was a danger to us all.”

The group was shocked into silence. The next volunteer took the test apprehensively. Once again, the soldier shook his head, and the major dispatched him to a watery grave. A woman went next, she crossed herself, but she too was condemned to death, she opened her mouth to scream, but was shot before she could utter a sound.

Luke looked up at Sophie and winked, which she took as a cue for a distraction. “You idiots, don’t you get it, there is no cure!”

“Shut her up,” the major snarled.

Lieutenant Carpenter had a glint in his eye, approached her, and raised his rifle butt-end to smash her in the face, when she said. “What sort of moron are you? Did they inject you with an antidote — is that it? Do you think there’s a cure? There’s no cure for this strain of the Bubonic Plague, you fool.” She pointed to the major. “He knows there’s no cure and he’s tricked you into being exposed to the disease. You’re going to die.”

Carpenter lost his nerve for a moment, hesitated and turned angrily to the major.

“Don’t listen to the traitor, soldier, misinformation is a key tool of the terrorist.”

Sophie urged. “Look around you. Does it look like there is a cure?”

“Shut her up, that’s an order!” yelled the major. Lieutenant Carpenter flipped his weapon around and pointed it at her, his finger pulled slowly back on the trigger…

CHAPTER 28

15:00 PM

“Get off me!” General Malloy kicked out at the young soldier who had a firm hold of his ankle. His boot caught the rookie in the face, pain shot through him and he released his grip. The general shone his flashlight up at the hole and his possible escape route, but it looked out of his reach.

The young soldier rubbed his jaw. “Why’d you kick me?”

The general shot him a glance. “You questioning me, son?” he snarled nastily.

The boy gulped. “No, G— General, s— sorry, General.” He stood, gently testing his weight on his leg, then fell back screaming in pain, he clutched at his ankle, bewildered to see a jagged bone poking through his pant-leg.

The general jumped up at the hole, but fell short. “Son, come over here.”

He shone his flashlight into the young private’s face. The boy looked incredulous, and pointed at the bone sticking out. “Look!”

“Then, hop. Here! Now!” He sighed as the private gingerly raised himself from the rubble. He hopped on one leg, lost his balance and fell over with an agonizing scream. “That’s an order, son!” the general roared. The private stood and hopped as best he could. “Up there.” General Malloy shone a path with the flashlight beam up the pile of debris nearest the hole.

“I quit. I don’t want to be in the army no more,” he moaned.

The general unclipped the holster to his firearm. “That can easily be arranged.”

The rookie gulped and quickly stood. “That, erm, won’t be necessary, General.” He sighed with relief as the general re-holstered his weapon. He hopped up the ever-moving pile of rubble, lost his footing and had to start again. On his hands and knees, he dragged the useless limb behind him as he crawled. Finally he clambered to the top and sat on the apex under the hole. He drew in large gulps of air until he got his breath back. He rubbed his ankle; his face grimaced in immense pain. “Do you want me to stand, General?” he asked, hoping the answer would be no.

“Negative, Son. You sit there, get your breath back,” replied the general kindly, then briskly undid his holster, pulled out his firearm and shot the private between the eyes. “Sorry, son, but it’s for a good cause.”

He ran up the heap of broken masonry blocks, up the body of the private that still pumped blood from the neat hole in his forehead, and with the extra height leaped up and gripped onto the edge of the hole.

He grunted, groaned, and with every fiber in his body managed to heave himself up into the narrow gap. He pushed the flashlight in the hole in front of him and his heart sank as in every direction his escape route was blocked.

__________

With dogged determination, he removed the first block, then the second. However, this dislodged a slab of concrete above that brought down a cloud of dust on top of his head. He screwed his eyes shut and held his breath.

Eventually the dust stopped and he shone the flashlight beam upward and saw the dust swirling in the beam, signifying a draft and more importantly the outside air. He wriggled forward on his elbows and up over the jagged rocks, which ripped at his uniform. He pushed with his legs and forced his shoulders through the narrow gap, and slithered the rest of his torso up into what appeared to be the underground parking lot.

The ceiling has collapsed down onto vehicles. Some sturdy utility trucks and off-roaders crushed to half their normal size, but allowed a small gap, which he took full advantage. He slid between a supporting wall and a garbage truck, when he saw the body of a woman blocking his passage.

He shone his flashlight in her face, her eyes reacted to the sudden brightness, and her lips tried to form words. He knew he could not go back and had to continue forward. He had no time for sympathy, or even to offer help, the ceiling could cave in at any moment. A rumble in the distance was a timely reminder of the need for speed and he inched forwards on his elbows.

The woman detected the man crawling on his stomach towards her and relief filled her broken body from head to toe. “You’ve come to help… praise the lord…” but her thankfulness turned to abject horror, when he crawled right over the top of her as if she was mere debris.

She screamed out in misery as his elbows dug into her already broken ribs. With total disregard, he crawled over her, the full weight of his body crushing her tiny frame, his knee compressed her chest and forced the remaining air from her punctured lungs, then as a final indignity, his boots dragged across her face breaking her nose.

An explosion from above made the general redouble his efforts. He progressed inch by inch, along the debris-strewn parking garage. He heard the iron girders screech in protest as the building and gravity wanted to complete its journey to the earth. He struggled on and could detect the sloping of the parking garage floor that he hoped was the exit ramp. As he neared the exit the damage to the structure lessened and he was able to get up onto his hands and knees and shuffle onwards, when he heard the first squeaking. He could not place the sound at first and wondered if the ceiling might still fall in upon him, when he was this close to freedom. The noise sounded as if the fabric of the building was crying out, but realized it was animal in origin. He crawled faster, when he saw the first of the rats, feeding on the corpse of a child. The rat quickly joined by another, then another.

He went to shoot at them, but thought that he might draw attention to himself. Although a grown man, and a four star general to boot, there was something about the rats that shot fear up his spine. He knew he could beat a bunch of rats in a normal battle, but the Black Death had been a game changer. These pests could multiply out of control and now, even more disturbingly they seemed to have lost their natural fear of man.

He thought that dogs could soon be roaming around in wild packs. With creeping dread, he recalled that many deadly creatures were indigenous to Florida, panthers, lethal snakes and even bears lived in the wild. He hoped they would not stray into the cities, but there was one creature that was likely to roam into town if left undisturbed, the ever-present alligator.

Over one million throughout Florida at the last count, and what with all the lakes, rivers, and canals that were characteristic of southern Florida, the snappers were never far away. He had the notion that they would soon become curious by the lack of noisy activity and might venture from their natural habitat and once they saw the corpses and got a taste for human flesh… then, well, it was unthinkable. As if he did not have enough on his plate, all ready.

15:05 PM

Major Osborne yelled. “Stand down!” and Lieutenant Carpenter lowered his rifle smartly and snapped to attention.

Sophie sighed with immense relief.

The major listened to the message from his walkie-talkie solemn-faced. “It seems like you two have won a reprieve. They want you alive at all costs.” He smiled charmingly at them as if they had won a prize-draw. He tossed the walkie-talkie back to the signalman. “Tell ‘em we’ve got ‘em and we’re bringing them in.”

Sophie knew she had to act, because once shackled and in custody, there would be no hope. She turned to Lieutenant Carpenter. “He’s lying to you.”

Carpenter ignored her, but she saw his resolve starting to crack. He’d obviously dwelt on her earlier comments.

“Think about it,” she said calmly. “If there’s a cure for the Black Death, then why is the Major wearing a biological warfare suit?” She smiled and knew that her logic had hit home.

Lieutenant Carpenter absorbed the information and then slowly turned the rifle to point at the major.

“Have you gone totally insane?” the major blustered. “How dare you point a weapon at a superior officer?”

Carpenter’s hands trembled. He tightened his grip not only on the rifle, but also on his resolve. He steadied his aim.

“Take him out!” Major Osborne ordered the other soldiers.

The soldiers raised their weapons clumsily, but it was nigh on impossible to aim properly wearing their helmets, so held the rifles on their hip, but were obviously uneasy about killing one of their own.

“That’s an order!” the major demanded, panic rising in his voice.

Luke used the distraction to attack from his crouching position; he grabbed the ankles of a startled soldier and hoisted him over the quayside into the water below. Jake jumped into action and shoulder-barged the soldier next to him with all his might, making him stagger. The soldier tried to regain his balance but was hindered by the hazmat suit, Jake gave him the smallest of pushes, and it was enough to send the unbalanced solider over the edge of the quay. Jake snatched his rifle out of the air as the soldier passed then tossed it to Luke.

Lieutenant Carpenter shot dead the major, but before anyone could react, he then turned on the prisoners. Luke was in his line of fire, when Winnie clouted him around the back of the head. He spun around to face her. “Fuck you, coon,” he grunted, shoving her harshly from his path, he turned back to Luke who now had his weapon pointed at his head. “Told ya, I’d kill ya,” he said and fired.

The one remaining soldier aimed his gun at Sophie, when to his utter amazement Winnie grabbed him around his waist. “May God forgive me…” she said softly and yanked him backward and they tumbled over the quayside together.

16:00 PM

General Malloy needed to alert the President but had no way to contact the outside world, their transmitters were down and the government was blocking all civilian transmissions leaving Southern Florida. Damnit, he cursed, he’d have to think of a way. He crawled up the exit ramp and could smell fresh air at last, he caught a glimpse of daylight flickered off a broken windshield of a jeep; a concrete block had crashed through the windshield and cut the two occupants in half.

He gazed in disbelief as more rats poured down into the parking lot, where had they all come from, he wondered? Although he remembered reading somewhere that, you’re never more than fifteen foot from a rat. He shuddered and watched them make for the nearest corpse, presumably drawn to the squeals of their companions. The general squeezed between a jeep and a perpendicular slab of concrete, he squashed himself flat and went underneath the jeep to bypass the slab, when a rat ran across his arm. He flicked it off in utter shock. The rat sat on his haunches hissing at him. He thought for a moment that it might attack, but it turned and joined its colleagues, chomping on the already dead body.

He breathed a sigh of relief and chided himself for being frightened of a rat, with one last push he was out from under the jeep, stood upright and limped up the exit ramp and out into the fresh air. “Yes!” he roared triumphantly. “I’m back!”

His joy was short lived as he glanced around and took in the devastation. It looked like Hiroshima, with the gray cloud hovering above where the hotel once stood and every surface covered in a thick layer of dust. His eyes fell upon the immense pile of debris that had once been the magnificent tower, with the smoldering aircraft protruding from the bottom of the heap. “I’m going to get you for this,” he cursed under his breath.

20:05 PM

“Duuude, I am so sorry…,” Jake said, beside himself with shame.

“Forget it man,” Luke said, waving him away trying to ease Jake’s conscience.

The gang crowded around and he drew his plan in the dirt on the quayside. “It’ll be getting dark soon, and we need the cover of darkness to help in our escape,” he gazed around the crowd, who were looking to him to be their leader, not a role he relished, but he seemed to take to the position with ease. “OK, do we all know what we’re doing?” the others nodded, “We’ll take four speedboats head due north, and hang in one pack, because if we are being watched on radar we’ll look like one boat. If they should send a launch to apprehend us, we’ll let them get close then split into four directions.” Luke smiled. “They can only chase one of us, so hopefully at least some of us will get through.”

“Sounds like a plan,” said the man in the Kiss T shirt and raised his hand for a high five, Luke slapped it reluctantly not wanting to leave the guy hanging but still not forgetting that he’d been willing to sell him out.

“Come on, let’s get going,” he said with hope in his heart for the first time in a long while. Luke climbed down the wooden ladder, and balanced precariously on a gleaming black Kawasaki speedboat. The water lapped gently against the pilings, as he helped Sophie down into his boat. “You’re not going to trust them again, surely?” she queried, as she stood alongside him at the controls. She watched Jake clamber down into a cherry-red speedboat next to them.

“No fucking way,” he said shocking her with his outburst, “But I’m thinking safety in numbers.”

“You think they’ll still try to catch us?”

He fired up the engine and it throbbed throatily and heard the other three speedboats do the same. “Yep.”

He made a circle above his head and pointed out to sea. The four speedboats shot forward, Sophie almost lost her grip as the boat sped away. She clung on for dear life as spray covered her face and she felt refreshed in the evening’s relentless heat.

CHAPTER 29

20:30 PM

“There’s movement, Commander,” said the seaman staffing the radar, aboard the USS Thomas Jefferson, an aircraft carrier moored twenty knots from Florida’s east coast, near to Miami.

Commander Roscoe looked over his shoulder. “Where are they?” He asked.

“Miami beach, Commander.”

“How big?” the commander asked.

“Small, Commander. One vessel, a speedboat, I would guess, judging by its acceleration.”

“Will they never learn?” The commander sighed. The USS Thomas Jefferson’s task was to protect the lower east coast. “Send a launch to intercept. Shoot to kill.” He commanded as casually as ordering his eggs over easy.

20:55 PM

The quartet of speedboats hugged the Florida coastline as they hurried northwards. Luke was almost at full throttle making the boat take off now and then, as they hit the larger waves. Luke allowed himself a smile and thought the plan might actually work, when Sophie tugged on his sleeve and pointed behind them, he saw a searchlight mounted on a naval launch cutting across the ocean was almost upon them.

Luke opened the throttle to maximum and roared forward between the others and pointed behind them. The drivers nodded and split off in three different directions, while Luke took the direct route north, as they had previously agreed that Sophie’s mission to escape was the most imperative.

In the launch the sailors whooped and cheered, glad to have some action finally. Man, this was the real thing, thought Seaman Matthers at the helm, no messing around, wasting their time catching the odd immigrant, treating them with kid-gloves as they went through the system, then slipping away never to be seen again. The immigration system sucked, that was for sure. What was the point of the navy catching them, if the courts were going to let them slip through the net? The odd one in a hundred they made an example of, got shipped back home only to hop on the next boat back.

They were fighting a losing battle, he knew that the Navy and Coast Guard between them were only catching about one percent and for most of them to disappear into thin air. In addition, the war on drugs was even more hopeless, he thought. Still, the plague had changed everything. He heard from the other patrol officers that the order’s were ‘shoot to kill’, he’d thought they were bullshitting until he heard it with his own ears.

This was going to be the first time he’d engaged with the enemy. They’d practiced repeatedly for this day and finally tonight he would do battle, show his mettle and knew they could count on him to do his duty. He was totally prepared to kill fellow Americans, having had it drummed into him, that they were dying and carrying an incurable disease, then he would have no qualms. In fact, he would be doing them a favor by all accounts, he’d had it on good authority that the carriers died a horrific death and he thought a quick dispatch with his rifle had to be better than the slow lingering agony that awaited the Black Death victims.

The searchlight picked out the cherry-red speedboat and they locked onto it. Matthers opened up the throttle and reduced the gap between them. Seaman Weston mounting the machine-gun had Jake firmly in his sights; Matthers nodded his assent to open fire. Weston aimed and fired off a volley, as Jake’s speedboat hit a wave and he soared into the air, ensuring most of the shots missed their target.

Jake nearly choked when he saw three bullet holes appear in his bow, he swung the steering wheel hard down, spun the speedboat 180 degrees and the momentum almost threw him over the side. He zigzagged towards the vessel, giving them no chance to take another shot and then he was behind them. He breathed a sigh of relief, and smiled pleased with himself and hoped he had gone some way in redeeming himself with Luke for drawing the enemy away. He chanced a look over his shoulder and was surprised to see that they had not given chase. Puzzled he slowed, turned a large arc, and sped after them.

“There!” screamed Matthers, thrusting his chin out in the rough direction. “Point the Goddamn light over there!” They hit another wave and he lost the speedboat to the darkness, he maneuvered the craft in the general direction, while Seaman Chen roamed the searchlight ahead, they finally picked out the yellow speedboat, only to lose it again, as it weaved from side-to-side trying to evade capture. When it was finally in the sights, the searchlight locked on following the speedboat’s twists and turns. Matthers smirked and shortened the distance to make sure of a certain kill.

“That’s not it,” said Chen confused.

“What do you mean?” said Matthers. “Course it is.”

“This speedboat’s yellow, the other one was red.” Chen told him.

“He’s right,” agreed the machine-gunner. “It was red. There must be more than one speedboat. Shall we call it in for re-enforcements?”

“I think we can deal with two boats, don’t you?” Matthers said. “Take this fucker out, then we’ll find the red one, it ain’t gonna be far away.”

They closed on the yellow speedboat driven by the guy in the Kiss T shirt, who did his best to avoid them, but they had the faster, superior vessel, Matthers nodded to the gunner who fired off three short bursts, each hit the fleeing speedboat. One of the bullets made contact with the engine, and the speedboat spluttered, then ground to a halt.

The guy in the Kiss T shirt held up his hands and smiled weakly, the machine-gunner lined up for the kill shot, when Matthers tapped him on the shoulder, “Me first.”

The gunner reluctantly relinquished the weapon to his superior. The two boats rocked on the water and were in danger of bashing into each other.

The guy in the Kiss T shirt squinted against the harsh searchlight pointed at his face, and could only make out the silhouettes of the men aboard the naval vessel, “OK, you’ve got me,” he smiled. “Take me to you leader,” he joked badly, and cracked a smile, when Matthers fired, riddling him with bullets from top to bottom.

21:15 PM

Luke cut the power and listened. He heard and saw the gunfire not so far away from them. Sophie bit her lip as the Kiss guy’s knees bent, and then he toppled head-first into the ocean. Luke brought his craft gently up alongside Jake’s. “Follow me, I’ve got an idea.” Jake nodded, Luke opened up the throttle throwing them back, and Jake did likewise. The woman in the white speedboat, saw them and followed suit.

On the patrol boat the sailors high fived and whooped. “That was gross!” laughed Matthers. “Did you see the way his guts spilled out? Right where’s the next one?” with blood lust in their veins they were determined to find the next target. Chen weaved the searchlight over the ocean and caught a flash of white. “There!” he yelled pointing ahead. Matthers pulled hard down on the wheel, opened the throttle and the trio leaned into the curve as the boat powered after their target. Machine-gunner Weston let out a whoop like a banshee and raked his machine-gun side to side randomly at the horizon.

They shortened the distance between them and the fleeing speedboats, as their more powerful craft jumped the waves with ease. Chen shone the searchlight ahead amazed to see the tight-knit group of three speedboats fleeing northward as the searchlight beam lit them up, when the white speedboat peeled off left and the red one right each taking a different direction.

Matthers locked onto the woman in the white speedboat, and gained on it easily. The skinny woman in the white speedboat looked over her shoulder aghast to see the naval boat had targeted her and closed the gap between them. She opened the throttle to maximum, and bounced across the waves, zigzagging in a futile attempt to lose them, she spun the wheel in desperation, but in her inexperience hit a wave sideways, the impact of the wave broadsided her, almost stopped her dead in her tracks as if she had hit a brick wall. The power of the wave practically threw her overboard.

She regained her composure, when the engine stalled. She turned the key, but it spluttered and failed to start. “Oh, come on,” she begged urgently. She wriggled the key again. The circle of the searchlight beam got larger she knew was doomed.

“Oh Christ!” she heard the rumble of the naval launch pulling alongside her. She turned reluctantly and raised her hands slowly. “Please, don’t shoot me, I’m not contaminated, I swear.” She burst into tears and sobbed heartily.

“We’re not going to shoot you,” Matthers said calmly in a soothing voice, he moved to the front of the rig.

“You’re — you’re not?” she asked nervously.

“We wanted to give you this,” the voice said. She saw the silhouette of a sailor leaning towards her and offering her a gift. She took the object and he forcefully enclosed his hands around hers. “No peeping, now, don’t spoil the surprise,” he said, as he made a signal with his arm and the naval vessel sped away.

She was shocked yet grateful to be alive, unable to believe they hadn’t shot her. When she thought they were far enough away she looked down at the object in her hand and her eyes opened in horror as her brain had half a second to register that it was a hand-grenade, moments before it exploded, shattering her body instantly and scattering the fragments of her remains into the night sky.

Jake spun a huge arc, caught up with Luke and sat behind him, riding shotgun, bouncing across their wake as they raced to the shoreline.

“Where are we going?” Sophie asked Luke as they headed straight for the beach.

“The Intracoastal Waterway,” he told her. “It’s an inland river, which runs parallel with the ocean. It links with canals and rivers, all the way up to Canada.”

I know it,” she said. “But won’t they be able to follow?”

“Yeah, but I kinda hoped to lose them in amongst the canals. We’re sitting targets out here on the ocean.” He peered at the horizon and made out the entrance to the river amongst the multitude of unlit hotels on the beachfront. He headed into the river at full speed, and took a hard right, making he and Sophie tilt with the momentum. Jake almost missed the bend and had to lose power to avoid smashing into the embankment. He turned the wheel and cursed his loss of distance. He opened the engines and roared after Luke.

“We need to hide,” Luke told Sophie.

“What about over there amongst those other boats?”

He cut the throttle and steered to where half a dozen speedboats rocked against a jetty. He turned the engine off and ducked. He peeked over the side and saw Jake had copied him on the opposite side of the river.

Moments later the naval launch hurtled past with the searchlight swinging right and left. Matthers’ blood pumped fast, adrenalin raced through his veins, as he relished the hunt, but then he cut the power. “Goddamnit!” he cursed, “They’ve got away.”

“They outrun us?” queried Chen.

“Not a chance. Not me. No way. They must be hiding.” He turned a large arc and they slowly retraced their path. The naval launch bobbed gently at walking speed as Chen shone the searchlight onto the boats and footpath, but there were no signs of movement.

Sophie held her breath as the sailors chugged alongside. “Can’t we make a run for it?” she whispered urgently.

“Not an option, they’ll cut us down with the machine-gun.” He ducked back down as the searchlight headed in their direction.

Chen detected a movement on the embankment and shone the beam on it. The machine-gunner fired three short bursts at the movement, until he realized it was a pair of rats running along.

In the black speedboat, Sophie had to cover her mouth as the bullets ripped above her head. A few birds squawked their alarm, after that all they could hear was the echo of the gunfire, before utter stillness. She knew that the navy patrol was still close by and had not left the scene.

“There they are…,” Matthers whispered quietly in hushed tones.

“I don’t seem ‘em?” machine-gunner Weston said.

“Look at the exhaust port. It’s still dripping. That speedboat has been in use in the last few minutes. Take ‘em out,” he ordered firmly.

Sophie fired up the engines. “What are you doing?”Luke asked incredulously.

“We have nothing to lose,” she said. He shrugged as if to say ‘why not?’ She turned the wheel and aimed straight at the naval launch. The black speedboat rapidly built up momentum as it propelled towards its target. “Give them a taste of their own medicine.”

“Kill the bastard sonofabitch,” Luke agreed. He squeezed her hand, and looked at her sadly, “You know, if we’d met—”

“I know,” she smiled.

“Holy shit!” Matthers gasped and took evasive action to avoid a head-on collision, the wash from the passing speedboat almost over-turned them. The sailors gripped on tight to stop themselves falling into the water. “That does it!” Matthers thundered. “Get those darkie fuckers,” he said through gritted teeth. He pulled the launch around to follow, and the searchlight picked them out. He grinned cruelly, opened up the throttle, the engines jerked them back, and the power raised the bow from the water, with a flash of red Jake cut in front of them.

Once again, the navy launch swerved to avoid a collision. “We’re the US navy and these deranged carriers are making fools of us,” Matthers cursed.

“I thought they’re meant to be dying?” said Chan.

“They’ll be dead soon enough,” he said determinedly.

Further down the river Luke dropped Sophie off at the water’s edge. He pointed the speedboat back the way they had come, quickly tied the throttle on, and as it leapt into power he bailed over the side and swam to the edge, where Sophie helped him out.

The speedboat hurtled back down the river. “Go, go,” Sophie urged it onwards, desperately hoping that it would meet its target. She bit her lip and watched as the naval launch rounded the bend in the river. The searchlight caught the moving speedboat and locked on, but within moments the speedboat crashed into a powerboat moored against a private jetty and both vessels exploded, sending thick black clouds of smoke into the night.

The navy launch slowed, and went as close as it dared, circling the burning wrecks. “Did you see ‘em?” Matthers asked.

“It was all too fast, but if I had to make a guess I’d say it was empty.” Chen answered.

“That’s what I figured. It was too neat. They were heading the wrong way, and did nothing to slow down or swerve,” he cupped his hands around his mouth. “Nice try darkies! You’ll have to try harder than that!” he turned the launch around.

Jake puttered his boat up to where Luke and Sophie were on the lawn of a plantation style mansion. Sophie and Luke stood and started towards the building.

“You’ll never make it to the house,” Jake said, keeping an eye on the navel launch, which turned a large arc. “Wait here. I’ll act as a decoy.” He spun the steering wheel. “Trust me.”

“You must be joking,” Sophie scoffed.

“I owe you,” Jake said. He turned and saw the navy launch hammering down upon them. “And I’m sorry…”

Luke stared at him blankly, “For what, man?”

“This,” he turned an arc, opened up the throttle and targeted the naval vessel.

“No!” Luke yelled after him.

Jake aimed at the navy patrol who had no time to avoid the collision. “Oh, shit…” muttered Chen, when he saw the inevitable crash.

Jake grinned in deep satisfaction, he gritted his teeth, thinking of his redemption as he rammed them mid-ship, rupturing the fuel line and the ensuing explosion sent them sky high.

CHAPTER 30

DAY FOUR

MONDAY JULY 4th

09:00 AM

Sophie stretched in the luxurious king-sized bed of the plantation mansion. She heard Luke in the shower and smiled to herself. He had broken into the house the night before after their near death experience with the navy patrol and Jake’s ultimate sacrifice — at least he came good in the end, she thought.

She smiled because Luke felt about her as she felt about him, but she had to stop herself from making future plans, as right now they were living for the moment, and there might not be a future.

She found some clean clothes in a walk-in closet, selected a cool, flowing linen summer dress and went downstairs to the hotel-sized kitchen. She looked through the cupboards, opened the fridge, took out the milk, sniffed it and decided that it was fine. She turned on the stove delighted to find that the gas was still connected. She thought she would rustle up breakfast and realized that she was famished. She hadn’t eaten since… she couldn’t remember when. She wracked her brain and realized it was close to twenty-four hours. Had it been only two days since she awoke at the hospital to all this chaos?

She sighed and thought about what had happened over the last two days, the world, as she knew it, was over, and the government — her government, had ordered the population of southern Florida to be exterminated. Unbelievable, yet a fact. She’d seen it with her own eyes and had herself been seconds away from death. Yet, right now, she was cooking breakfast for her new boyfriend. What a crazy world!

She thought of Luke and smiled. She tried not to but couldn’t help herself. She shouldn’t be having these thoughts, the chances of them surviving the slaughter was slim, but still….

“That smells good,” Luke said, entering the luxurious kitchen dressed from head to toe in white cotton.

“Wow, look at you, don’t you scrub up good,” she teased.

“Not so bad yourself.” He pecked her on the cheek, and sat at the table, smiling at their seemingly ordinary, everyday domesticity. “Man, this kitchen is bigger than my apartment.”

“There’s a room there just full of food, it’s like a mini-mart, we could live here for a year before it’d run out, and we have gas for cooking.”

“Yeah, they have their own propane gas-tanks I noticed ‘em last night.” He gazed around the spectacular kitchen and let out a low whistle, “Man, I could get used to this.” He smiled as she put a fried breakfast in front of him. “Hey, why don’t we?” he said.

“Why don’t we what?” she asked.

“Why don’t we stay here? This house has got everything we need to ride out the Black Death.” He waved his arms around expansively.

“We have to get to Quinn Martell. He’s the only one that can help. He’ll know what to do. But we can’t communicate with him in the normal way.”

“The army are transmitting though,” he said.

“They’ll have their own wave length.”

“What if we find a set, find the right wave-length?” he suggested.

“They’ll scan the airwaves, and they can pin-point illegal transmissions.”

“What else, Morse code?”

“Do you know Morse code?” she asked.

“No.”

“Nor me. How would we send it? And to whom?”

The only way we can be sure to get a message to him is to deliver it ourselves. We must escape the zone. It’s imperative that his team of experts use us as live specimens, and find a cure.”

“How do you know they haven’t?” Luke said. “How do you know that they are not working on a cure for us now?”

“Because that’s not how this government works. Their mission will be to contain the situation, destroy the carriers, and then they’ll work on a cure. We’ve seen with our own eyes that they mean to massacre us all, they’re not making checks to see if anyone is healthy or could possibly hold a clue to a cure. They’re slaughtering everyone.” She paused for a moment. “I know this is not what Quinn Martell wants. He and the late President were all for survival, all be it in refugee camps, but a proper controlled, methodical check of the population.”

“Well, President Burgess is dead and President Parker is all gung ho with a, ‘shoot on sight’ campaign.”

“But that’s morally repugnant, he and General Malloy must be stopped, the world has to know what is going on down here in Florida,” she said.

“But it’s in the world’s interest to contain the virus to Florida, they will be aiding the government in any way they can, because if this disease got aboard, well… ”

She paced the kitchen. “So, countries that have been at each other’s throats for decades suddenly join forces to prevent this infection spreading? Incredible, all the multibillions these countries spend each year on weaponry to annihilate each other — money that is more than enough to save every starving child in the world, by the way — are now helping each other?” She shook her head in bewilderment. “It’s incredible that billions of dollars have been poured into creating germ-warfare, and this country has been brought to its knees by a bacterium that has been around for centuries.”

“I once did an in-depth report on germ-warfare, but the bosses sat on it. Didn’t think the American public was able to face the possibility of a chemical attack. They deemed it OK for families to watch the evening news, with rapes, murders and famine in far off countries, but mention foreign or domestic capabilities of germ-warfare and they practically fainted at the notion.”

“Well, all major countries in the world have signed treaties to claim that they are not developing chemical weapons, but it did not stop the US using Napalm or Agent Orange in Vietnam.”

“Shameful,” Luke agreed.

Sophie continued. “All the major players in the First World War had signed treaties not to use chemical weapons, but all sides used mustard gas, which their gas masks did little to help as it could be absorbed through the skin.” She gazed from the picture window down across the lawn to the river. “A spectacularly stupid weapon as it relied too heavily on wind direction at the beginning, and the powers that be regularly gassed their own troops.”

Luke leaned against the large oak table in the vast kitchen. “This is happening to the richest country in the world, with one of the largest armies, and unlimited resources, yet even I can see that they can’t patrol southern Florida forever.” He joined her at the window. “Say we make up one percent of the population, they’ll still be up to five thousand unaffected people trying to escape, and you can treble that with the infected that have some resilience. They can’t catch us all. They will have to come up with a plan.”

Her eyes widened. “Like what?”

“Poison the water supply?”

“Most people drink bottle water and there’s a plentiful supply of that.”

“Gas maybe, but again they would have to cover every square inch of Florida to be absolutely sure… or…” His face clouded over.

“What? What is it?” she asked with trepidation.

“We need to get to Quinn Martell fast.” He marched from the kitchen. “Let’s see what sort of vehicles they have in the garage.”

“Why, where are we going?”

“The only certain place we know there is a link to the outside world.”

“Where?”

“The late President’s compound.”

Luke walked amongst the beautiful cars, the Lamborghinis, Ferraris and Porsches, with admiration. Sophie asked, “How are we going to get there without being caught?”

“We’ll go as far as we can through the Seminole Reservation like you did and keep to tree-covered areas as far as possible — to avoid the drones and spy-planes.” His eyes lit up as they fell on the perfect vehicle. “Ah, we have a winner.”

Sophie cast her eyes over to Luke past the Ferrari, past the Rolls-Royce, the limousine, and her face dropped. “Oh.” She scrunched her eyes. “what is it?” She asked staring at the old, mud covered motorcycle.

“This will be our salvation, the BMW 1200 GS, one of the most powerful dirt bikes ever made, we can go off-road, through water, everywhere our pursuers can’t.” He smiled broadly but she seemed unconvinced. He cocked his leg over, kick-started it and revved the engine. “Jump on.” She appeared reticent, but eventually clambered onto the back, Luke open the throttle and they shot from the garage, into the scorching hot sun.

He pulled a wheelie, fighting to get control of the powerful beast, as the off-road motorcycle ploughed across the beautifully manicured lawn, down to the river, where the wreckage of the naval vessel still smoldered, and onto the tow-path and away.

“Can you slow down?” she asked as the motorcycle bounced over a protruding tree root, that shook her bones and jarred her teeth.

“Not yet, we need to put some distance from the mansion.”

“How so?”

“I thought I’d set a decoy.”

“What did you do?” But before Luke could reply a massive explosion answered her question. She glanced back to see the mansion on fire and chunks of debris falling down into the river beside them.

“I left the gas taps on, rigged a cigarette lighter in another room, so when eventually the gas met the flame — ka-boom!”

“How do you know how to do these things?”

“I did an in-depth report on Militia and guerrilla warfare,” he said with a smirk. “Who knew one day it would save my life.”

Sophie watched in awe as a plume of black smoke billowed up into the heavens and the glorious plantation mansion burned with a ferocity she did not expect. The flames caught the nearby tinder–dry trees alight and flames from the trees licked the clear blue sky.

She was about to look away when something caught her eye, in the distance a black dot appeared, but within moments the dot had become an army helicopter circling the burning mansion. She tapped Luke on the shoulder and pointed. He saw the chopper and his shoulders sagged. “That was quick! Still, it will keep ‘em busy for some time. Maybe we should do some more. Get them thinking that a band of vigilantes are striking back. Tie up more troops and confuse them. What do you think?”

“Sure let’s do it.”

He grinned and drove the motorcycle up a well-worn path from the river into a trailer park. He saw the devastation the Bubonic Plague had caused in the tight-knit neighborhood environment, the Happy Pines Trailer Park, as its welcoming sign announced, was anything but happy. It appeared the Black Death had spread like wildfire amongst the community. The inhabitants had crawled outside to die in the fresh air rather than stay inside the stifling metal tombs. Luke could only imagine what the incessant heat inside the steel boxes must have been like. Even now in the early morning, the tops of the trailers shimmered, distorting the tree line as heat rose from the sheet metal.

He parked the dirt bike and he and Sophie walked amongst the dead in the hope they might find someone alive. Luke shook his head at each corpse, detecting from afar that they had passed away. In the distance, they could see dogs and rats fighting over the carcass of an elderly person.

As Luke and Sophie entered each trailer, they tried to ignore the darkened remains of the occupants. The boil-ridden bodies of children upset Sophie greatly and the putrid smell of death made her gag. She took a couple of silk scarves from a dresser and handed one to Luke who gratefully copied her and tied it over his nose. He quickly turned the gas taps on the stove, and then closed the door of the rancid smelling trailers, to fill each one with the explosive gas.

Sophie tried the door of a double trailer, but she found it locked, “Don’t worry,” said Luke. “They’ll be a chain reaction that’ll catch all these babies alight.”

When he finished, Luke wheeled the dirt bike near to the river ready for a quick getaway. He used the kick-start to fire the engine, entered the last trailer evidently occupied by potheads. The stoners were dead on the floor, and the trailer littered with their drug paraphernalia, including a fruit-bowl full of disposable lighters. Luke helped himself to a liberal amount of the cigarette lighters, taped one open so the flame burned continually, set the gas jets of the stove and closed the trailer door slowly so as not to put the flame out.

Sophie stood with her hands up with dust whipping up all around her as Luke left the trailer. He heard rather than saw the helicopter above. “Put your hands up!” instructed a metallic sounding voice from the chopper’s loud hailer. “Do not move!” Luke slowly raised his hands and signaled with his eyes for Sophie to move as far from the trailer as possible. He shuffled backward as did she. “I said stay where you are!”

“Get ready to run to the river,” Luke said. “I’ll ride the bike the other way draw their fire.”

Inside the chopper, the four man crew watched them shuffle back, “Do they really think they can outrun a chopper?” the gunner chuckled at the absurdity. “Go on, let them try, it’ll be more sporting.” He cocked the M-16 side-mounted machine-gun and pulled back on the handle of the sliding door. “I’ll put ten bullets in each of them before they hit the floor, any bets?”

The pilot said, “She’s a darkie for sure, you can see her skin color from here.”

“What about him?”

“Execute him too, she would’ve passed the disease onto him.”

The military camouflaged helicopter turned in midair, hovered sideways and the gunner spun around to get them in his sights.

“Now!” Luke yelled, running for the motorcycle, he hopped on and pulled back on the throttle and was surprised when Sophie threw herself onto the back and wrapped her arms around him, instead of heading for the river as arranged.

“I’m coming with you,” she told him in a tone of voice that broached no argument. He kicked down on the gearshift lever, engaged first and released the clutch, when the gunner sprayed bullets in front of them kicking up dirt.

The metallic voice from above said. “Say your prayers, suck—” Suddenly the trailer erupted, and orange-red flames shot upwards with large sections of the roof striking the rotor blades, putting the chopper into a spin. The engine coughed and spluttered and a crash landing was inevitable.

Luke did not think twice and spun the bike away from the river, as he roared down the main avenue of the trailer park, the mobile homes exploded to the left and right of them with differing ferocity. Behind them another fragment of roofing shot up into the undercarriage of the helicopter, rupturing the fuel line and the chopper exploded mid-air into a hovering ball of flames.

Up ahead a double trailer detonated. The eruption reverberated up through the frame of the motorcycle, and set off the trailer opposite, blocking their exit with a thick, black blanket of smoke. Luke leaned down onto the gas tank to make himself smaller, and Sophie did the same. “Hold tight,” he said as they disappeared into the blinding, cloud of billowing flames. The smoke was disorientating, and Luke thought that maybe they were already dead and this was hell, when a moment later they reappeared into the fresh air. He whooped as the last trailer erupted, pulled out onto the street, but knowing that other patrols would be along imminently, Luke sought the refuge of the riverbank once more. He steered a path back down a side street, rode up the embankment and back onto the towpath and when they were under the protection of a canopy of tree branches, he cut the engine so that they could catch their breath.

__________

Sophie observed the flaming trailers from a safe distance in awe-struck silence. At least a dozen trailers were burning fiercely as was the wreck of the helicopter. “My God.” Sophie muttered unable to take in the scene. She dismounted from the motorcycle and went to a nearby clearing in the trees for a better view. “How did that helicopter find us so quickly?”

Luke clambered off the motorcycle and put it on its stand, but left the engine running just in case. He stretched and said, “Maybe a passing patrol got lucky. We’ll have a better idea of their response time after the next fire.”

He gazed around and saw that the river widened into a small marina containing half a dozen powerboats and one luxury cruiser. “What do you think?” he said, nodding at the floating time bombs.

She smiled in agreement. He climbed aboard the nearest powerboat and imagined for a moment what it would be like to take such a craft out onto the ocean and open it up. Luke fiddled around in the engine compartment, ripped out the fuel line and the gas pumped around the engine compartment. He repeated the procedure on the other powerboats.

“How much does a boat like this cost? “ Sophie asked as they clambered aboard the luxury cruiser.

“Quarter of a million bucks,” he said and set out to find the engine cover. “How the other half live, eh?”

“What on earth do they do for a living to afford something like this as a toy, — a plaything?” She said, frowning her disapproval.

“Nothing legal, that’s for sure.”

Luke smirked and held up a kilo of cocaine. “Look at this. There are probably twenty kilos of it. All the inland waterways make Florida so hard to patrol. This area has been a haven for smugglers since the days of the pirates.” He opened the engine cover and rummaged around, eventually found the fuel line, yanked it out and grinned.

Up in the cabin, Sophie switched on the gas rings of a portable stove, and then rigged up a cigarette lighter as Luke had shown her. She was about to close the door behind her when Luke pushed her back in. “Listen?”

She strained her ears and heard the distant sound of helicopter rotor-blades, and moments later, four Chinook helicopters hovering low overhead, then she remembered the impending explosion. “The gas,” she said.

“Wait,” he said, and then sighed as the choppers passed overhead in towards the trailer park. “Let’s get out of here.”

They disembarked from the cruiser and leapt onto the dirt bike, the rear wheel spewing up gravel in Luke’s haste to get away.

10:00 AM

The choppers prepared to land in a straight-line formation on the street outside the burning trailer park. The side doors popped open and soldiers emerged wearing camouflaged biohazard suits and climbed down before the choppers had landed properly.

A man of military bearing, wearing sunglasses stood with his hands on his hips and stared at the devastation. A growl emitted from deep within his throat.

The pilot of the following chopper recognized the man and choked. “That’s Jumpin’ Jack Malloy!” he exclaimed in surprise as they approached him.

“Jesus Christ!” said the co-pilot.

“Close enough. Although he was the last man to come back from the dead.”

“I thought General Malloy perished in the HQ bombing?”

“No such luck,” he moaned as they grouped around the general awaiting his orders.

The general snapped a sharp salute, which the enlisted men returned. “Who’s your highest ranking officer?”

“That would be me, General,” said a sergeant major, pushing through the mob. “What can I do for you?”

“I need your men to sweep this area for terrorists.”

“Begging your pardon, General, how do you know it was terrorists?”

The general glowered at him, and the sergeant major visibly quaked. “This is clearly the work of terrorists. If you were observant, son, you would know that the intensity of the blasts suggest that these trailers had been full of gas before they were destroyed. And a nearby house on the river was also reduced to rubble by a deliberate act of terrorism.”

“What does HQ say about this use of manpower?”

“There is no HQ, son. I’m HQ until further notice. Now, are you going to disobey anymore orders?”

“But we are needed—”

The boats erupting less than a mile away ended the argument as a column of thick, black smoke reached up into the scorching hot sky. The general whipped off his sunglasses and glowered at the sergeant major. “Why are you still here? Get after them!”

__________

The luxury cruiser exploded and the ferocity of the blast wave blew Luke and Sophie clean off the motorcycle. Sophie stirred, checked herself over, wriggled her extremities and although battered and bruised she knew that at least no bones were broken.

The tumble stunned Luke. He massaged the shoulder that took the brunt of his spill, and counted himself lucky that he did not have the dirt bike up to full speed or their fall might have been a different story. Sophie looked at him with a worried expression on her face and he stuck up his thumb to reassure her that he was OK. He stood gingerly, testing the weight on his ankle. She limped over to Luke who tugged the dirt bike upright and started it. “Come on, we better get out of here,” she hopped on the back and the motorcycle sped away spewing up dirt behind the wheel.

11:00 AM

The Pentagon war room was in utter chaos. The digital revolution had made information instant and copious. No slow drip of intelligence like in the past, where they had time to assess the material. Now the intel was instantaneous and demanded attention. The back-room analysts could not cope with the overload, and accurate information was in short supply as the intelligence passed to the Joint Chiefs of Staff conflicted. The chiefs yelled at each other like school-kids, each wanted their branch seen to have discovered the answer, or failing that, and equally as important, that their branch of the armed forces did not face the blame, or seen on the wrong side when this was eventually over.

Each Chief of staff sat on the fence and agreed with each opposing argument, but above all else, agreed with the wet-behind-the-ears newly installed President, who got more and more paranoid by the hour.

President Hamilton Parker’s face showed signs of fatigue not the usual shiny, smiling visage he showed to the public, but lined, creased with worry and in need of a shave with a growth of stubbly gray hair. He cleared his throat, and tried to get the discussion back into some form of order.

“Gentlemen, gentlemen, silence please,” he yelled from a video-link above their din. “Be seated and let me tell you where we’re at.”

Vice-Admiral Reed butted in. “Mister President, what have your advisors’ made of the data we sent over to the White House?”

“Damnit, we’ve not had time — half my staff didn’t turn in today.”

“That’s odd?”

“I expect they wanted to start the holiday weekend early,” he said with a shrug.

“That does not sound like White House personnel. They would have fought so hard to get a position on the staff. I don’t think they would jeopardize that by playing hooky,” the vice-admiral said. His companions nodded their agreement, suddenly the vice-admiral’s face dropped. “You don’t think it’s the—”

The President waved away the notion, and cleared his throat again. “No, no, Washington is safe, all the hospitals are on red alert, and we have the police doing ‘unofficial’ random stop-checks. No, we’re clean. My guess is they’re fleeing north, or aboard to get away from this thing. Goddamn cowards…” He paced around his desk deep in thought, and then seemed to remember that they were there on his video-link screen, “Where was I…?”

“Are you feeling alright, Mister President, are you getting enough sleep?” the vice-admiral asked.

“Who has time to sleep?” He threw his arms up in the air. “Not me, that’s for sure. I wanted to ask my physician for something to help, but he hasn’t attended today.”

“Doctor Crawford’s not shown up? That’s not like him. Have you tried to contact him?”

“He’s not answering,” he said dismissively. “Can we get back to the matter in hand?”

Quinn Martell is still in DC, shall we send him over?” said the vice-admiral.

“The surgeon general’s in DC? Why?” He acted jumpy, and then his mind seemed to wander off.

“Shall I send him over, Mister President? Protocol states that a physician should be at your side at all times?”

“That’s right, I’d forgotten, what with all the pressure on me.” His voice trailed off, then. “Right, where were we?”

“Shall I send for him, Mister President?”

“Yes, yes,” he said. “Do that, fine. Now, we must get back to the situation in Florida. Has anyone heard from General Malloy? Has anyone made contact yet?”

“We’ve sent another team down there, Mister President,” Vice-Admiral Reed said. “To set up mobile command, further north this time.” An interactive map filled each man’s monitor. “Miami and the surrounding areas are lost…” He let the fact sink in, before continuing. “We’re going to pull right back and set up the command center near Lake Okeechobee.”

Once again, there was a murmur from the assembled men regarding the chaotic mess in Florida. Each man knew the enormity of the situation, but Vice-Admiral Reed was the first to admit the crisis was out of control. He laid it on the line, and told them how bad things were.

“When was somebody going to tell me this?” the President asked with menace in his voice as he paced the Oval Office disappearing and reappearing on the screen while he wandered.

Vice-Admiral Reed used his cell to call Quinn Martell. He gave him instructions to hightail it over to the White House as soon as possible. He filled him in on the latest information, and reminded him that it would be within his power and in fact, his duty, to section President Parker if necessary. He quoted the relevant amendments and paragraph numbers that gave him the authority to do so, which would then give leadership to the more even-keeled Speaker of the House.

“OK,” said President Parker. “You’re trying to tell me that the might of the US army, navy and air-force can’t handle the situation and we are retreating like cowards?” He clearly did not approve.

“A tactical maneuver, Mister President, it would be prudent to use our troops on the ground more efficiently. From what I can understand — and I’m only getting fragments at the moment — but it appears that a band of vigilantes are blowing things up to distract—”

“Blowing things up?” the President said aghast. “Like what?”

“So far, erm, a house, some boats, a trailer park—”

“And we can’t catch them?” He threw his arms in the air again in disgust.

“Our guys on the ground have to investigate, sift through the evidence, look for clues, it’s all too time consuming, sir. We’re running around south Florida like headless chickens. Meanwhile we need to strengthen our road blocks, and have more troops guarding the perimeter, we’re spread too thinly.”

“While I agree that makes sense, we still need to find the terrorists, and this latest development has all the hallmarks of guerrilla attacks, wasting our time chasing after ghosts,” he paused for the longest moment. “OK, here’s the deal. We’ll pull back the troops to a safe distance, double up the perimeter, double up the patrols, and send in more airplanes and drones to track those traitors. We’ll use the precision of our superior technology to catch these bastards.” He smiled for the first time in ages and finally felt like he was back in control. “Then we’ll send in an elite forces squad with the sole aim of eliminating Doctor Garcia and her accomplice.”

CHAPTER 31

12:00 MIDDAY

Captain Phillips of the aircraft carrier USS Thomas Jefferson decided to see the calamity with his own eyes. He skippered the navy launch rescue boat, on the search for the missing craft from the previous evening, along with crewmembers Gomez and Lieutenant Harvey. They wore the heavy orange hazmat suits for their protection.

Captain Phillips, a rugged war-horse stood at the helm and directed the craft into the entrance of the Intracoastal Waterway river following the route that his launch crew had taken the night before, chasing the renegades.

“You sure this is right, crewman?” the captain’s voice sounded metallic through his mouthpiece.

“Aye-aye, Captain. We were tracing them, they went up this inlet to the inter-coastal highway and then we lost contact.”

“What time was this?”

“2200 hours, captain. Then we lost them,”

The captain snorted his derision. “Gone AWOL, more like. You wait until we catch up with those no good bums.” He looked left and right as the naval craft chugged into the wide mouth of the river. He turned the craft and kept up his vigil, as did his two companions.

After a moment, Gomez pointed and shouted frantically. “Captain, look!” He pointed at the smoldering remains of the naval launch.

“Damn those no-good lazy bastards! I’ll have them court marshaled for destroying navy property.”

“I don’t think they went AWOL, Captain.”

“Why not?” he asked nastily.

“Because, that looks like one of them over there.” He pointed at a body floating between two moored speedboats. The captain maneuvered the craft near to the corpse. Gomez leaned out of the craft, which was extremely difficult as his hazmat suit restricted his movements. He grabbed the body under the shoulders, to get the best purchase, put his foot on the edge of the craft preparing to take the weight, then heaved.

The upper torso of the sailor shot out of the river covering them all in water, then straight up over the top of Gomez’s head where he let go of it in surprise, it sailed over them all and splashed back into the river.

“What in God’s name are you doing, crewman?” the captain asked.

“Didn’t you see it, Captain? It’s only his head and shoulders.” Gomez looked nauseous and went to retrieve the body. He splashed the water towards the boat to bring the corpse closer. The body turned in the water and bobbed towards the boat.

Even the battle-hardened captain recoiled at the sight of the head, which various marine life had nibbled, leaving two black cavernous holes, where the eyes should have been. “Get it in the craft, we’ll identify him and see that he gets a proper burial.” He looked heavenward and said a few words of prayer silently to himself.

Gomez and the lieutenant dragged the man’s upp+-er torso into their boat. Gomez had to fight with himself not to puke as he handled the corpse, severed below the rib cage. The ribs shone brightly in the morning sun, internal organs fell from the body into the craft as they hauled it in.

“He’s been gotten at by ‘gators,” the captain said casually. “I’ve seen these bite marks before. This is a timely reminder that the waterways of Florida are not safe.”

Gomez gulped and looked into the murky river trying to see this silent enemy. “I thought all the alligators were in the Everglades.”

“They are everywhere,” the captain replied. “It’s common for an odd ‘gator death this far down, a couple a year usually. But now, without all the noise of the boats and tourists maybe they’re getting braver and trying out new territories,”

The lieutenant pointed at a limb floating in the water near them, he reached out to get it, then suddenly pulled his arm back in as if he expected the snapping jaws of an alligator to spring from the water. He waited until the craft was upon it, then quickly snatched the leg and hauled it aboard.

Gomez gagged once more, and could tell that it too had a clean bite mark in it. “Would an alligator attack the crew?” he asked to cover his nausea.

“No way. The renegades somehow overpowered them and left them as ‘gator food.”

“Does this leg belong to that torso, or is the leg all we’re going find of this sailor,” Gomez asked.

“That leg does not belong to that body, sailor. I’d say this leg is Chinese, certainly oriental.”

“Chen,” Gomez said flatly.

“Captain?” the lieutenant called his attention with hope rising in his voice. “I think there is another one over there on the lawn behind the cruiser. I think its breathing — I think he’s still alive!”

The captain steered the naval craft to where the lieutenant had indicated, and they disembarked slowly, so as not to dip their feet into any part of the river after seeing the damage the mighty jaws of an alligator could inflict. Gomez flipped the person over. “It’s Matthers, Captain — he’s still breathing.”

The lieutenant bent closer. “Can you hear me Matthers? You’re safe now, wake up.” He did not respond. “He’s trying to say something.” He leaned in closer to Matther’s mouth, but could not understand him. “I can’t hear him coz of this damned helmet.”

He went to take it off when the captain grabbed him roughly by the wrist. “Do not remove your helmet.”

“I can’t hear him, Captain.”

“That’s an order, sailor.”

The captain bent near to Matthers whose eyes started to flutter. “Help me…” he croaked. “I need water…”

The captain hooked his arm under his head and raised him up. “I need you to look at these photos, it’s imperative to our mission that we capture the terrorists. Was this person involved?” Captain Phillips held up a headshot of Sophie. “Was she the terrorist that did this?”

Matthers eyes focused on the photograph, but then he looked as if he would pass out again. The captain shook him, “Matthers! Look at the photo, that’s an order. If she was involved nod your head.”

Matthers stared at the photo for the longest time, and then almost imperceptibly nodded.

“I knew it,” said the captain. “Now we have some solid proof. I’ve got to speak to the ship so they can let high command know.” He hopped back onto the craft and picked up the radio.

Matthers tugged on Gomez’s sleeve, but he still could not hear through the plastic visor of his helmet. “What? What you saying? Can’t you speak louder?” Gomez begged.

Matthers beckoned to Gomez, who looked around shiftily then quickly whipped off his helmet, leaned down to Matthers who said; “Tell your sister… that I love her…”

Gomez swiftly donned his helmet. “You can tell her yourself, buddy, because you are going to make it.” He smiled at his friend and fiddled with the catches of his helmet.

The captain turned sharply and almost caught him. “Did you take your helmet off?” he asked in disbelief.

“No, Captain, not me. Getting hot is all,” he lied weakly.

“Come on we’ve got to go,” the captain ordered.

“Aren’t we taking Matthers, Captain?”

“Don’t question orders, boy.”

Gomez was not about to give up on his friend. “What about, Matthers?”

“He’s a plague victim, you’ll deal with him the same as anyone else suffering with the Black Death,”

“He’s one of our own, sir.”

“You know what to do, Gomez.”

“W — What do you mean, Captain?” Gomez asked, with a quaver in his voice.

“He’s been exposed. He’s a darkie. Dispatch him.”

“I can’t, Captain, he’s marrying my sister. I’m going to be the best man, please, Captain, there must be something else we can do?” Gomez said.

The captain nodded to the lieutenant who had no qualms, as quick as a flash and much to Gomez’s utter horror, shot Matthers between the eyes.

CHAPTER 32

13:00 PM

Several miles upriver Sophie and Luke watched in amazement as the tall mast of an eighty-foot yacht drifted slowly toward them along the Intracoastal Waterway. They crouched in some bushes, near to the water. “How the hell did that get on the river?” Sophie asked.

“Beats me.” He shrugged as the tall mast snapped the overhanging tree branches. “Maybe it drifted in from the ocean.”

“But it’s under engine power,” she said, “I can hear it.”

“Perhaps it has some sort of GPS and is trying to re-correct its course.”

“So you think it will continue all the way down the river to the tributary we came in on?”

“That’s my guess,” he said.

She smiled, “Y’know that would make one hell of decoy. They would think we’re miles south, while we head north.”

“Cool. What weapon do you have?” he asked her.

“One flare left. That’ll have to do,” she waited for the yacht to draw level, then lit the flare and tossed it onboard. “Fingers crossed,” she smiled.

“You never know, what with all this dry weather, it could catch alight.”

13:30 PM

Gomez sat at the back of the naval motor launch staring at the corpses of Matthers and Weston along with the leg of Chen. He sat in silence, not daring to speak after watching his friend and fellow sailor murdered in cold blood. He formulated the letter he would send right to the top, to Vice-Admiral Reed. He would report this to the highest level. There is no way he would let the murder of his best friend go unchallenged. He would complain vehemently that the killing was unlawful, that Matthers had still been alive and who could say if he was going to recover or not. They had not tested him to determine whether Matthers had the disease, they just shot him dead anyhow and then tossed his lifeless carcass onto the boat like an old garbage sack. Matthers’ dead eyes stared at him accusingly and he had to look away.

The captain spoke on the radio; “Affirmative, we’ve identified the remains of Matthers, Chen and Weston. They have been informally identified and will be buried at sea in accordance with our mandate, thank you, Vice-Admiral.”

The captain turned to Gomez. “Over the side with them, we can’t have them contaminating the ship, now can we?”

Gomez’s face registered absolute horror. “B— but, Captain,” he stuttered unable to believe his ears.

“Why does everything have to be an argument with you Gomez? You do not question the chain of command, when I give an order you damn well follow it — no questions, is that understood?”

“Aye-aye, Captain,” Gomez said flatly.

“We are going to need to have a serious chat about your future on my ship, affirmative action or not.”

The racist remark hit Gomez like a slap in the face, but he snapped to it, like a good sailor. However, this was not over; he would make sure of that. With the help of the lieutenant, he heaved the carcasses of Matthers, Weston and the leg of Chen to a watery grave. Gomez crossed himself and sat back down, his head had started to throb, but unable to rub his head, or ease the pain thanks to the goddamned helmet and hazmat suit.

The Captain turned to him. “If I found out that you removed your helmet out there you will be put on a charge for disobeying a direct order.”

14:00 PM

“I think this should be enough to be going on with,” Luke said to Sophie as they taped a gas pump-handle open and laid it on the ground where it emptied gasoline all over the forecourt along with the other pumps he had doctored.

He hopped onto the motorcycle, Sophie clambered onto the back, and he kicked it over, revved the engine then screeched away leaving a trail of rubber in their haste to put some distance between them and the gas station.

Sophie held around Luke’s middle with one arm, twisted to face backwards, held up Luke’s pistol and fired at the gas station. The first slug hit the forecourt harmlessly, she sighed and aimed more carefully, no mean feat, as the BMW motorcycle rapidly accelerated up to 80 mph and she lined up the second shot and missed again. She flicked hair out of her eyes, held her arm straighter, squeezed the trigger gently, and fired.

This time the spark ignited the spilled fluid, which speedily whooshed up to the pumps, and in turn ignited the underground storage tanks. The garage erupted with a massive detonation that shook the earth. The roof flew up into the sky followed by black, billowing smoke, pluming into a mini mushroom cloud.

14:30 PM

The naval launch arrived back at the aircraft carrier, it bounced several times against the side of the massive ship and it took the Captain several attempts to attach the craft to the lifting apparatus. Eventually he managed the task and with a lurching motion, the craft slowly lifted from the sea, which seemed reluctant to release the small launch from its grasp. The boat swayed as it hoisted skyward, Gomez’s head pounded and he felt nauseous.

The lifting gear hoisted the launch to the top and they had to swing inward to the ship. Various deckhands helped the shipmates to disembark. The captain lumbered out of the craft first, severely inhibited by the hazmat suit. The sailors on deck grabbed him by the shoulders to heave him onboard. The lieutenant went next, followed by Gomez, whose legs gave way the moment he was onboard. As they tried to help him up he sneezed violently, covering the inside of his helmet with mucus making the sailors recoil.

The Bubonic Plague would now contaminate the six thousand men crammed into the confined space of the aircraft carrier USS Thomas Jefferson….

CHAPTER 33

14:35 PM

Luke whooped as he heard the explosion. He felt euphoric, as if they were finally achieving something, taking control of their actions rather than reacting to the hazards thrown at them. They were causing distractions that could only assist in their escape, while the local military patrols attended the fires there would be less around to catch them. He held up his hand for Sophie to high five.

He was still congratulating himself when an armored jeep sped out from a side turning, heading toward the fire, but on spotting him, spun a huge arc to give chase. Luke opened the throttle further, knowing that the BMW 1200 GS would have a top speed of 125 mph.

The jeep was hot on their tail, the passenger stood with a rifle, took aim and fired, but the bullet passed harmlessly. Sophie saw this, leaned in close to Luke’s ear, and shouted what had happened. He took evasive action, swerved side-to-side, sometimes long wide arcs, and other times short, to give the sharpshooter no time to find a pattern. “Oh shit,” he mumbled.

“What’s up? Sophie asked. He nodded forward, and she saw the abandoned makeshift road block, made up of burned-out vehicles, some of which were still smoking. Luke slowed the motorcycle, knew he only had seconds to find a way through and saw a slight gap. He grinned, opened the throttle and they shot through the gap like a cork out of a bottle. The jeep tried for the same spot and crashed headfirst into the heap. The soldiers were shaken by the impact, but no one had been seriously injured. The driver backed the armored jeep up and drove straight at the gap once more, already widened at his first attempt, smashing into the vehicles with the sound of grinding metal, the gap widened further. A Mustang fell from its perch on top of the roadblock and helped enlarge the opening. He reversed once more, crunched into the stack of twisted vehicles and pushed on forwards, the engine screamed under the pressure, but eventually the driver succeeded and they pushed through the roadblock and continued their pursuit of the suspects.

The motorcycle was a dot on the horizon, as they chased after them quickly closing the distance between them. As Luke hurtled towards the coast, Sophie tapped his shoulder. “Faster! They’ve made it through!”

She watched in abject horror as the jeep gained on then, she looked over Luke’s shoulder willing him on. The boulevard was dead straight, and they would soon cross the bridge over the river then they were only blocks away from the beach and somewhere to hide amongst the hotels and gift shops.

When suddenly to Sophie’s surprise, the jeep appeared to slow.

“What you doing?” the gunner asked. “Why are you stopping? They’re far too far away for a shot.”

The driver switched off his engine put his feet up and lit a cigarette. “They ain’t going anywhere,” the driver said grinning broadly. “Gimme the radio.”

14:45 PM

Fort Lauderdale is famous for its canals; more canals than Venice as they liked to proudly boast and along with the Intracoastal Waterway and other rivers; Florida was a sailors’ paradise. Due to Florida being so flat, conventional bridges were out of the question. They needed a way for boats to pass under the low bridges, and Fort Lauderdale along with most major towns in south Florida had an abundance of bascule bridges, commonly known as drawbridges, where the two sides would rise into the air to allow boats a safe passage along the river.

These bridges were a major annoyance amongst the inhabitants, as mistiming a trip and having to wait for the giant jaws to open and the tedious wait as the boat passed along underneath at a snail’s pass, could easily add twenty to thirty minutes to a journey.

They broke down constantly as the local government cut the maintenance budget with the subsequent mechanical failures. Each bridge had a control room that would lower the flashing warning-barrier as the up to forty feet high leaves would open. Since the start of the Bubonic Plague outbreak, military personnel operated the cantilever bridge control rooms. They would raise the metal jaws to allow naval vessels to pass along the Intracoastal Waterway River and then lower them back down for the military vehicles to cross the bridge. However, for the last two days there had been little to do for the men stationed in such control rooms.

It was one such control booth that the jeep driver had radioed with instructions to raise the bridge. The operator acknowledged the order, glad to have something to do and initiated the opening of the drawbridge.

14:46 PM

“Oh shit.” Luke said when he saw the warning-barrier lowering, with flashing red lights and accompanying dinging of a bell, he knew it could mean only one thing, the bridge was about to rise, effectively trapping them.

He slowed for a moment considering their various options and realized that they didn’t have any. He couldn't give up, if he did, they'd be executed.

Sophie saw the barrier lowering and had lived in Florida long enough to know of its significance, that the bridge was about to open, when she was almost thrown off the back of the motorcycle as Luke opened the throttle. “Oh no…” she gasped and crossed herself.

“Oh yes.” he said as they hurtled underneath the warning-barrier. Sophie had to duck to stop the barrier decapitating her. “Don’t worry,” said Luke. “I’ve done this before.”

He opened the throttle suspecting he’d need all of the one hundred and twenty-five horse power the engine had to offer to keep them on trajectory and give him the momentum to clear the gap.

The military jeep stopped. “That is one crazy sonofabitch!” said the driver as he watched the valiant escape attempt as the motorcycle appeared to climb the almost vertical metal jaw.

“Twenty bucks says he doesn’t make it,” said a youngster from the back. They sniggered and placed bets.

“Who does he think he is — Evel Knievel?”

“Who’s Evel Knievel?” asked the youngster.

As Luke and Sophie neared the top of the jaws they were nearing the seventy degrees mark and were in danger of stalling and tumbling back down when they took off and flew into thin air. Sophie screamed, but Luke screamed louder as he looked at the river eighty feet below them, then glanced forward and saw the corresponding jaw was twenty foot away and ten foot down, “Oh shit…” he said for a second time.

Then, with a bone shattered thump, he landed the BMW 1200 onto the second half of the bridge, but as he made his descent, the leaf opened further to its maximum of nearly ninety degrees pointing almost straight up into the air. Luke had to stand on the foot brake to engage it fully, to stop them falling forward, he leaned back laying on Sophie to keep his balance and by the time they made it to the bottom the jaw was almost perpendicular.

“Cool! Let’s do it again!”

Sophie looked over her shoulder gazing in wonder at the giant bridge unable to believe what they had achieved, then, “Did you say you’ve done that before…?”

16:00 PM

Submariner Pete Williams aboard nuclear powered submarine the USS Amarillo had scoured the entire ship and concluded that he was the last man alive. It had been the case for at least two days, and now the smell of death was over-powering. He locked each airtight door in an effort to reduce the gagging stench but the recycled air seemed tinged with the rotting smell.

He had hauled some of the bodies together trying to keep them in one place, but it was too much effort. He was hot and distressed; knowing that he was the only person alive aboard the vessel put an enormous strain upon him. The responsibility was enormous. He was only supposed to deal with computers. He had no idea how to maintain the nuclear reactor, which might explode without regular check-ups. Was it at this very moment, contaminating him with radiation? How could he find out? He did not even know how to contact the mainland; he had no training in radio operations. He had failed miserably the day before when he tried to raise the alarm and gotten no response. He knew that they were on a secret mission, so therefore, presumably there was to be no communications between base and the submarine so maybe that had been why they did not respond, or was he using the equipment wrongly.

He suddenly thought that the captain would have to be able to communicate with his superiors and made his way to the captain’s cabin. Yet each step he took weighed him down. He was covered in sweat and the air conditioning seemed to be malfunctioning, probably only needed re-setting but he did not know how to do that either. He stepped over the blackened corpse of a crewmember and could not fathom how they had gotten such a fast-acting disease onboard. There were medical checks after all, but somehow it’d happened. Was it a terrorist attack? His superiors needed to know; maybe the captain would have a computer giving him regular up-dates. After all, the high command would have to contact him if he was ever to launch the forty-eight nuclear warheads they carried. That would be the answer; he would get into the captain’s cabin, read the latest bulletins, and act accordingly. What if the protection of the USA was relying upon his submarine and that he was letting the country down? If he read that they had to retaliate, he would do so without compunction, if only he knew how.

There must be sequenced keys and codes. He knew the captain kept the codes in the safe, that would be standard procedure, but what else would he need? He climbed the metal steps to the upper deck, his footsteps echoing along the metal corridor. The heat sapped his strength and his will, but with dogged determination he made it to the captain’s quarters and was pleasantly surprised to find them unlocked.

The captain had died in a swivel chair by his desk. Dried blood had congealed on his face where he had bled from his eyes, ears and nostrils. There appeared to be dark black stains under the captain’s armpits and Pete Williams could detect the unmistakable smell that indicated the captain had lost controls of his bowels.

He wheeled the captain away from the desk, gazed at the computer screen and saw that the captain was halfway through composing a letter. He quickly scanned the letter and saw the captain was of the opinion that they were under some terrorist attack and had recommended swift retaliation, but he had not completed the letter and had not transmitted it.

He felt elated to think he finally had a lifeline to the outside world; he knew the navy would not let him down, or more importantly, not wanting to have a nuclear armed sub, unmanned and drifting helplessly on an unknown course. He felt euphoric that there was still a link and that they might come and save him, he was not going to die of suffocation on this stinking cigar-shaped coffin.

Williams added a paragraph below and typed ‘everyone dead from a virus, apart from me, submariner Peter Williams, please send help immediately. I have no way of steering, or surfacing, please, please help.’

He thought of the panic HQ would suffer upon receiving his message. There would be an uproar, how in the name of god had an entire crew been slaughtered, by an enemy force and not even one person knew it was happening. Now you know how I feel, he thought.

How had the captain allowed this virus to get on board? There were stringent medical checks on the submarine to prevent such a disaster happening.

He was suddenly startled by another thought; if this was an enemy attack then they already knew the USS Amarillo was on a secret mission, that it would not be in communication with a land base and would not be missed, and that they would use that time to plunder the sub and loot it of all its weapons. Oh god, he thought, there was no time to lose. He added another paragraph, ‘boarding by enemy imminent’

He smiled thinking that that would get a reaction and relaxed for the first time in days thinking that he might possibly survive this. They'd rescue him and he'd be the sole survivor and hailed a hero. Might even get a medal out of this, his heart swelled with pride as he thought of his parents face’s, his mom would be crying with pride, even his surly old man might raise a smile, although he doubted it. When he told him he had signed up to join the navy, his old man had promptly called him a faggot, claiming only sissy-boys joined the navy, real men joined the army like he had. After many similar conversations, Pete Williams had left home under the cover of darkness not wanting any more confrontations with his old man, he felt sorry for sneaking away from his mom, but they came as a pair and she would always defend the miserable sonofabitch.

He never returned to his childhood home. Whenever he was on shore leave, he would hang around the ports with his shipmates, in gay bars mainly, proving his old man correct over one thing at least. As the time passed, it became harder and harder to even think about going home, and as the months had turned into years he had resigned himself to the fact that he would never see his mom again. Maybe now, in his moment of glory, he could return to his small hometown being the all-American hero and treated like a king.

A clang from above and a metallic groan from the hull, snapped him out of his reverie. Could it be the enemy arriving already? He would have plenty of time for daydreaming on his way back to freedom, he pressed the transmit button, his mouth dropped open in despair as a box appeared on screen; enter pass-code….

CHAPTER 34

17:30 PM

Quinn Martell never failed to be awe struck by the grandeur of the White House, of its one hundred and thirty odd rooms, and over thirty bathrooms spread over six floors. He circled the building in the Sikorsky helicopter. In fact, the whole of Washington was an architect’s dream, for the planners had created a magnificent city, where the White House stood as the crowning glory amongst so many other remarkable buildings.

The chopper landed on the helipad and an armed guard swiftly escorted him into the west wing of the White House. They marched him briskly along corridors until they entered the private wing. Some of the staff recognized him and greeted him by name, others smiled and nodded, some of the closer aides to the President showed signs of relief. Did he image it or did one elderly secretary genuflect, when he passed her?

Was he their guardian angel, and if so, why? He did not have to wait long for his answer, because as he got closer to the Oval Office he could hear the President ranting and raving from all the way down the corridor and if he was not very much mistaken, he thought he heard furniture smash.

He entered the outer office and a look of joy spread across the secretary’s face. One of the armed guards protecting the Oval Office rolled his eyes, as if to say, ‘at last, someone sane’. Quinn Martell knocked and entered.

Hamilton Parker, turned and at first did not seem to recognize the surgeon general, then flashed his toothy grin as if he was still campaigning. “Quinn, good of you to come, can I fix you a drink?”

Quinn declined and quickly became aware that the other men present in the room, were drinking and in high spirits. He also couldn’t help noticing they all were young, and that he did not know any of their faces.

The President spotted this and explained. “These are some old college buddies I’ve brought in to help.” He held up his hand to stop his protest. “Don’t be alarmed these are some of the brightest advisors and strategists in their fields.”

“Where’s the Speaker of the House?” Quinn asked trying to keep his voice level and knowing that he was going to need a big-hitter to back him up if he diagnosed the President as unfit for office.

“Aw, he resigned, can you believe? He walked out just like that.” He clicked his fingers. “I should have him shot for treason.”

One of his friends chuckled at the thought, Hamilton grinned playing to the audience.

“But there has to be a chain of command,” Quinn said. “It must not be broken. You’re the President; there is no Vice President, who’d take your place if anything should happen to you? Next in line is the Speaker of the House.”

“We’ll, I fired his sorry ass.” He smirked to his pack of giggling cronies.

“You said he walked out?”

“It’s the same thing. I fired him — he walked out. End of story.”

“I don’t think you can fire him, it’s in the const—”

“I’m the goddamned President and I will do what I like!” he raged, his face turning purple. He regained his composure and smiled. “The Speaker of the House wasn’t with the program and had to go.” He stomped over to his desk, lit a big fat Cuban cigar and passed the box around to his buddies. The surgeon general scowled. “Oh, what, you’re going to tell me I can’t smoke in a public building?” He sniggered to his friends and got the laugh he hoped to receive. “Or you’re going to tell me they’re bad for my health?”

“Mister President the chain of command must remain intact. It’s imperative, particularly in the present circumstances.”

“Who’d come after the Speaker of the House?”

“I don’t know off the top of my head,” Quinn said.

“Nor do I, but please don’t worry your pretty little head,” he said. “I’m not planning on dying any time soon. I have a strategy for Florida. It won’t be a problem soon. So, all I need from you is some drugs, and lots of ‘em, to keep me alert.”

Quinn Martell’s face clouded over, he knew the country faced an equally difficult problem in the form of the lunatic stood in front of him.

17:55 PM

Luke and Sophie strolled through the Galleria Shopping Mall in Fort Lauderdale as if on an everyday shopping-trip. Unlike regular shoppers buying clothes and gadgets, their shopping list contained weapons and ammunition. Dead bodies littered the Mall and they covered their noses with scarves and tried to avert their eyes, but the bodies were plentiful and they grew immune to the carnage.

Luke pushed a squeaky shopping cart, which had a mind of its own and kept veering off. Luke and Sophie headed for the gun store and loaded assorted rifles, pistols and ammunition into the cart. He also took items that he had no idea why a normal citizen would think they were needed to protect themselves — anti-personal mines being one. The next port of call was the Safeway supermarket, where they grabbed underwear, toothbrushes and other personal items to make them feel at least half-human. Looters had stripped most of the shelves, but they were able to stock up on tinned and dried goods.

The supermarket was cold, bordering on freezing. Luke flapped his shirt relieved to be out of the baking heat and opened a refrigerated unit to make the most of it. He scooped a handful of ice and offered it to Sophie, who took it gratefully and wiped the cubes around her neck then between her breasts. Luke turned his head away, finding this surprisingly erotic.

Sophie heard a faint squeak and said; “Listen?”

“It’s the shopping cart,” he said.

“No, it’s in the distance. Can’t you hear it?”

He strained and detected a far off noise, the squeaking made his skin crawl although he did not know why, he felt danger. “Let’s get out of here,” but stopped dead in their tracks, as they saw rats feeding on the corpses of the dead.

Sophie’s mouth dropped open and she let out a small cry. “Let’s not go past them. Can we go another way?”

“Sure.” He turned and took off in the opposite direction, but the wheel of

his cart squeaked loudly and he saw the nearest rat to them lift its head, its nose twitched as if weighing them up for a food source. Surely, they would prefer eating the dead, Luke thought, or at least hoped. He surmised that it must be easier for them to eat the dead, after all they weren’t going to put up a fight. He hoped that the rats had not yet got a taste for live human flesh, because despite the fact that the creatures were small, they usually had a natural fear of humans, but their numbers were vast.

Luke and Sophie turned the corner to the nearest exit, then were rooted to the spot, as hundreds, if not thousands of rats filled the walkway. Again most gorged on the corpses of the dead, but some looked up at the squeaking shopping cart. Luke backed up slowly, knowing they should find a different exit. Sophie did likewise, her eyes glued to the multiple threats.

One rat raised its head and its blood-soaked snout twitched as it assessed them, it then let out a horrendous screech that encouraged the others to join in. The cacophony of screeches sounded to Luke like they had descended into hell, throwing himself sideways as a rat launched itself at him.

Luke turned and pointed at the fire exit. “Go!” He propelled Sophie towards the exit. He whipped out his pistol, shot at one or two rats blocking their path, and kicked out at a third.

He left the shopping cart, wrenched open the door and slammed it shut behind them, as the rats pitched themselves at it. The thumps helped spur Luke and Sophie in their flight.

Luke saw light up ahead along the narrow corridor, when the first rat appeared ahead of them, Sophie skidded to a halt, and Luke shouted, “Keep going!” He fired and luckily shot the rat, flipping it up in the air before it fell on its back wriggling in its death throes. Within seconds, another rat replaced it. Luke shot at it but missed, the bullet hit the wall nearby, making the rat crouch into a smaller target, as they were almost upon it the rat jumped into the air in front of Sophie. She screamed in alarm, Luke shot it mid-flight, spraying her face with its warm blood making her shriek even more.

He grabbed her by the hand and forcibly dragged her along. The rats had pushed open the fire door and a swarming black mass hurtled towards them. “My God,” she uttered, hardly able to take in the scene. She stumbled at the frightening sight.

Luke shouted; “Run!”

Luke and Sophie burst onto the loading-dock into the blistering heat, where a half-full furniture truck stood. The loading crew dead on the ground, their bodies had been eaten by the rats and others scavengers. Luke ran to the front of the truck, opened the driver's door, yanked out the driver's remains, helped Sophie in then hopped up himself. She leaned over and locked her door, making Luke crack a smile, “I don’t think they’re that clever.”

Just as he spoke a rat launched itself at the windshield and cracked it, making Sophie scream. “Hotwire it, quick,” she yelled almost hysterical.

“No need,” he said and turned the keys left in the ignition. He pulled away as another rat smashed into the windshield, fracturing the crack further. Luke turned a full circle to find the exit ramp. The swarm of rats leaped from the loading bay and the exit was full with hundreds of bristling furry bodies.

Luke took great satisfaction, crunching them under the tires of the truck and enjoyed their death squeals, as they crushed under the wheels, but Sophie found it too distressing, she leaned over, turned on the radio, then burst into laughter when she heard, “Ben” by Michael Jackson, Luke laughed too, getting the irony of the song.

As Luke got to the top of the ramp, he slipped the gear and the giant furniture truck shuddered to a halt, “What's up? What’s the matter?” Sophie asked urgently, she looked in her side-view mirror and saw the rats rushing towards them.

“I stalled,” he replied flatly. He re-started the engine, engaged first and eased off the clutch slowly, not used to the low gearing ratio that the lumbering weighty furniture truck needed. He lurched out onto East Sunrise Boulevard and sighed in relief as they left the rats behind.

That’s one more thing to avoid, thought Luke, one more problem to consider and contend with in their efforts to leave the exclusion zone, rats. He smiled and joined in with Sophie singing along to Ben. It seemed absurd after what they had been through but they needed to seize the moments of light relief where possible. He cranked up the radio and lowered his window to let some fresh air into the cab and they smiled at each other as they sang together.

CHAPTER 35

18:00 PM

Prisoner 850416 Jenkins Forest cried in agony, or at least tried to, his parched lips cracked open and a strange strangulated sound came from within.

Kincaid had died some hours ago, and his body released what little fluid remained to add to the stench in the tiny cell.

Before he died, Kincaid had taken great delight in explaining to Jenkins what he could expect from dying of dehydration. He’d told him that he could live for weeks without food, Mahatma Gandhi would regularly fast, going without food for three weeks. He’d told him of prisoners in Europe back in the 1980s who had gone on hunger-strike. The last poor wretch had lasted seventy one days! Over two months without food, but in all those cases the prisoners had accepted water.

Life expectancy without water depended on overall fitness, and temperature amongst other things. He’d given him an example of a young baby left in a car on a hot day that had died within hours, but no such quick fate awaited Jenkins though, as he was a full grown adult. A grown man could go three to five days without water. It would be constant agony but it was doable, however, Jenkins had severe diarrhea days earlier and that would have weakened his immunity and would mean less fluid reserves to rely on, it was also swelteringly hot; sweating would not help his cause, a person could perspire three pints of fluid a day. Kincaid had calculated that Jenkins could perhaps last two day before drinking out of the john.

That target had been and gone hours ago, he looked in the shit-filled toilet and recoiled, no way, he’d rather die, which he thought kinda ironic because that’s exactly what he was doing.

Jenkins found himself flipping between hysterical and delusional, suffering from all the symptoms Kincaid had listed in savage delight. It was something to do with lack of fluid to the brain. His heart palpitated and he moved back to the john and looked down at the surface of the water. A stool floated right on the top, from back before they both got the squirts, he could see blood and vomit mixed in with the excrement.

Was this really his only choice for survival? He'd prefer to die, but he had no means at his disposal to hasten that, his body shuddered as he had another muscle spasm. The cell stank to high heaven. What had he done to deserve this?

Then, of course, he remembered; the tortures, the broken bones, the burnt skin and the pleasure he’d derived from inflicting pain and watching people suffer by his hand. He enjoyed the torment he caused. He’d gained such pleasure from the misery he inflicted upon his victims. He actually blamed them, in his twisted mind for living wonderful lives, whilst his was so shitty.

Kincaid had been right, this was payback. He must’ve already died and this was hell. He could not think of anything worse than to spend eternity in the tiny squalid cell, accompanied by a rotting corpse. His nostrils filled with the stench of excrement, vomit and urine. His whole body ached with thirst and in his delusional, befuddled mind, knew what he had to do, he crouched down by the toilet, used two hands to scoop up the fluid that would slake his maddening thirst and drank down the excrement-filled toilet water greedily.

18:05 PM

In a Humvee parked along Bay View Drive, a side street not too far from the ocean, Sergeant Hank Gruber removed the helmet from his sweltering hazmat suit and lit a cigarette and dragged deeply. “Hot dam, that’s good,” he uttered. He’d been gasping for a cigarette for hours, and could not wait any longer. He knew they were the only patrol in the area and therefore no one could catch them. Since yesterday they had had nothing to patrol, no activity, everyone was quietly dying, or already dead. Their armed presence was pointless, but he followed orders and patrolled his designated segment of Fort Lauderdale.

He savored the smoke as it entered his lungs and he took a second grateful drag, taking it deep down, “Ahhhh…” he sighed in a satisfied voice.

“I don’t think you’re meant to take your helmet off, Serge,” said a private.

Sergeant Gruber glared at the enlisted man. “Don’t tell me what to do, Private. Besides it’s only for when you’re around the victims; there’s no virus here in midair,” he said waving an arm around him to make his point.

“I don’t think so, Serge. It’s an airborne virus. It could be anywhere.”

“Duly noted. I’m having a cigarette, if you want to sit there like a little girl that's up to you, or you can join me,” he said offering the cigarette packet.

The enlisted man removed his helmet gratefully; glad to be out of its stifling heat. The thermometers were registering over one hundred degrees in the shade for the umpteenth day running, a Florida record.

He wiped his brow, took the proffered cigarette, and lit it. “Thanks, Serge,” he blew a plume of blue smoke and sighed deeply, having a nicotine rush. The third man in the crew removed his helmet, he declined the cigarette glad to be out of the claustrophobic helmet. He breathed in fresh air heartily, when he became aware of music.

The three-man crew stared in utter disbelief as the furniture truck trundled past them with chests of drawers, wardrobes and other items of unsecured furniture spilling from the back of the truck. They were even more dumbfounded to see the driver and a girl singing their hearts out seemingly without a care in the world.

“Were they singing, ‘Ben’?” the sergeant asked in stunned bewilderment.

18:06 PM

Hamilton Parker stared at his reflection in his bathroom mirror in the White House bathroom. “Is that a hickey?” he said aloud to himself. He wriggled around trying to see the blemish; it seemed to be on the back of his neck. He pulled the skin of his neck trying to see the mark better. It was no good.

He strolled into his luxurious bedroom, fetched a hand-held mirror from the First Lady’s dresser, and went back to the bathroom. “Shit,” he said flatly. He had a hickey. He’d told Miss April to be careful, he told her repeatedly not to leave any visible marks. No marks period. He didn’t want the First Lady seeing love bites anywhere intimate — or anywhere else for that matter.

He went back into the bedroom, sat at his wife’s dresser, and found her powder. He was no stranger to make-up, having done countless interviews and TV broadcasts, it was the norm to be painted up like a clown, and as he was due on a live TV debate later, it was not to unusual for him to have make up on. He found his wife’s foundation brush and went about applying a liberal covering over the hickey. The things he had to do, he fumed. He cursed Miss April and would have to reprimand her. It wasn’t on. OK, so she was as dumb as a bag of wrenches, but even she must understand the gravity of the situation. Hickeys were a no-no. He could not remember receiving one, when he thought about it. He was normally pretty good at making sure that his casual partners never left any signs. But Miss April was different she could do things… his mind drifted as he thought, and realized that’s exactly what must have happened, his mind wandered as he was lost in ecstasy.

He dabbed his neck with the brush, turned his head and saw another blemish, under his chin. He arranged the mirrors to focus on the unusual place to received a hickey, goddamn her. For Christ’s sake, he cursed and attacked the second blemish with the powered brush.

CHAPTER 36

18:07 PM

The United States Navy is the largest fighting force in the world with over four hundred thousand men, nearly four thousand aircraft and over three hundred surface and under water vessels, seventy-five nuclear powered submarines and the world’s largest fleet of aircraft carriers. Right now the USS Thomas Jefferson was part of the Atlantic fleet guarding the east coast of Florida and was fighting an unseen enemy of devastating proportions.

The aircraft carrier was like a small floating city, with up to six thousand personnel living aboard. They had access to all the mod cons of a land-based city, cinemas, bowling alleys, doctors and dentists, even a McDonald’s.

It was in the doctor’s surgery, that seaman Gomez found himself, in sickbay fighting for his life. He had blood trickling from his ears, nose and most distressingly his eyes. Yet no amount of medication eased his pain. He thrashed his head from side to side in agony.

The hazmat-suited doctor took a sharp breath aware of what Gomez was suffering from and was apprehensive of what it meant for the rest of the ships contingent, crammed together in their tight quarters breathing in the same air.

The captain had already issued out the hazmat suits to himself and other high-ranking officers, but they did not have enough to go around, none for the lower ranks, and this caused much consternation, as the men became aware this virus meant certain death.

There were rumblings in the ranks and it was a somber and menacing atmosphere aboard. The men with symptoms were reluctant to come forward as it meant isolation and inevitable death. A large number of men were missing at the last head count, and it was assumed that they had jumped overboard, either in a vain attempt to swim to shore and distance themselves from the noxious pestilence, others no doubt, preferring to drown, than to face the slow, agonizing death brought on through contracting the Black Death. The doctor sighed knowing attempting to escape was futile, as the sailors were already infected. A virus as virulent as this had already passed from man-to-man, as they lived in such cramped quarters.

The doctor was morbidly fascinated to watch the effects of the plague taking hold of Gomez. He’d been sent details of what to expect if they came across a victim, which he’d had a cursory glance at, but to be an eye-witness to this ancient disease up close and personnel was truly fascinating, just as a grimly detached individual might glance at a auto wreak.

He noted the bleeding from the orifices, they had had to put Gomez in an adult diaper early, as thick, black blood oozed from his rectum, and he was now into the secondary stages of bleeding from his facial orifices. He had the telltale swelling of the lymph glands, his body covered with the dark rings of pus-filled buboes, and his skin had darkened even further. By all accounts, Gomez had succumbed in less than three hours. Captain Phillips had accompanied Gomez on the USB to find their fallen comrades, but he had worn his helmet at all times, as had the lieutenant. Neither man saw him remove his helmet, but it was plainly obvious that he had done, the evidence lay dying in front of him. The doctor sighed feeling helpless in his inability to help Gomez or even ease his suffering. He would go and speak with the Captain, as they had to isolate the infected men ASAP. Even while he thought this, he recognized the fact that it was probably too late for this ship’s complement of six thousand.

18:08 PM

On the bridge high up in the conning tower, an impromptu meeting convened with the high-ranking officers, who looked truly bizarre in their hazmat suits. Feelings ran high, as two opposing factions were battling it out for the best way forward. Captain Phillips was all in favor of dumping the plague-carriers overboard at the first sign of the infection, while his second-in-command, Commander Roscoe opposed this, declaring that the humane decision would be to try to save every soul onboard. The doctor sided with the commander in his wish to save the men, aware of how outrageous it was to have such a conversation about disposing of potentially thousands of American naval personnel in such a brutal fashion and in such a casual, cavalier manner. The notion would have been not only abhorrent, but also unthinkable just a few days ago.

“What does Washington say?” asked the doctor finally joined the affray.

“I haven’t alerted Washington yet,” Captain Phillips answered. This caused more muttering around the room. “This is my ship, my problem, I’ve told you what I think, and ultimately my decision is final.”

“I thought the instructions were quite clear, Captain,” ventured Commander Roscoe, “We were to notify Washington the first moment we detected the virus on board.”

“What do you think Washington would do, hmm?” he said quickly with venom injected into his voice. “We’ve all seen first-hand what we do with the general public suffering from the plague, kill them all without question. Damnit, even we’ve been ordered to kill every living thing in southern Florida. Do you think I’m going to tell them that we’re a floating time bomb waiting to explode? No sir, not me, they would blow us out of the water. We would not have a moment to defend ourselves; they would instruct all the other vessels on the Atlantic seaboard to annihilate us. Is that what you want?”

“Of course not, Captain. But I think your prediction is far-fetched.”

“Oh, do you? Well, I’m reading each and every bulletin as they come in and I’m telling you that the future of Florida is bleak to say the least. They are butchering all the humans they can find, why do you think we would suddenly be singled out for preferential treatment?”

The Commander could not think of an answer but looked uneasy.

“Exactly,” the captain sneered in contempt. “So, we’re going to do this my way and then tell Washington after we’ve contained the disease. Now, we’re going to search this ship from top to bottom with small groups of armed men. We’ll need to be armed, as this is not going to be popular with the men. They already resent us for having the protection of the hazmat suits, while they’re left exposed to the deadly contagion. But once they’ve had chance to absorb the facts I think they would prefer to have a ship clear of the plague carriers, doesn’t that make sense?” he asked rhetorically. “We shall sweep through the craft, and our speed and guile will see us victorious before there is any subverting resistance to our plan—”

“Our?” the doctor asked indignantly.

“OK — my plan.”

“It’ll be a logistics nightmare, captain,” Commander Roscoe said. “How are we going to dispatch the victims without other crew members getting wise to the plan?”

“No one said it would be easy, Commander. We’ll isolate the men with tasks and exercises to keep them busy and to stop the spread of rumors.”

“Now,” he continued. “It’s up to the individual to come forward and tell us honestly if they think they have contracted the Black Death. They should come forward if they have any of the following ailments, aches, pains, headaches and other flu-like symptoms. How honest they are going to be knowing that in all probability they have caught the plague and are going to be incarcerated until their painful death, is anybody’s guess. They’ve no doubt heard about Gomez so they know the disease is on board and that they may be contaminated as we speak.”

“Is there anything we can do to contain the spread?” asked the Commander reasonably. “Containment must be the sensible way forward.”

The captain fumed. “Do you think that I would not have done my research? Do you think that I’m that much of an idiot? Let me tell you, an infected carrier can sneeze the tiny droplets twenty feet easily, can you imagine how quickly that would spread around this ship? It’s my thinking that it already has. Worst scenario is that all the men not wearing these suits will be dead or dying within the next twenty-four hours, Am I right, doctor?”

As much as he loathed the captain and his vile plan, he could not fault his thinking and nodded his assent. “Thank you. So, as you can see, we will be lucky to have enough crew to man this vessel back into a non infected port, and—”

“You cannot take this ship into port that would be disastrous!” exploded the Commander. “We must stay away from populated areas. It would be utter madness!”

“You will not speak to me in such a manner or I’ll have you charged for insubordination!” The captain’s face flared red and angry. “I’m the Captain and you will follow my orders. You’re dismissed, Commander, confine yourself to quarters.”

“But—”

“I said dismissed!”

The commander turned and shuffled from the bridge. He was devastated, not for himself and the public humiliation that he had endured, but for the safety of the men on the ship and the public at large. If they were to dock in a safe port and if just one man had a microscopic amount of the contagion upon him then there would be another outbreak. No, the captain’s plan appeared absurd, he thought. He clambered down the metal stairway with difficulty as his bright orange hazmat suit filled the gap. He sweltered inside the suit, but understood that it was his only protection from the infectious crewmen. He passed some seamen who glowered at him and half-saluted him. He felt their hatred and ill-disguised contempt.

18:11 PM

On the bridge, the captain’s mood hadn’t changed. “Does anyone else want to countermand my orders?” He looked around his fellow officers, weaklings to a man, he thought. He despised every one of them. None were career sailors, all having gone to university, paid for by the navy, living the life of luxury. The taxpayers financing their higher education, while they learned a trade that would set them up for life back on Civilian Street, doing the minimum time allowable then off to rake in the dough.

He shook his head in disgust. Was he the only one who could see what the useless layabouts had planned? The flyboys were even worse. They cruised through college, got to tear around the skies in the high-powered jets, and had the pick of the females at any port they visited — the pilots being the elite prize for the girls ever since that stupid film, ‘Top Gun’. No, the lazy pilots would do the barest minimum to keep up their flying hours, while performing the least amount of service to their country in return for their top class education, and then stroll into a plumb job with any major airline, who were always desperate for the navy-trained flyers for their lucrative pilot jobs. It made him sick, he looked around the room and could not see one officer who had ever seen any action and in all probability had signed-on, not expecting to. They too wanting the free board and lodgings, three square meals a day, that the navy offered, then they too would walk into high paying jobs back in civilian life, as corporations loved having high-ranking navy boys on their staff.

He abhorred the men who’d faint at the first sign of any real trouble, who preferred to be behind the scenes on the aircraft carrier, instead of being in the thick of the battle like he had. The atrocities he had witnessed first-hand, the awful inhumanity man could inflict upon fellow man had left him doubting even God. If any of them had seen the cruelty he’d witnessed, it made his proposal look like a walk in the park.

He saw that all eyes were upon him, awaiting his next order. “Doctor, some help here, if a man is not going to willingly volunteer that he has the plague, what visible signs should we be looking out for?”

“Well, obviously the sub epidermal hemorrhaging—”

“In English, doctor,” cut in the captain.

“The darkening of the skin. It starts in the extremities, so you may be able to detect darkening of the finger-tips, possibly the end of the nose, and the tips of the ears.”

“Good, good, anything else?”

“Sneezing, of course.”

“Yes, yes, anyone that is seen sneezing will be detained and put in isolation, anything else?”

“Swelling of the glands particularly the neck and under the arms. Anyone seen scratching or agitated by these areas of their bodies ought to be suspected of incubating the plague.”

“Good, there’s a list to be getting on with, gentlemen, go to it, let’s clear this old tub of the virus and if that means destroying the host, so be it. I’m the one issuing this order, so any fallout will come down on my shoulders. But you’ve heard the doctor, we will not have enough men to sail this boat to safety within the day. So let's get rid of the chaff and get this tub back on course, back to a ship-shape fighting machine. And if you need any more motivation, your reward will be your own survival, dismissed.”

18:14 PM

Commander Roscoe entered his meager quarters wearily. He pondered on the captain’s orders; the indiscriminate killing of fellow crewmen was unthinkable. They should quarantine the men, sure, that would be prudent, and it would be nigh on impossible to man the ship with so few able-bodied seamen left to help, but they would manage, they could call upon Washington to bring in re-enforcements.

Of course, he’d heard the rumors of what the captain had done earlier that day when they went ashore to find the missing crew; apparently he’d ordered the murder of a crewman that was still alive — not the behavior of an officer and a gentleman, and not the sort of man he wanted to command him. He dwelt on his best course of action. He felt anguish in the pit of his stomach and realized there was only one thing he could do, and that his actions would put him in danger like never before. It was only his good conscience, and for the men and the safety of the country that he loved and had sworn to protect that he was even contemplating such a terrible plan. There was only one thing for it, he was going to have to relieve the captain of his duty. He was talking about mutiny…

CHAPTER 37

18:15 PM

Sergeant Gruber choked on his cigarette at the startling sight of the furniture truck and spluttered; “Get after them.”

The driver started he engine and gave chase. The Humvee lurched from the side street and was hot on the heels of the furniture truck, although the driver had to swerve around the objects of furniture ejected from the back.

A bullet cracked Luke’s side-view mirror. “Shit.” He saw the army vehicle trying to pull alongside him. He swerved taking evasive action and the enormous furniture truck sent the smaller vehicle spinning off the road.

He put his foot down, but knew deep down that they could never out run the faster Humvee, which zoomed up his inside. He lurched to the side, but this time the driver expected it and took the necessary action to avoid a collision and as Luke straightened the truck, the Humvee slipped through the gap and got ahead of them.

“They are not wearing helmets,” Sophie gasped. Worried for the danger the soldiers were in. Luke stared at her incredulously, fearing she had lost her mind, fretting for the well-being of the men who were about to kill them.

The Humvee got ahead of them and the machine-gunner slowly stood as if he had all the time in the world while he organized the roof-mounted machine gun and got ready to aim at them. Luke spotted a turning to their right going over a canal and yanked down hard on the steering wheel, but because of the furniture truck’s huge bulk, instead of taking the turn, it rose into the air as if it was about to topple over, “Argh!” Luke screamed out as the rear of the truck caught up with the front and the wheels on one side started to rise.

The soldiers laughed as they saw the furniture trucks predicament, “What an ass-hole,” the driver laughed. “What a boner.” He watched awestruck as the beast finally overturned and screeched along the street amid a blast of sparks.

Luke gasped, badly shaken as the truck ground to a halt. He quickly cleared his head, and he saw fuel pooled in front of the cab and spread over the street, knowing the smallest spark could ignite it. “Are you OK?” he asked Sophie.

She nodded. “I’m OK,” she said and saw the army vehicle turning a circle up ahead. She released her seatbelt, climbed up the interior of the truck, and pushed up the heavy door. She crawled out onto the side of the truck and balanced on the wheel before dropping down onto the bridge. She noticed the pool of fuel, and recognized the danger; she promptly made her way to the back of the overturned truck hoping that it would give her some protection from the inevitable bullets. Luke emerged from the cab, and crouched down, rushing along the side of the truck as the Humvee completed the circle and now faced them. He did not hang around and leaped down from the back of the truck making Sophie jump.

The machine-gunner saw the upturned truck laying in the intersection like some sort of dinosaur, smoke streaming from the engine compartment. He spotted Luke and Sophie hiding at the back of the truck. “This’ll be like shooting fish in a barrel.” The driver laughed and picked up speed, enjoying the first action they’d had in days, and headed toward them.

Luke gulped, they were sitting ducks as the armored vehicle rushed at them. He took the pistol from the front of his pants but knew it would be hopeless. Even the machine-gunner on top had armor shielding around him. He could try for a head shot, but he was too far away and a moving target, but he lined up and aimed anyway.

The machine-gunner saw Luke and chuckled. “What a boner.” He laughed and swung the heavy machine-gun around to face him. Steadied his balance and readied his aim.

Luke came out from behind the safety of the truck, held the pistol two-handed and took careful aim, knowing he only had one chance at this and aimed to take out the gunner, the most dangerous enemy at that moment and fired.

The bullet pinged off the armor plating protecting the gunner, who sniggered. “Not bad…” he mumbled to himself. “But not good enough…” He went to spray the area with a retaliatory shot when the Humvee hit the fuel and went into a spin.

“Whoa!” the driver yelled and wrestled with the steering, he clipped the side of the truck, which spun them in the other direction, shaking him badly. The driver spun the wheel in the opposite direction, trying to regain control of the vehicle when the Humvee clipped the curb, shot up the embankment of the canal totally out of control, went up on its side, teetered, then dropped upside-down into the canal with an almighty splash.

Luke could not believe his eyes as the Humvee sank into the murky depths of the canal. He rushed to the bridge and tentatively peered into the stagnant water, clogged with weeds, unable to see the vehicle, only the bubbles emitting from it.

“We have to help them,” Sophie said.

“You’re joking, right?! They were going to kill us.”

She looked at him pleading with her eyes and bit her lip. He sighed heavily, made his way down onto the towpath where one of the hazmat suited soldiers emerged from the depths gasping for air. He sucked in huge mouthfuls of fresh air, and then spluttered as he swallowed some dirty canal water at the same time.

The sergeant splashed wildly and swam noisily to the embankment. “Help me. My suit is filling up with water.” Luke watched hypnotized as the sergeant sank beneath the water level, then popped up again, “Help!”

“Luke!” chided Sophie and nodded crossly towards the sergeant.

Luke leaned out and outstretched his hand, “Come on, grab hold.”

The sergeant splashed noisily toward Luke’s outstretched arm, unable to swim properly as his hazmat suit filled quickly with filthy canal water. He panicked and sank fast. As he resurfaced, he once again stretched his hand out to Luke’s thankfully, and their fingers had almost touched when an alligator tugged him back down under the surface of the water.

Luke stepped back startled. He stared aghast as the water bubbled furiously where the sergeant had been.

He popped back up as the water around him turned bright red. “Help me! There’s something in here!” He scrambled towards Luke who held onto a nearby cypress tree and leaned out further to the soldier, when an alligator soared from the canal and took a huge chunk out of the sergeant’s torso. His eyes popped open, his jaw dropped and he coughed up blood.

Luke made contact and grabbed the soldier by his wrists and heaved him to the side of the river when he saw the triangular wake caused by the alligator’s snout slightly below the surface heading towards the sergeant once more at speed. He redoubled his attempt and with supreme effort, he got a proper hold of the sergeant, strained with the weight of the man and his water-filled suit and started to pull him from the canal. The alligator snatched him from Luke’s grip and within a second had dragged him back down under the water’s surface.

CHAPTER 38

18:55 PM

Commander Roscoe charged onto the bridge of the USS Thomas Jefferson accompanied by four armed men, and swiftly took control of the room. The officers relinquished their weapons and raised their hands, all apart from the captain who seethed with hatred.

“How dare you come bursting in here!” the captain raged. “What is the meaning of this? I will have you court marshaled and shot for such treachery, you mutinous dog.”

Save your breath Captain, I’m relieving you of your command. I’m taking over as you are no longer fit to captain this vessel,” Commander Roscoe said formally. He turned to the armed guards. “You two; take him to the brig, stay with him.” He turned to the remaining pair of guards. “Cover the room — any funny business. Shoot.”

The officers were marched from the bridge accompanied by an armed escort towards the brig. Roscoe turned to a subordinate. “Assemble the men,” he said. “I’ll be making a speech presently.”

__________

The sailors assembled on deck as if on parade, smartly dressed as they stood at ease, their pant-legs and neck scarves flapping in the breeze. Commander Roscoe approached the microphone and began his speech. Those men that could not attend due to their duties, listened over the tannoy system, some had the benefit of watching on CCTV monitors as the commander broadcasted to the enlisted men. “Attention, attention, this is Commander Roscoe; I have taken control of this vessel and I've placed the captain under arrest. I’m sure by now, that you’ve all heard the gossip that the Bubonic Plague has contaminated the ship. This, I’m afraid I can confirm is true…”

Around the ship the crewmembers reacted in shock to the news, as the commander continued. “I’m sure that you are also aware that there is no antidote…” He let this sink in for a few moments. “I’m going to tell you a story from history that may best illustrate my reasons for the actions I have taken and the tough decisions that I have made on your behalf.”

The crewmen quit their regular chores to listen to the commander. “I’m sure that since the recent Black Death outbreak erupted in Miami that you have been brushing up on the Bubonic Plague, and how it decimated Europe in the 1600s. This time period has a special meaning to me, as will become apparent, if you’ll indulge me for a moment I’ll give you some background…”

“Back in 1665 the plague raged through Europe, indiscriminately killing all in its wake, multi-millions died as the Bubonic Plague marched through mainland Europe finally arriving on the British Isles in early 1665. It carried from village to village by travelers and tradesmen. It took the population, simple peasants and yeoman, a while to understand what had happened to them; putting it down to God’s work and that there was nothing they could do to stop its march, when one brave village, Eyam, in Derbyshire in England made a stand. When the plague arrived there in a flea-infested bundle of cloth from London delivered to the tailor, George Roscoe — yes, my ancestor.”

“Within the week he was dead, and the villagers looked to their Puritan leader, a Thomas Stanley for guidance. He decided bravely, to quarantine the village from the outside world in an attempt to halt the plague’s progress. It was tantamount to mass suicide, yet if it were to work, their selfless act would have saved the rest of the country. The plague raged through the village in the following weeks killing most, but sparing the odd one or two, there was no rhyme or reason to it. Elisabeth Hancock for example had been in close contact with the bacterium, but never succumbed even though she buried six of her children and her husband within an eight day period, and Marshal Howe, the village grave digger also survived despite handling all of the infected bodies.

They invented a system for goods to be delivered from the outside world. Leaving payment of coins, which they dipped in vinegar in the hope of cleansing them, on a boundary stone and the outsider would leave supplies in its place.

One full year after the Black Death had subsided throughout the country, the first outsiders bravely entered the village to find only one survivor for the village that had once counted over eight hundred inhabitants, but their selfless act had subdued the plague in that part of the country and undoubtedly saved countless lives.

That was the survival ratio back then and this new strain of the Bubonic Plague has an even higher mortality rate…” He heard a hubbub reverberate around the ship to this news. “What I’m proposing is that we become that village, we sacrifice ourselves to save the many, we will sit it out, and, when it's over then, the survivors, if any, can make their way to safety.”

As the Commander spoke, one of the sailors fell into a faint, the men nearest to him backed away in fear. “Don’t break rank, you sniveling worms!” The warrant officer yelled at them, he addressed the sailor flat out on the deck. “You; stand up or you will be put on a charge!”

The Commander chose to ignore the collapsed man and became aware of coughing and the odd sneeze amongst the ranks of men, he continued, “I know that this is asking a lot, but in all honesty, as there is no cure for the Black Death, most of us will succumb to this virulent disease.” He paused and felt no shame or guilt that he wore a life-saving hazmat suit. “I’m working on a scheme with the good doctor to mix up a concoction, a suicide pill, that one can take rather than suffer the ravages of the plague. To the religious amongst you this end is not a viable option, but there will be pain-killers to ease the suffering.”

“In time it will be recognized that this great sacrifice that we make today is one of honor and dignity in the face of certain death… and that we can be positive of being revered in the future.” He gazed around the bridge and saw that his words were hitting home, that his fellow officers thrust their chests out with pride, and guessed that the same was happening all over the ship. He knew that his whole life had been leading to this moment, cometh the man, cometh the hour, he thought. He felt his own pride rise to bursting point, as he would go down in history as a hero. He had tears of humility forming at the corners of his eyes while he continued his message. “Medals will be awarded posthumously, and bestowed to our loved ones with all the pomp and ceremony that such acts of bravery deserve, so they can take comfort that our end would not have been in vain. This ship could well become a catchword for all that is noble and worthy because there could not be a more valiant reason than to give one’s life for ones country. We will even be admired for our courage in making this stand, and who knows, it might catch on, but we will be the first and be certain that in centuries from now your names will be spoken of in awe…”

19:00 PM

Luke stared aghast unable to speak, he watched in despair, as another soldier’s body, already dead from drowning bobbed to the surface only to go through the indignity of having chunks bitten out of him by the ‘gator.

“Luke,” Sophie said trying to get his attention. “We have to go.” But he stared at the millpond surface of the canal in silence, still half expecting one of the soldiers to materialize. “Don’t give up on me now. We have to get out of here.”

He shook himself out of his gloomy reflection, and she smiled at him. “So how are we going to get to the President’s compound?”

“Let’s see… in the last forty-eight hours since meeting you, I’ve ridden a jet ski, driven a speedboat, a motorcycle, a furniture truck, I’ve flown an airplane in the sky, also drove another one along the ground, I’m trying to think of another mode of transport to get us north that I haven’t tried.”

She smiled and helped him to stand and they leaned on the handrail of the bridge looking down into the canal when they saw the alligator tear a chunk from the body of the sergeant. Without speaking, they crossed to the other side of the street, and looked along the canal in the other direction. The sun sparkled off the water and had a soothing, hypnotic effect on Luke and he found himself calming and restoring faith in his own abilities. The leafy mangrove trees overhung the canal making a telescopic effect like looking up a tunnel.

“I’ve got one,” said Sophie.

“Got one what?” Luke asked confused.

“Another mode of transport we haven’t tried.” She smiled and pointed down the river. He turned and saw a dray horse towing a brightly painted, dilapidated old barge. “I’m not travelling by horse if that’s what you’re thinking,” he said dismissively.

“Not on the horse, you idiot — on the barge, its perfect.”

“Come again?”

“You said yourself that the canals and the Intracoastal Waterway river network stretched all the way to Canada.”

“How does that help?” he asked still confused.

“We stay below deck, if anyone should do a cursory aerial view all they would see is a dumb old horse haplessly towing his dead master’s barge.”

“I’ve got a better idea, we’ll hide on the barge until we’ve cleared the exclusion zone then get help,” he smiled. “It’d be slow but we could sneak right out of the zone.” He made his way down from the bridge onto the canal bank.

“That’s what I just said,” she said defensively as she followed him.

“You said, ‘Canada,’” he reminded her, teasing.

“I didn’t mean go all the way to Canada. I merely mentioned the river went to Canada,” she said in her defense.

“You said, ‘Canada’.”

19:45 PM

“Have you ever heard so much crap in all your life?” Captain Phillips growled from the huddled confines of the brig he shared with the officers who had stayed loyal to him. They looked an odd sight still wearing their biohazards suits like spacemen in the cramped cell. He rocked his head in dismay. “Names spoken with awe?! Who’s swallowing this shit?”

The captain banged on the jail-bars attracting the attention of his armed guard, “Are you swallowing this baloney? He wants you to sacrifice your life; meanwhile he’s wearing a goddamned hazmat suit, so he’s not dying any time soon. He’s not making the ultimate sacrifice for his country.”

The guard ignored him, shifted his feet uncomfortably and thought there might be an element of truth in what the captain said. if Commander Roscoe wanted them all to die without attempting to make it to the mainland, then surely he too, should be making the same sacrifice and not wear his life-saving suit. He looked on the monitor screen at the commander and wondered for the first time if he had backed the right horse.

The captain knew people, that was his talent, not only could he lead men, but he could also read them and he was convinced that he had sowed the seeds of doubt in the young guards mind. “You owe it to yourself to at least try to live. Make it to the shore. Let us go and we’ll take you with us. Take a hazmat suit off one of them at gunpoint. And who knows the virus might not have made it down to this deck yet?”

“You’re wasting your time,” the guard said unconvincingly. “I’m not listening to you.” He stood upright and stared at a spot on the wall in front of him.

The captain grinned and made a ‘got him’, gesture to his friends miming catching a fish and reeling it in on a line.

“Don’t take too long thinking about it, sailor. The sooner you’re in one of these life-saving suits the better,” the captain said, watching the guard’s face screw up in doubt.

20:05 PM

The row upon row of corpses littering the main deck shocked Commander Roscoe. He sucked in his breath then led his men in their hazmat suits down the rows of bodies covered in white shrouds. He approached the doctor and returned his salute. “How many, Doctor?” he asked.

The doctor shook his head wearily. “Over three hundred and—”

“Already?” cut in the commander. “How many were A.S.?”

“Assisted suicides?” the doctor said giving it its proper titled, not watering it down to abbreviations. “Probably half.”

The commander nodded, and felt encouraged. He turned and gave instructions to one of his subordinates. “OK we need to organize work parties to dispose of the bodies over the side.”

“We have another problem, Commander,” the doctor said.

“Go on?”

“We have more volunteers for the assisted suicide pills than I have doses of the medicine.”

The commander gritted his teeth and swore under his breath. “OK, leave that with me.” He saluted and turned, the group of men followed, when they were back on the bridge the Commander said. “We’re going to have to scuttle the ship,” he told them with a bleak look on his face.

He watched them take in this information; they looked as if they’d been hit by a knockout punch, he saw the shock etched on their faces by this announcement. The cost implication alone of scuttling an aircraft carrier would be almost incalculable. The USS Thomas Jefferson was one of the most recent additions to the Atlantic fleet and no one knew the exact cost, somewhere between three and three and a half billion dollars.

The commander held up a placating hand. “I know what you are going to say, but I’ve thought this through and it’s the only way. We haven’t the time or expertise to decommission the missiles, we’re not going to even have a skeleton force to maintain the ship, or protect us from foreign powers and believe me they are gloating at our predicament right now and are jostling in line to take over this ship. I cannot, correction, will not, allow that. This ship must never fall into enemy hands. Therefore, there is no other option I can see. Gentlemen, we’re going to sink the ship.”

CHAPTER 39

20:15 PM

On the colorfully painted barge, Luke struggled while he man-handled the rotting corpses of the disease-ridden hippies — the previous occupants of the narrow-boat — up onto the deck and laid them in what he thought looked like death poses. Covered in sweat from the exertion and caked in pus and excrement from the two putrid carcasses, he thought about washing it off. He stood on the edge of the barge and went to jump into the canal for a quick dip and to wash the filth from his body, when Sophie shouted; “Stop!” her yell startled him and he almost toppled into the filthy water. “Have you forgotten what’s in there?”

Luke visibly paled when he remembered the alligator and more importantly the vicious snapping jaws. “Oh, maaan…”

Later below deck in the hippy decorated lounge-cum-den-cum-kitchenette area of the barge Luke tried to adjust his eyes to the psychedelic decorations and chose to look out the porthole instead, watching the horse towing them northwards to safety. “This is the life. Can you imagine it, cut off from the outside world, no electricity, no TV, no phones, no emails, twitters or what-have-you bombarding you fifty times a day? This is so peaceful, I could get used to this.”

Sophie smiled and prepared some food realizing that they had not eaten in some time. “They grow all their own vegetables and herbs. There’s a small garden at the stern.”

“Stern?”

“The rear of the barge, they also make their own wine, want to fetch some?”

“Sure, where is it?”

“It is in a storage hutch in the bow."

“Bow? Is that the pointy end,” he asked and scooted away.

She chuckled at his ignorance of all things nautical. He snuck back with a bottle of red, used a cork screw on it and poured two glasses, “Cheers!” he clinked his glass against hers, “Here’s to freedom.”

“Shouldn’t we let it breath first?” she warned, but too late for Luke who glugged it down in one mouthful, then choked, making her smile.

He gasped as if his vocal cords were burned, then poured himself another glass. “It’ll take some getting used to. I wonder what else they’ve got?”

“They’re hauling coal by the look of the hold, — that’s where the cargo—”

“I know what a hold is. Coal? Is there any call for it these days, Where is the hold?”

She directed him to it and he climbed down into the hold and kicked the coal around then saw the plastic wrapped bricks of marijuana, and smirked. He took one back to Sophie, “I think the coal was to mask the smell of this,” he said opening the package of dope. “Fancy trying it?” he asked already rolling a joint.

“First time for everything.”

“Oh yeah, me too,” he said not convincing her in the slightest.

She looked from the porthole as the canal embankment rolled past at a slow pace. “I love this, it is so tranquil.”

20:30 PM

“Are things that bad?” said the chief warrant officer.

“What do you think?” the Commander said. “Take a look out there. You tell me.”

The chief warrant officer stared from the window high up on the conning tower and saw row after row of white shroud covered bodies covering the main deck, ten columns wide and forty deep. He watched them systematically tossed over the side of the ship, and as distasteful as he thought it, he knew it was unavoidable. However, what he saw on the other side of the ship made his mouth drop open. He pointed with a shaky finger to the main deck, where a group of sailors sat on the outer guardrail. “What are they doing?” he asked, his voice quivering in fear.

“We’ve run out of the medicine needed for the assisted suicides. This is my solution.”

“You’re as mad as the captain,” he said in undiluted outrage.

“I assure you, each and every one of them volunteered for this.”

Out on main deck the first wave of volunteers, sat on the outer guardrail. Ensign Vandyke walked behind them, and said; “God bless you, son;” and shot each of them in the back of head. He felt no emotion as the front of the sailor’s head exploded in a cloud of blood, brain and bone and the sailor toppled forward into his watery grave. Ensign Vandyke had convinced himself that he was doing a great service to the ships contingent as a whole, ridding them of plague victims; and to the poor unfortunate victim, ending his life as swiftly and painlessly as possible. He had always thought that before the sailor could register the pain of the bullet, the brain would already be dead and not functioning. Vandyke blessed another sailor and dispatched him to the next world, a better world, or so he hoped.

The next sailor sniffed back tears, only eighteen and looking even younger, Vandyke placed his hand on the boys shoulder comforting him. “Be brave, sailor, it’ll soon be over. God bless you,” he said, put the pistol to the boys head and fired, a sudden change in the wind caused the pink-tinged plume of blood to splatter across Vandyke’s face. “Goddamnit!” he said in annoyance, and wiped blood and brain matter from his face onto his sleeve.

From high up in the conning tower the chief warrant officer said, “That’s barbaric — how can you condone the shooting of your own men?”

“The alternative is to have the ship over-run by dying plague victims. Those men would be dead by nightfall. They volunteered instead, for a quick painless death. It makes sense, do you follow?”

“No I don’t.”

“Well, as I said they are all volunteers.” The commander said, watching as the next wave of men took the recently vacated spots on the guardrail, and waited while Vandyke reloaded.

20:35 PM

Second Lieutenant Clinton slinked into his Blackhawk helicopter undetected. Trying to be as unobtrusive as possible he went through his pre-flight checks, then it was the now-or-never moment and he fired up the engine with a mighty thunder, which alerted the personnel around the chopper to his intentions. The surprised crewmen on the flight deck freaked out as the rotor blades started to revolve.

“Holy shit!” yelped a nearly decapitated member of the ground crew. He and the others ran from the dangerous whirling blades. The flight controller radioed the pilot, “Desist now,” he roared into the radio. The second lieutenant flipped him the bird, as the blades rotated faster.

“Stop him.” the elderly flight controller said to a young recruit.

“How?” asked Seaman Styles.

“Do it, sailor, that’s an order.”

Seaman Styles ducked down low and approached the helicopter unsure on how he would stop the huge metal craft. With trepidation and holding onto his cap for dear life, he carefully approached the chopper, thinking that decapitation might be better than dying of the plague, or the equally grisly prospect of a bullet to the back of the head followed by the indignity of slumping into the sea.

The flight control picked up the internal telephone linked to the bridge and the call answered immediately. “Commander, we have a problem.”

The commander gazed from the bridge window stupefied to see one of the two Blackhawk helicopters allocated to the ship preparing for take-off. Momentarily stunned into silence, he then turned to the chief warrant officer and said. “Shoot it down. Let it be a lesson to anyone else thinking of escaping.”

The chief warrant officer’s face blanched. He knew better than to disobey an order, but at the same time, he considered Dick Clinton, the Blackhawk pilot, to be a close, personal friend. He felt the Commander glowering at him, he picked up the internal phone to the gun-battery and gave the instructions to fire, then uttered a silent prayer. “May God forgive me.”

As Seaman Styles got close to the helicopter the down wash from the blades flapped his clothing and he lost his cap, which on a normal day could have him put on a charge, however, today, it was the least of his worries. The noise of the helicopter blades deafened him and the pressure from them pushed him downwards, he made it up close to the helicopter wheel and froze.

The elderly flight controller cursed the new recruit and yelled, “Stop the bastard, that’s an order!”

The Blackhawk chopper had reached its optimum power, second lieutenant Clinton allowed himself a brief smile, and he eased the unsteady beast up into the air.

Seaman Styles looked back at the elderly flight controller through the swirling dust created by the chopper’s blades and saw him gesturing frantically. The chopper hovered three feet off the deck, when the new recruit suddenly thought it was his way off the stinking disease-ridden vessel and leaped up into the air and wrapped himself around one of the chopper’s wheels.

The elderly flight controller had thought he had seen everything there was to see in life, but this was too much. A decorated war hero helio-pilot deserting the ship, and the sailor he sent to stop him.

He could see their point of view; stay on the aircraft carrier infested with the Bubonic Plague and certain death. A death from what he had seen with his own two eyes appeared excruciating, or — and he could not believe he even contemplated such a notion — or…to hell with this, he thought and as the chopper cleared six feet from the deck he ran, jumped and clung onto another wheel.

Second lieutenant Clinton felt the chopper judder, twice in quick succession. He put it down to the crosswind, and as he pulled up, he passed the upper deck where two sailors watched his escape bid with pure hatred in their eyes. He knew one of the men and could not meet his gaze, knowing that he was deserting them to meet certain doom, when to his surprise he saw one of them leap out at the helicopter, and felt the weight difference as the sailor had latched onto the chopper. Startled by this action, he spun the helicopter a full circle, and tilted from side-to-side to dislodge the weight, when the second crewman dived towards the chopper.

In the conning tower, the commander observed the cowardly scene unfold with barely concealed contempt and thinned his lips. How in the name of God had he had the misfortune to command such a pathetic bunch of traitors? He couldn't wait for the missile to blow them to kingdom come; it was the least they deserved. No one wanted a deserter aboard their ship and he counted four! Damn them to hell!

A fifth sailor from a high vantage point in the rigging made a desperate lunge towards the escaping Blackhawk, but missed and hurtled head-first two stories down onto the deck, splitting his skull and spilling his brains in the process. A nearby deck-hand puked at the sight as the body jerked and convulsed, before jack-knifing in its final breath.

Gunner Graham spun around the sea-sparrow missile and locked on to the departing helicopter. The chopper rose passing the commander in the conning tower as an ultimate insult and cleared the ship. The gunner’s finger itched on the trigger, desperate to dispatch the loathsome traitor sullying the name of the ship, but he waited for the Blackhawk to get some distance not wanting any of the wreckage to fall back onto the ship, potentially damaging the vessel. He locked-on and let the computers take over, no-way would the chopper escape and all he had to do was pull the trigger.

Sweat trickled down his back, as he waited… and waited… then fired….

CHAPTER 40

20:40 PM

Second lieutenant Clinton put the chopper into a deep dive and the missile missed. He expected that they would fire upon him; it was standard procedure. He deduced that he would have time to clear the ship before they fired and with perfect timing, he saw the plume of smoke from the eight-inch barrel, and aimed the chopper into a dive, banking tightly back towards the vessel, knowing that the gunner could not fire low or close to the ship. The pilot was surprised to discover that he had to fight with the flight-controls, and to his horror plummeted towards the ocean. His eyes popped open when he saw seaman Styles fall into the ocean in front of him.

“What the fuck?” He must’ve been clinging on underneath, suddenly the flight-control loosened and as he was about to crash into the waves, he pulled back on the cyclic stick and soared upwards, he was going to make it after all. He grinned in satisfaction, he planned to circle the ship skimming the waves, but instead of heading for the mainland, as they would expect he would head out to the Bahamas a little over fifty miles from the Florida coast.

Gunner Graham pressed buttons frantically, the computer aided controls could not lock-on to a target so close to the ship, he took manual control, but could not do any better, he realized with a sinking dread that he would be on a charge for failing to hit such an easy sitting target. His shoulders heaved and he sobbed in despair.

He did not intend to miss a second time. He got a grip of himself and decided he did not care where the wreckage fell. There was no way, no sir, he was going to let the coward escape, and as they chopper rose, dumping the stowaways into the ocean, it presented itself right in front of the barrel of his gun, a gift that not even a child could miss and his finger hovered over the button.

Out on deck the sailors fired impotently as the chopper flew below them, the bullets ricocheted harmlessly from the armored plating. Clinton fought for the controls, as the chopper did not behave as it should and he realized that there must be other stowaways underneath the craft. He took evasive action and climbed sharply. He felt rather than saw, as at least two more people dropped from the under carriage of the Blackhawk. He had regained control of the chopper at last, when to his utter horror he saw the starboard gunner fire.

The Blackhawk helicopter exploded midair in a raging fireball and dropped like a stone, as over five tons of burning metal fell onto the main deck where the impact caused a second explosion killing the ground crew instantly and shattering the glass in the nearby portholes.

“What’s going on?” the captain asked with annoyance in his voice from between the jail bars of the brig, “Who are we firing at?” he asked the guard.

“I do not know, sir,” the guard replied.

“I need to be on the bridge, you understand that, sailor, don’t you? The Commander does not have experience of battle — I do. C’mon, let me out of here. This is serious. Why aren’t the aircraft being scrambled if we’re under attack?” The captain shook on the metal bars in frustration.

Moments later a second missile launched and the ship shook again. “We’re under attack and I’m the only man that can save us. Let me out now, you know it’s the right thing to do.”

The young guard wrestled with his conscience for a long moment, realizing the magnitude of his action, then smiled and unlocked the cell, releasing the captain and the men that had remained loyal to him. The guard’s motives were not unselfish; he remembered the captain’s earlier promise of taking him with them when they left the ship.

“I’ll need your weapon, sailor,” the captain said and the guard handed over his sidearm without question. The captain and his men scrambled noisily up the metal ladder to the next deck, knowing there was no time to lose.

“What about me, sir?” asked the guard.

The captain stopped dead in his tracks, turned his head slowly, and glared evilly at his former jailor. “What about you?” he asked nastily.

“You promised to take me with you when you left the ship, sir,” he reminded the captain timidly.

“Leave the ship? Leave the ship!? What sort of captain would I be to leave my own ship? You’re talking mutiny,” the captain’s voice rose in pitch as he got angrier, going red in the face.

It slowly dawned on the young guard that he had made a terrible, terrible mistake. His hand slowly crept towards the alarm button. The captain noticed, pointed with his newly acquired sidearm, for the guard to move his hand away, but he was reluctant to move his hand from the only bargaining chip he had.

The captain glared at him and asked. “Do you know the penalty for mutiny?” He squeezed the trigger and shot the guard in the chest. “It’s death.”

The guard staggered in surprise more than pain, thumped back into the wall, his out-stretched arm whacked the alarm button, and he fell as if in slow motion to the floor.

On the bridge, nine stories up the conning tower the commander watched bleakly as the clean-up crew tried in vain to extinguish the flames of the burning helicopter wreck.

At least twenty crewmen battled the flames, as thick, black clouds of voluminous smoke obscured his vision, when the Claxton horn blared. “Now what?” he said aloud, the last thing he needed, more trouble. The crewmen were dropping like flies from the contagion, he had some of the last able-bodied men attending to the fire to stop it spreading to the conning tower while the remaining walking wounded were making preparations to scuttle the ship.

Below decks, a sailor in the armament depot heard a gunshot. He turned startled to the hazmat-suited captain, who raised a pistol and shot him dead. The captain swiftly dished out the weapons and ammunition to his supporters. Now armed and with vengeance in their blood, they briskly made their way up the decks shooting anyone impeding their progress.

The awful wailing of the Claxton horn and the billowing clouds of blinding, black smoke disturbed the commander greatly. An internal phone rang incessantly, eventually it was answered by an ensign. “Commander?” he said quietly.

“What is it now?” he asked wearily.

“The captain and his men have escaped, sir.” no sooner had the Commander received this news he saw the hazmat bedecked men shooting their way up onto the flight deck and over to the nearest lifeboat. The deckhands were unarmed yet they were shot in cold blood by the captain and his followers.

A half-assed retaliatory team of armed sailors appeared from below deck and fired at the retreating men, killing one outright and wounding another in his arm, puncturing his all import hazmat protection uniform and releasing the dangerous virus-filled outside air into his suit.

He crouched down and gave covering fire along with another and they held back the advancing sailors. The captain fixed the lifeboat ready for launching, greatly impeded by the hazmat suit and the limited vision the helmet gave him. The gun battle behind him made the decision for him and he stripped off the helmet and his gloves and then worked easily preparing the lifeboat.

His loyal troops kept their lackluster attackers at bay. In fact, one stood up, dropped his weapon and slowly advanced into the barrage of bullets, death by gunshot being preferable to the ravages of the plague.

Another of the enlisted men half-heartedly tried to stop the captain leaving, when he understood what his colleague had done and with a sinking dread realized that if he did not die from the Bubonic Plague he would drown when the ship scuttled. Hobson’s choice, he thought. Death by plague, or by drowning. Now he had a third choice, a fast, painless way, like his colleague, death swiftly by a bullet. Hmm, a no-brainer he thought and dropped his weapon, praying that the captain’s men were expert shooters and that his death would be rapid and relatively painless. Thankfully, a high velocity bullet answered his prayers and removed the top of his skull in a plume of red mist.

“Come on” the captain shouted to his men above the sound of the Claxton horn, the burning helicopter and the incessant gunfire. The men backed towards the lifeboat and as they clambered in their attackers dropped their weapons rushed forward and leaped into the lifeboat with them, much to the shock and horror of the now helmetless captain who was in grave danger from the very air that these men exhaled. The two enlisted men raised their hands in willing surrender and looked pleadingly at the captain, who pulled his pistol and shot them both dead without compunction.

He held his breath as his companions hefted the dead bodies over the side, then sighed with relief. He smiled and pressed the button on the hand-held controls and the lifeboat lowered awkwardly into the ocean and away from the madness above.

The captain’s loyal crewmen stripped off their cumbersome helmets and gloves and high-fived as one of them used an oar to push them away from the disease-ridden death ship and towards freedom.

A sailor leaped from the edge of the aircraft carrier and hit the ocean with a mighty splash. He landed awkwardly and his flesh stung, but he ignored the pain and splashed toward the departing lifeboat and freedom.

The oarsman heard the splash and saw a desperate sailor swimming in their direction. The sailor swallowed mouthfuls of seawater in his desperate bid to reach the safety of the lifeboat, but as he reached the gunwale of the lifeboat, an oar viciously cracked him over his head. The sailor barely had time to register what happened when the oarsman stood and swung the oar with all his might and once again caught the sailor on the top of his head.

The first blow stunned the sailor, the second split his skull wide open, and he slowly disappeared below the waves.

The oarsman grinned and held his hand up for a high-five when his was shot by a bullet from a sniper back on the aircraft carrier, he dropped to his knees, blood bubbled from his mouth, he choked and then pitched forward, where he twitched and jerked spasmodically on the floor of the lifeboat, leaving only three. The captain, nodded and his two companions heaved the dying man over the side, then he fired up the outboard motor and the lifeboat puttered to the shoreline. They settled back down and grinned at the captain, they were now out of range of gunfire and they were on their way to freedom, when the captain violently sneezed. He heard the cocking of weapons; he turned to find that the previously loyal pair of supporters had their guns pointed at him. “Now, hold on just one doggone minu—” They fired in unison riddling him with bullets.

CHAPTER 41

20:45 PM

“Ah, this is the life,” sighed Luke slowly releasing the sweet smoke from his lips as he passed the joint to Sophie, who sucked at it tentatively. They were both lying on the floor of the main cabin; hands behind their heads in what they agreed would be the most likely hippy pose when taking drugs. “It’s so peaceful.”

Sophie choked on the joint, but persevered, “It is stronger than I thought,” she remarked.

“It’s Acapulco gold,” Luke said. “Erm, I expect,” he hastily added.

She regarded him balefully; he wasn’t fooling her for a minute.

“I could get used to living like this,” Luke sighed.

“You might have to.” She said.

“Come again?”

“If this outbreak spreads throughout the United States, or god forbid the world, the infrastructure would collapse with no one left to run it, gasoline would eventually run out, they’d be no electricity or gas almost immediately, no communications,” she took the proffered joint and took another hit on it. “We would be back to living in the middle ages, growing our own food, making our own clothes bartering our surplus for other necessities.”

“I’d love that,” he said, then giggled, stoned.

“Money, shares, stocks and bonds would all be completely worthless. Can you possibly grasp such an idea?”

“Bring it on,” he smiled.

She leaned on her side and said. “When we jumped the drawbridge, you said you’d done it before?”

“Yeah, that’s right, but that was in a car, and I was drunk, so I don’t remember much about it.”

“Who was driving that time?”

“I was.”

“Why did you jump the bridge?” she asked bemused.

“Because I was drunk. I thought I’d just said that?”

She laughed and rolled onto her back, took another hit on the joint and passed it back to Luke.

“So,” he asked. “What do you think of dope?”

“Not bad, but do we have to lie on the floor?”

“Where do you suggest?”

“The bedroom?”

“I thought we were in the bedroom,” he said in genuine surprise. “Lead the way.” He stood and nearly fell back down again, and smirked, stoned. He helped Sophie to stand as she was in a bad way too. She giggled, he held his hand up for her to high-five, which she tried to do but missed and ended up slapping him in the face instead, making her roar with laughter.

20:46 PM

Pandemonium reigned below decks of the USS Thomas Jefferson. The Commander had ordered the below deck doors locked, effectively sealing the men in to a metallic tomb.

Tyler Buckman was not going to lie down and die like some of the others He stood at the door in a short corridor on the lower deck. He and the other men trapped with him were Bilge-Rats, the guys who worked in the engineering compartments. He had always known that working on the lower decks in wartime would be dangerous, that his life expectancy would be considerably less, then that of someone topside. If a torpedo hit the ship that breached the hull and they started to take on water then it was standard procedure to contain the breach and seal the affected area, trapping men below.

Although the commander had earlier stated that the ship would be scuttled he had imaged that he would be out on deck, in the fresh air, on parade nobly going down with the ship. Not like this, locked in the bowels of the ship like rats. Bilge rats. This was not the way. He could not believe it when his fellow sailors locked them in. People he knew well, had gone drinking with, had stood shoulder to shoulder with in bar room brawls. Guys he trusted to fight alongside with in battle, to the point of sacrificing himself, only to find them quietly and cowardly locking him down in the airless bowels, while they breathed the clean air above.

The boat started to list, this frightened the men behind him, and they surged forward crushing him up against the door. “Back off! Back off!” he gasped as the air squeezed from his lungs, he was about to pass out when the crowd fell back and he could breathe again. “We need to bust open the door,” he said. “Fetch me something to lever it open.”

“Aren’t the doors watertight, Buckman?” asked his pal.

“They’re also airtight. Do you fancy running out of air, do ya, huh?”

“Fuck no.”

A sailor handed him a metal rod, and he worked it into the seal of the door and grunted as he focused his efforts into the door-jam. He sweated buckets and made little or no progress, when a taped message sounded accompanied by a siren. “Abandon Ship! Abandon ship!” The noise sent the enlisted men wild in panic and they surged forward once more and shoved Buckman into the door.

20:47 PM

In the bedroom cabin aboard the barge Luke and Sophie lay spent after making love for the second time in twenty-four hours. This time though they did not rush at it. They took the time to enjoy themselves exploring each other’s battered bodies seeing what got a response and what didn’t.

The bed itself was made of crushed velvet and heart-shaped, the point of the heart formed by the sides of the hull, meeting at the bow. “I hate hippies,” Luke said regarding the ‘way-out’ bed and the ‘far-out, groovy man’ decorations that consisted of a cherub and heart motif.

Sophie had her head rested upon his chest, her eyes closed, and she smiled dreamily, when Luke’s statement penetrated her thoughts. She stirred and looked up at him. “Huh?” she said puzzled by his statement.

He noticed the recent six-inch scar on her shoulder and traced it lazily with his finger, an angry welt, red and painful looking. Luke found it surprising that she hadn’t mentioned it, or appeared to find it sore.

“How did that happen?” he asked casually.

“I was in an auto-wreck. Three weeks ago, back in my homeland. I was on a quick trip. I volunteer at a hospital down there when I can.”

“What happened?”

“It was a gloriously hot day, a nice warm heat, not like this humid energy-sapping furnace up here. There I was happily scooting along Main Street lost in my thoughts when I was side-swiped by a bus.”

“Who’s fault?”

“His, of course.”

“Do you have to go back for the court case?”

“There won’t be one.” She said.

“Why not?”

“He died in the crash along with five school children, turned out he was drunk.”

“Serves him right,” Luke said. “What happened to you?”

“I was in hospital, intensive care, I almost died,” she told him. “It was touch and go for a while. I had to have many blood transfusions—” she stopped mid-sentence. A thought had struck her but then vanished.

“What is it?” he asked.

“No it’s gone. I suddenly made a connection. I’m sure it was important, but it’s gone.

He cuddled her to him. “When did you get back?”

“I got back to the states Monday evening.”

“So you went straight into work?”

“I did not want to stay at home alone. I would have only dwelt on it.” She snuggled into his chest once more. “I wish I could remember what flashed into my mind.”

“We need to retrace our steps. What were we doing before hand?” He smirked lewdly. “Oh yeah, I remember…” He rolled her over and kissed her with passion.

20:48 PM

On the lower deck, Buckman frantically worked the metal rod into the crack of the door, having little effect, unsurprising as the doors function was to contain countless pounds of water pressure, but he persisted bravely making the smallest of indents. An idea struck him. “Get me a grenade,”

“That would kill us all!” said his shipmate, Joey.

“No, we’ll take it apart; pour the gun-power in the hole I’ve made. It might blow it open.”

“I’ll zip down to armaments,” Joey said. “I noticed that it’d been left unattended.”

Buckman continued with his endeavors watched by the restless crewmen.

Joey ran along the confined corridors, the temperature was rising, he thought with a panic, the air was definitely getting warmer.

He turned into the armaments room down near the brig and grabbed a couple of grenades, when he heard the whooshing of water. He stood stock-still and strained his ears, the sound was getting closer. The ship suddenly lurched to the starboard side as the scuttling continued and another hatch had been opened in the hull.

He looked down and saw water around his feet. “Oh Christ,” he muttered to himself. He glanced down the corridor and saw the water rising fast. He watched for a moment to judge its speed and calculated that it was rising two feet a minute. He had to get back to tell the others quick.

He glanced at the water filling the corridor and realized if the ship had not been listing front-to-back the water would already be up to his knees. “Fuck.” He spun on his heels and rushed back the way he came. He rounded the corner, took a fleeting glance backward and saw that the water level had risen considerably, almost up to the ceiling at the far end and would engulf him soon enough.

He debated whether to spend time closing the watertight door behind him, but the water was already around his ankles and if the boat should list the other way, water would engulf him. He chose not to waste time and sped along the next corridor.

CHAPTER 42

20:49 PM

Joey raced up to Buckman completely out of breath. He sagged against the bulkhead, drawing in the thinning oxygen. He pointed behind him, “The water—” he started.

“What about the water?” Buckman asked.

“It’s coming!”

The crewmen in the cramped corridor surged forward once more hindering Buckman’s labors. He took the grenade from Joey, and pushed the crowd back. “Gimme some room, for Christ’s sake.” He carefully took apart the grenade and fed the explosive powder into the small gap he’d created.

One of the crewmen spotted the water creeping along their corridor and screamed out. The panic spread, and the men surged forward en masse. Buckman pushed back against the heaving crowd. He lit a fuse fashioned from a paper straw. “Stand back!” he yelled and pushed everyone to the far end of the corridor, where the freezing water was already knee high.

Some of the crewmen were undecided, not knowing whether to face the blast or the certainty of drowning if they stayed in the sinking corridor.

The powder ignited with a ear-splitting roar in the short corridor the door blew open. The men surged forward with a cheer, and knocked Buckman down. He crawled on his hands and knees in the ice-cold water, and tried to stand, as men poured over him, but was flattened in the crush. He finally stood, felt groggy and realized that he was up to his waist in the freezing water. He waded up the corridor, as the ship tilted further backward and could see by the braying crowd beating on the next door, with dread in his heart that it was locked.

He splashed up to the group, where Joey pulled the pin of the second grenade and placed it in the handle of the locked airtight door. The men nearby had only a few seconds to register what Joey had done and no time to flee.

With a mighty bang the grenade killed the nearby men instantly, ripping limbs off half a dozen others, blinded several and concussed even more. Buckman was hit by smaller pieces of flesh and the odd piece of small shrapnel.

The grenade killed Joey instantly and Buckman sagged downhearted. He waded to the door through the waist high water. The grenade had had no effect whatsoever. He knew that the game was over.

The men shuffled close to the door, at the high end of the corridor, as the aircraft carrier sank fast. When the water reached Buckman’s neck, he took a few moments to think of his wife and kids, and a tear trickled down his cheek, as he knew he would never see them again.

The men to the side and behind him thrashed about as they ran out of life giving air. The water passed his mouth; he turned his head sideways to gain a last mouthful of air and then completely submerged. His cheeks puffed out, in the fading light and he could see the floating bodies of his crewmates, and one by one they sucked in the water, and drowned in what looked like agony.

His lungs burned and were fit to burst. He felt light headed as the air to his oxygen-starved brain diminished. He thought once more of his wife and kids then breathed in. The water stung his nose, he coughed and spluttered and as his lungs filled with fluid he eventually died.

In the conning tower of the USS Thomas Jefferson, Commander Roscoe watched grimly as the men rioted as the boat sank. The tannoy announced. “Abandon ship!” on a continual loop. Commander Roscoe had ordered that all doors be sealed, containing most of the men below decks. From his position on the bridge nine floors up the conning tower, he could still hear the screams of the dying men and the odd burst of machine gunfire. He remained resolute in his determination, along with his crew, to go down with his ship.

Lebec, one of the few men left on the bridge acted nervously. He wore a protective suit, and he was healthy, so no need for him to die. Lebec had valuable information to share with high command; maybe he should make a break for it. He shuffled slowly to the door and the ship suddenly lurched to the starboard side, listing as is slowly sank.

“Stay at your post!” said the commander, without turning. “Be a man, show some backbone.”

“Aye-aye, sir,” Lebec said dejectedly. The commander must have eyes in the back of his head, he thought. Well, damn him, I’m getting off this sinking ship if it’s the last thing I do. The doors from the lower decks burst open interrupting his morbid thoughts and men swarmed out, most had weapons and fired up at them on the bridge. The commander stood firm as one or two shots were on target and ‘pinged’ off the bulletproof glass.

Lebec looked down on the throng, who appeared to be fighting amongst themselves. He saw one sailor sitting on the back of another repeatedly stabbing him in the throat, the arterial spray covering the attacker, painting him red with the blood. Others were kicking a fallen crewmate, until his neck snapped and his head flopped from side-to-side. Another group was in the process of gang-raping one of the enlisted men.

Lebec wondered what the sailors had done to warrant the wrath of their shipmates, then it dawned on him, they would have been the Swabbies instructed to seal the hatches and lock the doors, dooming their shipmates to death by drowning. Serves them right, thought Lebec, until he concluded that the mob’s next target would be the men in the bright orange suits, tucked away safely nine floors above them in the conning tower. This realization made him sweat even more in the stifling hot suit. He choked, the claustrophobic garment made him feel suffocated.

The ship made another lurch further to the starboard. Lebec used the distraction and promptly stripped off the telltale suit that would mark him out as one of the elite, deemed more special that the enlisted mob below. Ones considered worthy of saving. Unlike them, the great unwashed, who were about to be swallowed up by the mighty Atlantic ocean. He understood their rage and was determined to get off the gigantic metal leviathan that would suck them down to the bottom of the seabed.

He remembered a girlfriend who thought the ending of Titanic had been SO romantic, uh-uh, not him, he thought it stupid. There was plenty of room of the makeshift raft for two. Failing that, push the bitch off; he could have found himself a much hotter babe than that snooty broad. Nope, there was nothing at all romantic about drowning. He shuddered at the thought, imagining the water filling his lungs as he held his breath to bursting point, with his lungs burning as they were depleted of oxygen, fighting his body’s own reflexes to breath, and then the final, fatal moment when he would suck in a lungful of water.

The Commander may have a noble, lofty notion of going down with his ship, and of containing the disease, to ‘sacrifice oneself for the protection of the many’. Fuck that, he thought, who did he think he was, Mister Spock? He’d look after number one; it was every man for himself as far as he was concerned. He would get off this crate one way or other. He’d stripped off the suit, when the commander snapped, “What the hell do you think you are doing?” He glared at him and looked him up and down as if he was something he’d found on the sole of his shoe, “Lebec? Lebec. There’s obviously French somewhere in your ancestry, no wonder you’re trying to run away — it’s in your cowardly country’s yellow nature. You sicken me, get out of my sight.” He turned to the African-American Petty Officer. “Arrest that man for dereliction of duty!” he instructed.

What’s the point? thought the Petty Officer, we’re all going to be dead shortly. He unclipped his sidearm thinking that the brig was below decks which meant leaving the conning tower and maybe, just maybe have an opportunity to escape.

He grabbed Lebec roughly by the arm. “Come with me you worthless piece of crap.” he waited for Lebec to acknowledge him then gave an over-exaggerated wink. “You’re coming with me.” He manhandled him from the bridge. Lebec played along acting as the cowardly snake, begging for his life.

They left the bridge and when they were out on the internal staircase, the African-American let go of his prisoner. “Let’s get out of here, pal, before the crack-pot changes his mind.”

“Thanks buddy,” Lebec said gratefully. “I owe you my life.” He scooted on ahead, as the African-American lumbered down the metal staircase hindered by his awkward hazmat suit.

Lebec was easily a floor below the petty officer, when he heard the noise of the mob clanging up the metal staircase. He stopped dead in his tracks, looked left and right, up and down, and gulped hard. There was nowhere to run, trapped between the mob and the commander back up in the bridge. His mouth dried and he was in a blind panic, and when the horde approached he shouted. “Up here, this way!” He turned and ran back the way he came now at the head of the mob, and bumped into the petty officer, when they rounded the bend, Lebec shouted. “Get the nigger! He’s one of them!”

The mob enflamed by the sight of the orange suit, were on the petty officer like a pack of wolves, tearing at the loathed suit, they ripped off his helmet and kicked and punched him.

A blood lust passed from one man to another and they kicked him mercilessly. A heavy steel toe-capped boot smashed into his mouth and broke some teeth. Blood poured from his nose, and a stubby thumb hooked into his eye socket and popped out an eye, and left it dangling on his cheek.

Lebec booted him on the side of the head, joining in with the blood lust. The petty officer’s head jolted around, his good eye locked onto his. Lebec felt the hatred slide down his back like an icy hand when the African-American’s head was lifted by the hair, and his throat cut, and then cast aside like an old rag doll, as the mob continued up the stairs led by Lebec. “Charge!” he yelled, and they howled their revenge.

20:50 PM

“It’s worse than we thought,” said Quinn Martell to Vice-Admiral Reed, via his smart phone. He paced the corridor along from the Oval Office. He watched as Reed’s face crumpled. “He’s dismissed the Speaker of the House and has surrounded himself with his college buddies and they’re fooling around as if they were holding a frat party, they’re not taking this seriously. Because it’s never happened before, they can’t grasp the fact that we are facing a Doomsday scenario — an extinction level event.

Vice-Admiral Reed sucked on his teeth. “We’ve got to act fast. You’re on the inside which is good, but you will need back up. If he got the slightest inkling of what we have in mind, well, he’s surrounded by guards sworn to give their lives for the President, they’re utterly devoted to him and would follow his orders to the letter.”

“Even Hamilton’s?” said Quinn.

“Most would respect the position of President, if not the man. Who has the military presence to sway the guards?”

“You, but you’re needed where you are, trying to keep the warmongers under control. There are too many willing to shoot first and ask questions later.”

“Agreed, but at the end of the day, it’s the Chief Executive that’ll give the order.” He sucked on his teeth again. “There’s only one thing for it. I’ll come join you, before it’s too late.”

“Thank you, Vice-Admiral. I think this will need someone of your caliber to pull this off.”

“We must play this carefully, the timing is crucial. Tell no one, we have to act stealthily for this to work. You know, if he gets wind of this what’ll happen?”

“I’ve thought of nothing else,” Quinn Martell thinned his lips and stiffened his resolve. “I’m prepared to do what is right, no matter what the consequences to myself.”

“The way he’s behaving at the moment, Hamilton will perceive our actions as traitorous and will put us on trial for treason, can you accept the fact you could go down in history as a traitor?”

“I’m prepared for that, let’s pray he doesn’t get wind of our intentions.”

Along the corridor, sat at his desk in the Oval Office President Hamilton had heard every word, watching on a CCTV camera, he grinned to himself and rubbed his hands together in delight.

21:00 PM

As the sun dropped below the horizon, the fantail succumbed to the waves as the bottom heavy aircraft carrier sank. The conning tower the only part of the vessel still visible, as huge bursts of bubbling water frothed and foamed all around as the behemoth sank into the murky depths.

Up at the top of the conning tower, outside the bridge, the commander and three other men, had their helmets stripped from them and were swiftly replaced with a hangman’s noose.

Lebec was doing his best to play a mess-deck lawyer as they held a kangaroo court. “…And are guilty of mass murder, namely the force-feeding of lethal drugs, the killing of your own men, and ordering the locking of doors, trapping the men below decks leaving them to drown and… loads of other horrible shit. How do you plead?”

“I will not dignify that with an answer,” the commander said stiffly.

“Good, because you’re as guilty as fuck.”

The ‘court’ cheered their approval and a chant rang up; “Hang the bastard! Hang the bastard! Hang the bastard!”

“Make him walk the plank, ah har!” suggesting one of the men in his best pirate voice.

“Keel-haul him!” shouted an ensign.

“I did it for the good of the ship, for the benefit of—” started the Commander.

“Hang him from the yard-arm!” yelled a swabbie from the back.

“What’s a yard-arm?” asked Lebec seriously.

“What I did,” said the commander. “Has been for the reputation of the navy and the safety of the United States of Ameri—”

“Aw, shut your yap,” Lebec said in a bored tone, and shoved the commander in the back, sending him to meet his maker.

“Argh!” screamed the commander as he plummeted over the railing, until the hemp rope snapped tight, but unfortunately did not break his neck, and he dangled from the rope, his legs kicked and twitched and his body spun one way then the next.

Lebec approached the next condemned man. “How do you plead?”

“Not guilty.”

“Wrong answer.” He pushed him from the platform.

“How do you plead?” he asked the penultimate person.

“Not… not guilty, I only followed orders.”

“OK, you’re free to go.”

“Really?” the lieutenant asked in disbelief, as relief surged through him.

“No, not really.” He sniggered and pushed the lieutenant from the platform.

“Argh!” he yelled until his rope snapped tight, but the ‘drop’ was too long and the jerk ripped the young lieutenant’s head clean off, his body fell into the ocean, followed by the decapitated head.

The conspirators’ whooped with joy at the grisly sight.

“Whoa!” cheered Lebec. “Did you see that? It ripped the sucker’s head clean off his shoulders.”

One of his comrades fainted and fell off the platform causing another roar of laughter.

Lebec pushed the last prisoner off without any preamble as the ocean grabbed the colossal ‘unsinkable’ aircraft carrier in its clutches and dragged it down into the murky depths amidst a sea of bubbling froth.

CHAPTER 43

22.00 PM

In the tiny bedroom of the barge, Sophie snuggled against Luke’s chest, she sighed and stretched, when she heard a thump from above that almost stopped her heart. She lay frozen, trying to think if they had left any clues around to suggest that anyone lived on the barge. She leaned over and extinguished the flame of a small candle, plunging the cabin into darkness, and held her breath when she heard the footsteps on the deck above her.

She shook Luke roughly. “Wake up,” she hissed. “There’s someone on board.”

Luke came around slowly, feeling groggy. He shook his head trying to clear his thoughts. “Say that again?”

“Shush,” she whispered, “Listen? Someone is up on deck.”

Luke galvanized himself into action, slid out from the comfort of the bed, slipped on his jeans, and placed the pistol down the rear of his pants.

“Be careful,” she urged as he sneaked up to the door. Luke entered the den and paused by the ladder up to the deck, listening at the hatch. He crept up the wide wooden ladder and peaked out from top.

The national guardsmen jumped back onto the embankment to join his companion. “Nope, nothing over there apart from a couple of old, stinking hippies.”

“Yeah, I hate hippies too, stinky soap-dodgers.”

“Naw, I meant they are real hippies and they’re real dead and stinking. You know, rotting corpses.”

“Well, something warm-blooded showed up on the drone’s scanner, what led us here.”

“Sure there is. That.” He nodded at the horse.

Sophie crept up behind Luke on the ladder and they sneaked out onto the deck where they could see and hear the two young national guardsmen.

“Well, now,” said the tall, skinny soldier, tickling the horse’s ear and talking to the horse in a warm soothing voice. “We can’t have him keep popping up on the scanner can we now…” Quick as a flash he put his pistol to the horse’s eye and fired.

The gunshot echoed around the canal, sending a few startled birds skyward.

“Nooo!” shouted Sophie putting her hands to her mouth, utterly unable to believe her eyes, as the horse for a moment appeared uninjured, then with an agonizing high-pitched shriek toppled over.

The tall national guardsmen turned to Sophie and leered. “Well now, looky here, this could be interesting.”

He moved towards the barge and as the teenage national guardsman jumped aboard, Luke shot at him from his hiding place, but missed.

The attack shocked the national guardsman and the gunshot deafened him. He pointed his rifle at Sophie while glaring at Luke with loathing. “Drop it now or I’ll blow her away. Do it, now!”

Luke moved to comply when Sophie said. “Don’t do it! You know they kill’ll us both.”

“I mean it,” said the national guardsman and he pulled the trigger slowly back.

“Alright, be cool, man, here,” Luke capitulated, and handed over the pistol. The rifleman motioned with his weapon for Luke to squat on the deck, and then smacked him around the head with the butt of his rifle rendering him unconscious.

Luke awoke slowly, and saw that the two national guardsmen had discarded their hazmat suits, which had impeded their assault upon Sophie.

The teenage guardsman threw her down on the deck and ripped open the front of her blouse. She screamed and tried to hold the two remnants of fabric together. The tall skinny guardsman jeered at her protests and egged him on. “Go on, rape the bitch!” he chuckled.

Sophie struggled with all her might, twisting from side to side to throw off her attacker who mauled her and chuckled. She swiftly brought her knee up into his crotch, making him wince and roll off her.

The older guardsman became aroused further by her struggling efforts to escape. “Now, darlin’, enough is enough, me and my buddy are having you, one way, or the other. Why not make it easy on yourself?”

“I’d rather die,” she hissed.

“OK, your choice.” He picked up his rifle, stood over her and placed the barrel against the bridge of her nose. Sophie stared hypnotically down the barrel of the rifle, and saw the trigger pulled back as if in slow motion, when the soldier was kung fu kicked off balance by Luke.

The soldier staggered backward and almost fell into the canal. He turned and chuckled when he saw Luke stare at him, challenging him. “Well now, looky here. I might’ve underestimated you.”

He grinned at his friend who released Sophie and they spread out, Luke had trouble keeping his balance as the trio moved around the deck, dodging the various objects scattered around, plus the two dead hippies, “Give it up, pal,” said the tall skinny national guardsman.

“I’m gonna kill the pair of you,” Luke told them menacingly, but it only made them guffaw.

The teenage guardsman charged at Luke, who sidestepped him and put his foot out, tripping the soldier and sending him sprawling with a wail into the canal. However, before Luke could enjoy his small victory, the tall skinny guardsman, leaped on him, and they wrestled to the deck. The national guardsman threw a punch that Luke blocked, then a roundhouse that Luke deflected, he managed to return with an uppercut, stunning the guardsman for a moment, Luke then elbowed him in the throat and tried a forearm smash. The guardsman blocked the badly executed swing, got his breath back and kicked Luke in the shin, making him bend, he then brought his knee up into Luke’s nose, crunching it with a sickening snap. Luke shook his head trying to clear his vision. He threw another punch, but the soldier blocked it, and he managed to get his foot behind Luke’s ankle and pushed him over, the national guardsman’s superior training in unarmed combat had overpowered him and as he straddled Luke he had his ka-bar knife in his hand in a flash.

He turned it over in his palm so that it glinted in the moonlight and Luke got the message. “Any last requests?” he said.

Luke gasped and tried to speak but all that emerged from his cracked lips was a hoarse whisper.

“What’s that?” the skinny national guardsman asked.

Luke beckoned him closer, and the guardsman put his ear to Luke’s mouth, “I said—” He snapped his head forward and viciously head-butted the national guardsman with a sickening thud. “- Watch out for the head-butt.” Luke rolled from underneath him.

The guardsman stood groggily with blood flowing from his busted nose. They circled each other once more. Luke led with a sidekick, which the guardsman dodged. He retaliated with a hip-kick and caught Luke in the ribs, and swiftly followed it with an ankle sweep that had Luke on his back. He then stomped down on Luke’s leg with all his might, and heard a satisfying snap as the shinbone snapped, “Argh!” Luke cried out, trying to kick out with his good leg, but falling back in agony.

The skinny national guardsman towered over Luke on the deck and sneered down at him. “You’re one gutsy bastard, I’ll give you that,” he raised his rifle, when suddenly his eyes flipped open and blood trickled from his lips. Luke could only stare in wonder as the guardsman abruptly dropped to his knees, then fell forwards, to reveal a kitchen knife stuck in his back.

Sophie’s relief quickly turned to disgust when she realized what she had done — she had taken a human life, but she had saved Luke’s life and that’s what mattered. She sobbed tears of joy, and threw herself into his strong, comforting arms.

After a moment Luke, yelped, and rubbed his wounded leg. Sophie glanced at it. “It’s broken,” she said flatly.

“Hey! Hey! What’s going on up there?” yelled the teenage national guardsman. “Is anyone going to get me out of this stinking water any time soon, huh?”

Luke crawled over to the edge of the barge to see the teenage guardsman splashing about, treading water. “Where’s Colt?”

“Was he the tall, skinny piece of piss?” Luke asked matter-of-factly, as if they were two people chatting on a park bench.

“Whoa, dude, I wouldn’t let him catch you saying that. Hey Colt, Colt, dude?” The teenage national guardsman lost some of his cool, and asked. “Where’s Colt?”

“He can’t come out to play right now, I’m afraid,” Luke told him.

“Oh yeah, why not?”

“He’s come over all dead.”

“You better not have done anything to him,” he threatened without conviction.

“I wouldn’t splash around so much if I were you,” Luke told him calmly.

“What like this?” he said and splashed furiously in the water. “What’re you going to do about it, huh?”

“Oh, I ain’t gonna do nothing—” Luke said nonchalantly, “- but he might,” he nodded to the triangular-shaped wake caused by the alligator’s snout.

The teenager splashed noisily, he turned and saw to his utter terror the alligator heading his way. He screamed and thrashed his way towards the embankment, but found the side too steep for him to get out. With sheer determination, he leaped up from the water. He grabbed a handful of leafy grass and dragged himself half out, when he let out a blood curdling howl, as the twelve foot long alligator caught him by the ankle, and eighty needle-like teeth pierced his flesh with three thousand pounds of jaw pressure clamped down on his bone, dragging him back into the murky water. He went to scream once more but only a gurgle escaped from his lips as the alligator bit a chunk from his stomach and blood spewed from his mouth like a tap.

He flapped his arms as the snapper pulled him below the water, he bobbed back up once more, and then disappeared from view.

CHAPTER 44

22:15 PM

Vice-Admiral Reed arrived at the White House security gates, and went through the usual rigmarole of being ushered into the building’s checkpoint, vigorously frisked by a marine, eventually satisfied he saluted him and he was in and although not a stranger to the powerhouse he marveled at his surroundings.

In the Oval Office Hamilton Parker shouted down the internal telephone, “Vice-Admiral Reed is here? Why? Who sent for him? I most certainly did not!”

The Surgeon General observed the President with caution as the man paced the Oval Office in a state of panicked rage. He had flipped between being a charming, smiling politician to a raving lunatic and back again in the blink of an eye all evening. He noted that the President was in a permanently agitated state, and that he had not shaved all day, adding to his overall unkempt appearance, “No, no,” continued the President. “Send him up.” He slammed down the telephone and then swept it from his desk as an afterthought.

The President turned on Quinn Martell. “I know what you are up to, you and the Vice-Admiral, I’m not stupid, you know. What you two are plotting between you is treason of the highest order. I’ll have you thrown in jail and executed for this, you see if I don’t.”

“I have no idea what you mean, Mister President.” Quinn said in alarm.

The President nodded at the ever-present armed guard in full dress uniform. “You see my personal guard over there, I can order him to shoot you, you know?”

The young guard’s eyes registered shock, flicked to the President for a split second then eyes front as usual, but he swallowed hard.

“Don’t you believe me?” asked the President sinisterly.

“I, erm, I, I’m not entirely—”

A sharp rap on the door broke the tension and Vice-Admiral Reed entered. He extended his arm to shake, but the President waved his hand away. “Ah, conspirator number two,” the President jeered, “Come on in, come join the party.”

Reed looked from one man to the other. “I’m sorry, I don’t follow?”

Hamilton Parker circled the desk. “You two.” He pointed from one man then to the other. “I know all about your plotting and your secrecy, I know everything. I’ve been listening in on Quinn’s telephone calls to you. They made highly interesting listening too, I might add. You were going to try and have me subpoenaed, claiming I’m unfit for office on medical grounds, saying I’m mentally unbalanced?” His voice rose to a screech. “I’m as sane as any man in this goddamned room. I’m under enormous pressure, you know. I’m facing an unprecedented end of the world catastrophe. Can you even start to imagine the pressure I’m under? Who knows how I’m meant to behave. We’re being attacked by an unknown enemy country. We don’t know who to retaliate against, but, boy when I find out.” He smacked his fist into the palm of his hand, “They won’t know what’s hit them. I’ll unleash a counter attack unlike anything the world has ever seen. These terrorists have picked on the US for the last time. I have my people working on this problem. The moment we find out who is behind the releasing of this plague we will bomb the bastards out of existence, show these goddamned rag-heads for the last time that we are not to be messed with, we’ve had enough of playing the nice guy, and we have turned the cheek for the last time. Mess with us at your peril, the US of A will not tolerate any transgressions, and that means we will demand the respect of the worlds’ leaders or they’ll damn well know about it. It’s about time that this great country had a leader to match the power that we are capable of and that man is me.” He leaned on his desk and added. “But first I’m going to start worming-out the lily-livered appeasers at home trying to undermine me — like you two.”

“Mister President,” the vice-admiral finally found his voice. “I’m not entirely sure what you think the surgeon general and I have done?”

“You two are plotting against me for starters. Trying to remove me from power is tantamount to attempting to overthrow the government. That is a treasonable offence for which I could have you executed.” He chuckled to himself and watched them squirm in discomfort.

“Nothing could be further from the truth,” said the vice-admiral. “Our intentions are only for the good of the country, and keeping stability throughout the world.”

“My, my, aren’t we noble,” he said sarcastically. “How altruistic. So, no plans for your own political ambitions?” said the President, but he could see the vice-admiral looked baffled. “Let me explain; who stands next in line to be President if I were removed, hmm?”

“Well… normally it’d be the Vice President, which we don’t have…” the President made a hand gesture for him to continue his line of thought. “Erm, then the Speaker of the House, who, erm, resigned, then… oh!” he said and concluded the succession.

“Ah, the penny’s dropped,” barked the President. “That’s right — the Secretary of Defense — you!” he snapped.

“I assure you nothing was further from my mind, Mister President, I only had the best interests of—”

“Can it, Reed. Save it for your trial. A couple of years in federal prison should give you time to think and repent your crime before you’re execution.”

“Mister President, I think you’re blowing this out of proportion.” chimed Quinn.

The President cut him off. “And you, Quinn, will be sitting right next to him, charged with war crimes.”

“War crimes?” spluttered Quinn. “That’s absurd!”

The President held up a hand, and pressed a button on the intercom on his desk. “Get me security.” He turned and grinned nastily at them and Quinn felt a chill run down his spine.

The President nodded to the armed guard. “Cover these two traitors,” the guard fumbled for his sidearm, unsure what to do, and with a trembling hand pointed it at the two men. “You are under arrest for treason, you sonsofbitches!”

22:30 PM

Sophie had reset Luke’s leg and made a splint from two table-legs. She had also fashioned him a crutch from a tree branch. He hobbled onto the embankment and rummaged through the national guardsman’s belongings trying to find anything of use. “What’s this? Some sort of communications devise?”

“It’s a military satellite phone.”

“Would it work for civilian telephone calls?” he asked.

She felt excited, for the first time in a long while, as they now had a link to the outside world. “We must be sparing with it, I think they’ll be able to trace the call,” she took it from him, and removed the batteries from the compartment. “Even when it is off, the batteries make a signal that can be triangulated and would pin-point our exact location.”

“Let’s call your buddy, the surgeon general.”

“I will soon, but we must get out of here, these guys will be missed, and someone will come looking. Are you up to moving?”

He hoisted the soldiers rifles over his shoulder, tested his weight on the crutch, it appeared to take his weight, and he grimaced. “Sure, let’s go,” he said unconvinced and almost fell back into the canal.

22:45 PM

In the war room, tensions were running high; the remaining chiefs of staff were fighting a losing battle down in southern Florida and knew it. The back-room staff were dealing with reams of information, which in turn made mountainous piles of papers, with each new piece of information analyzed and if necessary forwarded. They faced an avalanche of information overload and it buried them.

The chairman of the chiefs of Staff, Colonel Simpson, known as Homer, to the wittier of his friends, tried to keep order. “What’s the latest from the Jefferson?” he asked above the din.

“No response from the USS Thomas Jefferson, sir,” replied a major.

“Still?”

“No, sir.”

“No communications, again? We need to get them back online. That ship is our eyes and ears down there.”

“Colonel, you don’t think…” the major started to suggest.

“What, that the terrorists have overpowered a six thousand strong contingent of men aboard the most advanced aircraft carrier in the world? No, I don’t think so,” he smiled at the ludicrous suggestion.

“Could the Bubonic Plague have gotten on board, sir?”

“Not a chance, I know Captain Phillips personally, and his rigorous testing for any traces of the Black Death would have been second to none.”

“Begging your pardon, sir. But the Jefferson has one of the most sophisticated communication systems known to man. If one line of communication has failed then they would have countless other methods to get a message through to us,” he said.

The Colonel absorbed the information, “You’re right, Major. Send a jet to do a fly by, see if there’s a problem.”

“All the jets in the vicinity are on board the aircraft carrier, sir.”

“Find one, Major,” the colonel snapped unfairly. “There has to be a goddamned jet somewhere,” he said exasperated.

23:15 PM

The F-18 Tomcat scrambled from Fort Branson, based in Alabama, had lieutenant Carrington sat at the controls. He pushed forward on his stick, checked his height and heading, and puzzled over the peculiar instructions he’d received — to fly into the exclusion zone down in Florida.

He felt a slight pang of anxiety. Flying into the zone would be dangerous, especially now he had read the bulletin concerning the district. The main one being that any aircraft, friend or foe, within the zone would be shot down immediately. In fact, in all likelihood he would be blown out of the sky by the very aircraft carrier he had been sent to contact. He hoped that they had gotten the message to not target him.

It was a problem, because their communications were down. He gulped and swallowed down his fear. He felt sweat trickle down his spine. What a predicament, he was to establish contact with a vessel whose last instructions were to shoot him down. How unlucky could he get, he grumbled. The Thomas Jefferson had the capability to shoot him out of the sky from a distance of over two hundred miles away easily. He would already show on their long-distance radar, his course heading would ring alarm bells, and their weapons would automatically lock onto him. He shuddered at the thought. Killed by his own side. No heroic dying in combat for him. No aerial battle of wills, or dogfights like his heroes of WW1. No, he’d be blasted to smithereens by his countrymen.

He crossed over into the exclusion zone and held his breath. So far so good. He scanned the horizon, the blackness of the night adding to his feeling of dread. He checked his monitors; nothing had fired at him, and in fact nothing showed on his monitors at all. Not a thing. He was the only mechanical object in the sky. He glanced over and with an eerie sensation, he saw the lights of the towns, cities and the freeway networks of northern Florida, suddenly turn an inky black as he crossed into the exclusion zone. He could not begin to contemplate what life would be like down there for the survivors.

He brought his thoughts back to the present. Even though his monitors were clear, he still felt better using his own eyes, knowing that even electronic components could malfunction. Ninety-nine percent of his job entailed minding the computers that flew the craft for him, the one percent was for when there was a glitch with the equipment, or a snafu as he and his pals liked to call it.

He hoped that the aircraft carrier was not suffering a snafu now and was at least receiving incoming communications. He looked forward, wondering if he would be able to see the approaching missile. Would it be so fast that it would glow red in the dark sky, or would the brand new aircraft carrier have some new technology that jammed his systems, so he would not know of his impending doom.

He slowed the F-18 and descended to make his approach, surprised that he had no visual contact with the ship. On a cloudless night such as tonight, the aircraft carrier should be lit up like a beacon on the black vastness of the ocean. He pulled on his stick and descended further, and slowed his speed. He would be over the co-ordinates within a minute. However, he still could not see the aircraft carrier. He checked his monitor, still nothing else flying. He thought that at least one of the aircraft carriers seventy plus aircraft would have been flying a reconnaissance mission. Night-time operations were standard on an aircraft carrier, but he couldn’t see anything.

He flew lower still, checked his monitors and flew over where the ship should be. It made no sense? He thought. How could it disappear? He had seen nothing on approach, he could see seventy miles in all directions at least, and they could not be more that seventy miles off course.

He banked tightly feeling the g-force pushing him back in his seat, as he went for a visual from the other direction, not that it made any difference. Nope. Nothing.

He pressed his communication button, paused and gathered his thoughts, thinking how crazy he would sound. At best, they would think him incompetent and his flying career would be over. At worst… nope, he shook his head. No, he didn’t want to think what the worst-case scenario would be.

He released the transmit button, and said; “This is flight two-zero-seven, come in?”

Instantly he received a response, and a cool detached voice replied. “Flight two-zero –seven, please stand by, you are being patched through to the Pentagon.”

The Pentagon? His brain froze, what the hell? “Roger,” he replied aware that his voice had croaked.

“Flight two-zero-seven?” boomed a deep voice through his speaker, “this is Colonel Simpson, can you relay your findings please, over?”

The words stuck in his throat but finally he said. “I, erm, I can’t find the USS Thomas Jefferson, sir. It is not here. Over.” He trembled and wondered how incompetent they would think him.

“Stand by, two-zero-seven.”

The colonel looked around the vast mahogany conference table in stunned disbelief as the implication sunk in. Gathered in the war room were the best of the best. Each an expert in their field. Yet during the course of the evening none of them had noticed the lack of communication from their prized aircraft carrier, the jewel in the crown of the US navy fleet, and now in all likelihood it was floating aimlessly with a dead crew, or worse still, had been over-run by terrorists, or the unthinkable, it had somehow sunk.

Some of the military men were ashen faced and silent. He resigned himself to the undeniable truth. He spoke to the pilot once more, “Flight two-zero-seven. Do a fly-past using infrared. Over.”

“Roger,” lieutenant Carrington confirmed, switched the monitor on, and swooped low, he flew slowly over the co-ordinates. His jaw dropped. He stared at the screen stupefied and tried to register the enormity of what he saw. He glanced through the cockpit side window for a visual confirmation, and his heart sank.

He could see something glowing below the waves, the size of which could only be the gigantic aircraft carrier. It corresponded with the enormous object showing upon his screen. He took a deep breath, unable to believe what he was about to say. He flicked on the transmit button, “this is flight two-zero-seven, over.”

Almost immediately, he received a reply. “This is Colonel Simpson, two-zero-seven, what have you discovered, over?”

“It’s — it’s down there, Colonel. Over.”

“Be more precise, son.”

Lieutenant Carrington’s heart palpitated and he said; “The USS Thomas Jefferson, it’s sunk, sir, it’s lying on the bottom of the ocean.”

23:25 PM

On an unlit Miami back street, a patrol had got lucky and had stopped a Toys R Us truck, which had been crawling along without lights. It had been a fluke that a soldier was playing around with infrared goggles and had seen the heat register of the engine.

“This way, sir,” said a young soldier, and led the hazmat suited General Malloy towards the truck. “You’re going to love this. A truck-full of wet-backs.” He handed him a flashlight, as Malloy struggled up the tailboard into the truck.

The general sucked in his breath in surprise. He shone the flashlight beam around the truck, and saw the thirty or so dark-skinned illegal immigrants cowering in the dark, held captured and under the gunpoint of several soldiers.

The frightened Cubans’ stared at the orange-suited soldiers as if they were aliens from another planet. “Anyone speak English?” general Malloy asked in a metallic voice that spooked the quaking illegal immigrants further.

A young girl held up her hand apprehensively. “I speak it some,” she said.

“When did you get here?”

“One hour ago.”

“You do know that the Black Death is killing everyone here?”

“Si.”

“Then why—” He stopped the line of inquiry. He knew the answer. Now, of course, the perfect time to enter the country illegally, while the navy and coast guard were stretched to capacity. Even though they faced almost certain death from the Black Death, the illegal immigrants still kept on coming in like an unstoppable tidal wave.

“How did you get here?” he asked the girl.

“By boat.”

“Where did you disembark?

“No comprendo?”

“Where did you land?” he asked but her expression still looked blank. “Where did the boat stop?”

“Near Miami, I think,” she said. “We, erm, did this…” she made swimming gestures with her hands.

“Swam?

“Si, we swammed from the boat.”

“That’s impossible,” the general snapped.

“Excuse me?”

“It’s impossible, that you could sail in close to Miami, without being challenged.”

“I no understand?

“There would have been patrols. They would have spotted you on radar at the very least. There are scanners aboard a ship fitted with motion detectors, infra-red detectors, long-range radar, short-wave radar, this could not happen,” he said more to himself, knowing that she was not following any of it.

He clambered out of the truck, and spoke to his second in command, Major Harris. “I knew it was a mistake to let the goddamned navy run the show. We have one on the most expensive ships ever built moored off the coast of Miami, armed with the most sophisticated equipment ever assembled to detect any foreign enemy, flying, sailing the ocean, or even under it, down to the size of a square yard, and these clowns sailed in right under our noses. Tell me, how in the name of God did that happen?”

“That’s Swabbies for you, sir. I would not trust them an inch.”

“When did we last report in?”

“Don’t know, sir.”

The general turned and beckoned over the signalman, easy to spot due to the backpack he wore, complete with a telltale antenna protruding from the top of the radio communications pack. “You! When did you last have contact with the Thomas Jefferson?”

“I’ve not been able to get through, General.”

“And when were you going to tell me this piece of information?”

“It did not seem important, sir, it’s routine after all, and well, you know the radio is temperamental to say the least,” he stated, the poorly-made equipment in the field, a constant everyday complaint of a modern infantryman. It was a well known fact that tenders put out to the lowest bidder, even after all the back-hands that oiled commerce, had been taken into account meant that the equipment would be inferior and sub-standard, an issue that General Malloy had raised with congress on more than one occasion himself.

“Goddamnit,” he said flatly. “Try again, we gotta tell those navy sonsofbitches, that their multi-billion dollar warship failed to stop a boatload of wet-backs.” He shook his head in shame. “My God, can you imagine what would have happened if they had been the enemy? Not some spics chancing their luck. How many more have gotten in? What if enemy operatives have slipped through the net? Jesus H. Christ. The shit will hit the fan when the Pentagon hears of this. The Thomas Jefferson’s one role is to protect our borders. I’ll see to it that Captain Phillips is demoted and ends his days swabbing the decks,” General Malloy sighed. “You know this means we’re going to have to double the patrols.”

“We’re at capacity already, General.”

“We need to find the men from somewhere, Major. We thought we had swept through the district and eliminated the plague-carriers, and now there’s a new influx of soon-to-be carriers, it’s a never-ending tide of human filth trying to enter our country. Why in God’s name would they be so desperate to enter the country that they’re prepared to succumb to the Bubonic Plague? It’s not as if we haven’t warned the world of the disease. They know it’s fatal. Why are they so dumb?”

The signalman returned shaking his head. “I’ve tried everything to communicate with the ship. It’s as if it’s completely disappeared, sir.”

“Dismissed,” he said. The signalman snapped a salute and left. The Major turned to General Malloy. “There was an explosion, earlier today, you don’t think…?

They said there’d been an accident. That a helicopter had crashed. But that wouldn’t have much effect on a six hundred ton vessel.”

Major Harris’s brow creased deep in thought. “Permission to speak candidly, sir?” he asked.

“Granted.”

“It strikes me, General, that we’re fighting a losing battle. If our ships cannot protect our shoreline from one simple boatload of illegal immigrants, and word gets out, we are going to be swamped with them; we won’t be able to cope. And it’ll only take one infected person to break through the cordon for the contagion to spread through the rest of the country and then…” He waved his arms around. “We’ll have this chaos times a hundred, a thousand.” He paused as the general glowered at him. He gulped, then continued. “You know I’m right. You must have thought it yourself, we can’t be sure that we’ll kill every last citizen, without a tidal wave of wetbacks pouring ashore. If one of them gets word back home—”

“Then make sure word doesn’t get out,” he snapped.

The major nodded his understanding, turned and rapidly gave an order to the troops.

General Malloy knew the major had spoken the truth, it was no longer possible to rid southern Florida of its population, if every time they dispatched one wetback another ten illegal immigrants would be happy to take their place. What was wrong with them, he wondered? The worst pestilence that the world had ever known ravaged the state of Florida and still the wetbacks wanted to enter the country. It wasn’t workable, and if they couldn’t rely on the navy to do their part and patrol the sea, how was he and his meager supply of men meant to safeguard the vast landmass of Florida? It was out of control and he was not afraid to admit it.

He snapped his fingers at the signalman. “Get me the Pentagon.”

“General?” said the major to get his attention. “We’re ready?” He nodded as the hazmat suited men alighted from the truck and pointed their rifles inwards.

“Carry on,” the General said flatly. He took the radio from the signalman and while he spoke to the Joint Chiefs of Staff at the pentagon, gunfire lit up the night sky, the blasts of the gunfire and the screams of the dying filling the air. The General told them of their latest discovery and stood grim faced while he heard the news of the USS Thomas Jefferson.

A soldier armed with a flame-thrower lit up the truck from a safe distance, until it exploded. General Malloy ducked slightly and put a finger in his ear, trying to hear what Colonel Simpson suggested, then his face cracked into a smile as he was reinstated as the Commander of the tri-services in the exclusion zone.

23:31 PM

Luke found the going tough, as if hobbling on his makeshift crutch was not bad enough as Sophie led the way from the canal, the inky black darkness hampered Luke further. He only had one flimsy flashlight beam to guide them both. They had been travelling some time as Sophie led them further into the forest, through the indigenous mangrove and cypress trees, which gave Luke the impression of a jungle. They had agreed that this was their best plan of action, as the troop-patrols were going to be mainly on the streets and the odd flyby. Sophie had suggested that they get to the Everglades and use the vastness of the swamps to lose themselves from the enemy, and with the aid of connecting rivers travel north to Lake Ockeekee and freedom.

Luke stumbled, and fell to the dirt. Sophie helped him to stand. “Come on, you’re doing fine, it’s only a little further. The boat-house should be near,” she smiled brightly at him, trying to cheer him. Being back to nature filled her with bliss. The Everglades always did. She loved the wide-open spaces, the sheer hugeness of the water made her feel peaceful. She liked to get to the Everglades whenever she had the time. She would travel on one of the ubiquitous airboats to penetrate deep into the sub-tropical swamp. She found it cleansing to be back to nature, away from the hot, sweaty city of Miami and its hoards of people all crammed in together.

She hoped that Luke would feel the same, although she doubted it, he seemed to be a city boy through and through. She tripped on a log, and pointed out the hazard to Luke. She found herself daydreaming about the two of them returning together to the Everglades when this epidemic was over and taking an airboat out, even maybe go camping. “I can hear water and if my navigation is correct we should see the boathouse and the Everglades.”

“Everglades,” he groaned. “Home of the alligator.”

“They stay in the water, away from humans, usually.”

“Usually?” he said with a sarcastic edge to his voice.

“Did you know that the Everglade also has crocodiles?” she asked pushing branches of cypress tree from her face.

“No I didn’t.”

“And bears, and panthers.”

“Just my luck.”

“Don’t be such a girl,” she teased. “They’ll be more frightened of you, than you are of them.”

“Don’t bet on it,” he mumbled to himself. “As long as we don’t come across any snakes, I’ll be—”

“Oh.”

“Oh, what do you mean, ‘oh’?”

“Erm, nothing. Look, we’re here,” she pointed to the enormity of the Everglades, all two million acres of it, but in the darkness it was too difficult to judge the scale of its vastness.

They entered the boathouse and Sophie shone the flashlight around the interior. “I suggest I take another look at your leg, it is going to need to rest.”

23:32 PM

“Well, Gentlemen,” Colonel ‘Homer’ Simpson said wearily, and locked eyes with each and every person around the mahogany conference table in the pentagon war room. “I think it’s time; on the strength of what we have learned from General Malloy.”

The chiefs of staff muttered in disbelief then fell silent. Colonel Simpson let the implication sink in for the longest moment, still unable to believe what he proposed himself. “What with the unimaginable sinking of the USS Thomas Jefferson and the influx of illegal’s willing to risk their lives, I think it’s our only course of action. What say you?”

“Dear God,” said the Brigadier-General from the air force, “it’s inconceivable.”

“It’s out of our hands. We have to act and swiftly.”

“I can’t believe we’re considering the ridiculous proposition from that wet behind the ears Harvard boy.”

“I heard that,” cut in President Parker and his face filled their monitors. His face was startling, having taken on an orange hue.

Colonel Simpson leaned over to the Brigadier General, and whispered behind his hand. “Is he wearing make-up?”

The other man nodded, and shrugged in confusion.

President Hamilton appeared distracted, then remembered the men watching him on the monitor and turned his attention to them. “I’m glad that you have come around to my way of thinking, I’ve been listening to you debating all night, tip-toeing around the issue, but you know I’m right.”

“It’s monstrous,” fumed the Brigadier-General. “I won’t be associated with such a vile scheme. You must all be out of your minds.”

“Fine,” said Hamilton Parker. “You’re dismissed.”

“But— but…” stammered the Brigadier-General in protest.

“I said you’re free to go,” said the President. The brigadier general’s face colored red and with as much dignity as he could muster, he gathered his belongings and marched from the war room followed by his group of advisors. “Now, I take it that there are no other dissenters?” the President waited for a moment. “Good then we will initiate plan Z.”

“Plan Z?” repeated Colonel Simpson.

“That’s what I’ve named it. This plan of action needed a grandiose name. We’re facing the Doomsday Infection; plan Z has a sort of Doomsday feel. After all we will go down in history as the guys with the balls to take the decision—”

“We?” queried the colonel.

“Me then,” the President said, he turned to Vice-Admiral Reed, and Quinn Martell sat together on a couch, under gunpoint of armed guards. He smiled winningly at them. He turned to gaze from the Oval Office window; the majesty of the Washington skyline always amazed him and he knew that he was doing the right thing. “I’m the XO and ultimately responsible for making this game-changing decision, but I’d prefer your blessing, and that it’d go down on record as being a joint decision.” He waited for the hubbub to end, giving them time to digest the enormity of their strategy. “Plan Z is going to happen,” he told them. “With or without your approval. I thought, that, years from now, you could be there, on record, as part of the team that changed the face of this country,” he threw his hands in the air. “Your call.”

There was more frantic chattering and gesturing amongst the various factions. The Colonel tapped the mahogany tabletop to get their attention. “I think it only right that we should vote upon it, after all, as the President said the time for procrastination is over, we need to act promptly. Gentlemen,” he paused given the gravity of the situation. “Let’s take our place in history. On the proposal of the President’s Plan Z, what say you?” He nodded to the man to his left.

“Aye.” The man said resigned to the fact.

“Admiral?” he asked next.

The admiral thought some more, then gave in, “Aye.”

“General Air Force Chief of Staff?” he asked giving everyone his or her proper title as the conversation would go on the permanent record.

He paused, and pondered the notion milking the moment and making sure that it would be duly noted in the future that he had given the proposition his utmost attention, then said, “Aye.”

On the video-link monitors, the President’s smile grew and grew as each person concurred.

“Let’s initiate Plan Z, and we’ll go to Defcon One.”

CHAPTER 45

23:33 PM

The sweltering, balmy Florida night sapped the strength of the military troops stumbling along the canal bank. “This was the last known position, General,” said Major Harris.

General Malloy asked, “How many men were there?”

“Two. National guardsmen on a routine patrol.”

“How long have they been missing?”

“They were due to report in over two hours ago. It might be nothing. They may have deserted.”

The General rubbed his hand over his chin. He needed a shave. He had not slept since… he could not remember, but it had to be at least two days. “I won’t have that sort of talk. Even if they were in the National Guard. We need to find them. They might be in trouble.”

They traipsed under a bridge, “What’s that?” asked the general pointing up ahead.

The major squinted in the gloom. “It looks like a dead horse.”

They slowed and approached the horse and barge cautiously. The men spread out; two climbed onboard the barge.

“Here’s one of them, General,” said a corporal, and pointed to the corpse of the skinny national guardsman on deck, he had to hold his nose to stop himself gagging.

“Any sign of the other one?” General Malloy asked.

A private came up from below decks, “All clear, no one down below, General.”

“How come they’d removed their hazmat suits. A look passed between the lower ranks. The General noticed and signaled with his fingers. “Out with it.”

The major appeared bashful. “Well, I don’t know quite how to explain this, but, erm, we’ve been getting reports of the soldiers getting, erm, frisky, shall we say, and may have, erm, interfered with the civilians.”

“Word is they think of it as a perk of the job,” said the corporal helpfully.

“A ‘perk’?” General Malloy said looking heavenward. “Are they trying to re-populate Florida single-handedly?”

The major tried to silence the corporal, when something caught his eye, he turned and saw what he thought looked like an arm. A half digested arm. “I think that’s what’s left of his companion.”

General Malloy took in the scene and his lips tightened into a grimace before he spoke, “It’s them. I know it.”

“Who, sir?” the major asked.

“The terrorists,” said the General taking in the major’s baffled look. “Who else could overcome two armed soldiers?”

“There’s blood up here, sir,” said the corporal. “Not from the corpse, I mean. I think one of them is injured, quite badly.”

General Malloy allowed himself a smile, he sniffed the air and the hunt was on.

“Pentagon,” said the signalman, passing over the radio handset to him.

“General Malloy,” he said and found himself talking to Colonel Simpson, “Evening Homer, what can I do for you?”

“You’re to evacuate immediately. Transport is ready. We’re sending a Blackhawk to fetch you, right now.”

“What about my men?” he asked quietly, not wishing to alarm them. He assumed they would not be included in the airlift and would be left in Florida to fend for themselves.

“Frankly Jack, we do not have the time or the resources, we’re starting with key personnel and working downwards. We have your co-ordinates, and the chopper will land on the nearest bridge.”

The General saw the broken foliage nearby and could detect the route the terrorists had taken. “Affirmative. But I have some personal business to clear up here first.” He glanced at the path his quarry had taken and his nostrils flared as if he could smell them.

“Don’t hang around, General. We need you evacuated within the hour, please confirm?”

“Acknowledged, over and out,” he said cutting off the colonel before any further protest. He turned to the major. “A chopper should be arriving for me shortly. It’ll land on the bridge. Take the men and guard it with your lives.”

Yes, sir,” replied the major automatically. “Where will you be?”

He nodded into the jungle-like forest. “I’ve got a little matter to attend to first.”

“You’re going to go after the terrorists?”

“You betcha!”

“Why you? Shouldn’t we send the men?”

“It’s personal, son.” He eyeballed the major, who knew when to stop arguing. “Look at the trail they’ve left. They’ve not attempted to cover their path. A child could find them.”

“Good luck, sir,” the major saluted and signaled for his men to follow him.

Luck, thought the general, I don’t need luck. He pushed into the forest, following the trail of broken branches. “Man, I love this shit!” He picked up his pace into a fast trot.

23:34 PM

Luke slowly awoke and stretched. He’d shut his eyes and rested for a moment while Sophie attended to his leg, and had immediately fallen into a deep sleep. Sophie who was equally fatigued joined him moments later.

Sophie rested against his chest then stirred. “How long have we been asleep?” she asked groggily, still dozy.

“Thirty minutes.”

“We’ve got to go,” she said in alarm.

“I gotta take a whiz first,” he stood, hopped on one leg over to his improvised crutch and tested his weight. Moonlight streamed through the slats of the wooden boathouse and water gently lapped against the airboats, which in turn bumped against the tires protecting the crafts from damaging themselves against the water’s edge.

Sophie sat up, stretched, smiled and gazed at Luke’s battered face in the moonlight. He had dried scabs and bruises from fighting the soldiers earlier, his torso equally damaged. He would be sore and ache for a while, but would heal with time. Unlike his leg, as her temporary repair would only do for the moment. She would need breaking again and re-setting properly, or Luke would have a limp for life.

She hadn’t told him that good news yet. She finally let herself plan a future together for them. Everything was going to be wonderful and they would live a long and happy life together, and the last few days would eventually fade into a distant memory. They would live their lives to the maximum; they owed it to themselves and to those that made the ultimate sacrifice for them. Their work would have to have meaning, a purpose, for the betterment of mankind, be it a humanitarian action aboard, or feeding the needy back home, anything rather than the desperate search for more wealth and the accumulation of consumer products. She smiled as Luke wobbled, she shone her flashlight to illuminate his journey and tallied his injuries, all the scars and bruises until he turned fully and she saw his back and the first of the buboes…

CHAPTER 46

23:35 PM

General Malloy smashed his way through the foliage and had their scent in his nostrils he would show ‘em. Sloppy, he thought, he despised them even more for making their escape route too easy to follow. Tracking in the jungle had been his specialty. He seemed to have the knack, to know how the opposing forces thought, where they would go, where they might hide. None had ever bested him and that wasn’t about to change for this pair who had ruined Florida and embarrassed his country. He wondered if they were prepared to die for their mission. He was soon going to find out. Would they die a martyr’s death, proud to give their lives for what they believed in, or would they snivel and beg like wretches? He'd show them all how to deal with terrorists, he’d hunt ‘em down and shoot ‘em like the dogs they were. He felt like yelling with the thrill of the chase and the expectation of the kill.

He hadn’t felt this good since his fighting days in Bolivia, before he became a career soldier. This is where he felt best, in the heat of battle, where he felt truly alive.

23:36 PM

Luke hobbled back through the door, holding his crotch. “Man my balls hurt and I’ve got this swelling…,” He pointed at his crutch; he looked up at Sophie and knew instantly by her horror-stricken face what it meant. “…Oh no…”

She ran to him and hugged him for all she was worth, he tried to untangle himself from her, worried that he might give her the infection. “Shush, it does not matter,” she said soothingly. “If you have it, then so must I.” She became aware of the sound of a helicopter and froze. They peeked from the door and saw a chopper preparing to land not too far away. “That must be near the barge,” she said.

“They’re on to us, let’s go.”

23:37 PM

“Gotcha!” General Malloy said, seeing the wooden boathouse and the flashlight beams showing through the slats of the structure. He stealthily approached the building, deciding which way to kill them. Shoot them? No, far too quick. Maybe slowly with his ka-bar knife, up close and personal, he wanted to watch the pain in their eyes while he drew out their deaths. That would be his personal favorite and the least this pair of bastards deserved. However, as he had less than twenty minutes to get back to the chopper he had better make it quick.

He drew his sidearm, released the safety catch, held it pointing down by his side, and crept forward. His eyes popped out at the sight of the terrorist identified as Luke Spencer as he finished urinating and hobbled back into the boathouse.

The general was too flabbergasted to move. This was a master terrorist!? This hobbling cripple had disarmed and killed two trained soldiers? How in the name of God was that possible? He moved forward, and was almost at the boathouse door when he heard the unmistakable roar of an airboat engine, and a moment later saw the terrorists whoosh from the boathouse aboard an airboat. He cursed, raised his arm, standing with a two-handed grip on his pistol, aimed and fired.

Sophie perched high up on the operators seat of the noisy airboat. Luke tried to get comfortable as the unusual craft skimmed the surface of the water. Due to the noise of the rear mounted aircraft propeller that drove the shallow-bottomed craft, neither of them heard the gunshot or were aware of the imminent danger they were in.

“Fuck!” said the general as the bullet ‘pinged’ off the grill covering the giant propeller. He cursed himself again, for failing to keep up with his target practice. It was a shot he would have made easily ten years ago. Marksmanship was another of his natural talents — usually. He lined up another shot and fired at the moving target once more before they were out of sight.

23:38 PM

The air supply aboard the nuclear powered submarine USS Amarillo dwindled rapidly making it difficult for submariner Pete Williams to breath. He realized that it was the end for him, and knew he must mount some sort of retaliatory defense. He sat at the captain’s desk and read his stream of incoming e-mails; he shifted through the day-to-day garbage, while he tried to break the captain’s pass-code.

He had been a seasoned hacker; in fact, he had once caused a major incident as a youth, when he had successfully hacked into a US top-secret military computer. A supposedly impregnable computer. The army had been highly embarrassed that this young kid had broken in to their system so easily. However, they wanted to play down the breach of their security, and the evidence proved that the young man was a harmless geek, apparently on a quest to find concrete evidence of the existence of extra-terrestrial beings and in particular, the secrecy surrounding Area 51.

Instead of prosecuting him, they waited for the media interest to die down then offered the teenager a job, as he clearly had talent, and they thought he would be of more use to them as a member of staff. Better on the inside testing their systems, as opposed to being on the outside trying to break in.

This was how Pete Williams, who’d previously had no interest in the armed forces as a career found himself aboard the USS Amarillo, glad to escape the glare of infamy. He hadn’t enjoyed his moment in the media spotlight. His duties apart from the odd bit of code breaking and unofficial hacking was as one of the contingent to muster the nuclear weapons should they ever be needed.

However, the thin diminishing air didn’t help his concentration as he’d tried his damndest to break the codes. He sweated profusely and the stench from the captain’s remains made him gag. He glanced at the corpse slumped on the floor, with dried, congealed blood around his orifices.

He regarded the elderly captain, one of the last old-school leaders and he found himself remembering that for twenty years during the cold war years all codes on the US nuclear missiles were set at 00000000. The official thinking being that it would be too much for the men launching the missiles to have to remember complicated codes, it would speed their launches, instead of having to find the codes, they would have the edge over their Russian counterparts, and these few valuable seconds could prove vital. Incredibly, this went on for two decades, and it was pure luck that some disgruntled, suicidal soldier had not launched a missile with such a simple code and sent them all to Armageddon.

More recently, hackers revealed that the Syrian government’s top-secret communication pass-codes were set to 12345 and if the memorandum was above top-secret they took the extra precaution of adding another digit making the pass-code 123456, and it had been this simple code Pete Williams had used to open the captain’s wall-safe and had retrieved the nuclear launch-codes. He shook his head to get his mind back on track. Why not try it again, he tapped, 00000000 into the pass-code box, and remarkably the computer sprung into life. “You idiot,” he said to the captain’s cadaver. He now had access to the submarines arsenal of forty-eight tomahawk nuclear weapons and he had the launch codes. Payback time, he thought bleakly.

23:39 PM

General Malloy rushed into the boathouse and without breaking step leaped onto an airboat, took a moment to start it, and moved out of the boathouse in pursuit of the fugitives. He had used an airboat once before, on maneuvers in Alaska of all places where airboats were used extensively as they were equally suited to a snowy terrain and could skim over ice as easily as water.

He listened and detected the rough direction of the fleeing craft. He put on his night-vision goggles and searched slowly from east to west getting used to the green imagery. Then he spotted them. “Outstanding!” he declared, locking onto the fleeing terrorists.

He could tell by the way the fleeing airboat moved that it was piloted by an inexperienced driver and he knew that he would catch them effortlessly. He opened the throttle and gave chase.

23:40 PM

“What do you mean, ‘it’s got no brakes?!” Luke yelled over the din of the propeller.

“There are no brakes on airboats,” she replied with a shrug.

“Then, how do you stop?” he asked incredulously.

“You decelerate,” she said simply, while she tried to steer by moonlight.

“What if you want to avoid something?”

“That’s why you sit high up, looking for debris or marine animals, you swerve to avoid in most cases. There’s no reverse either,” she told him knowing she’d enjoy his reaction to this piece of news.

“Huh? What happens if we go up a dead-end?”

“Let’s pray that we don’t.” She smiled.

“Maaan, that’s crazy, what sorta lunatic invents a high speed vehicle with no means of stopping?” He cut short his ranting as a helicopter passed overhead, and they swapped anxious glances. Luke realized with a sinking heart that they were caught, when, strangely the helicopter continued its journey ignoring them, swiftly followed by another three choppers flying in formation northbound. “That ain’t cool,” he said.

“Maybe they didn’t see us?” she suggested.

“Or they’re no longer looking for us,” he said hopefully.

She smiled, loving him more and more by the minute, when a plume of blood exploded from his shoulder as a high velocity bullet ripped through it. The impact made him twist and he fell forward.

Her mouth dropped open in disbelief. She hardly had time to register he’d been shot, and by whom? She slowed and squinted into the darkness, when a second airboat loomed from the darkness and the general rammed her.

The airboat clipped Sophie’s and the angle sent her into a high-speed tailspin, which almost pitched Luke into the swamp. Sophie fought for control of the spinning airboat and thought that she would topple from the seat high up, in her unbalanced position. Sophie saw the lake edge loom up and knew that impact was going to be inevitable.

She braced herself, but the crash caused her to fall to the bottom of the craft and she landed on top of Luke. She felt concussed and confused, her senses told her to help Luke, but found her body unable to respond to her commands. She intensified her efforts and felt the airboat rock. She knew without looking up that someone else was onboard.

She turned and glanced up to see General Malloy, grinning wickedly down at her.

23:41 PM

Hamilton excused himself and went to use the bathroom. He checked his reflection and smiled. As soon as he initiated his plan, the Florida problem would be over, and then he could concentrate on issues that were more important; like running the country, and humping the hell out of Miss April. Thinking of her brought an even broader smile to his face. Boy, she was something. He ached for her; in fact, his groin had felt funny all day.

He’d caught something off her in all probability. He wasn’t too concerned, he knew she wasn’t a virgin, hell no, not with her bag of tricks, you didn’t learn those skills in a nunnery.

Still, once he had her safely seconded there would be no messing about. He’d have to find a discreet doctor to treat the sexually transmitted disease. He’d had an STD once before, it came with the territory, he thought pragmatically. Nope, nothing to worry about, it was an occupational hazard as far as he was concerned, if you were a hound-dog an STD was something you had to allow for. He needed to find a friendly, discreet quack to medicate him. Not that prig, Quinn Martell, that was for damn sure. The devil in him wanted to tell him, to watch his face, but he daren’t.

He gazed at his reflection, noticing that the hickeys were showing through again. He attended to them, covering them liberally with his wife’s make-up. He felt great discomfort from his nether regions and scratched through his pants, which gave him slight relief. He saw another hickey poking from the top of his shirt. He tugged at the collar; sure enough, there was another bruise-like hickey. How had he missed that? His wife might have seen it. That would have left him with some serious explaining to do. How embarrassing.

He unbuttoned his shirt and saw the blemish, and thought he’d better remove the garment to attend to it properly, when to his utter horror he saw that his torso was covered in dark rings. What the fuck? What kind of SDT had that bitch given him? He paced the bathroom cursing her. Then it dawned on him. This wasn’t a sexually transmitted disease. This must be the work of his enemies; it’ll be the vice-admiral, or the surgeon general. Goddamnit, he’d been too trusting. Had one of them slipped something into his drink? He’d soon find out.

His crotch ached and he went to use the john. He unzipped himself and felt a dull pain. He felt around his groin and discovered a swelling each side. What the hell is this? He thought.

As he urinated he felt such a shooting pain from his penis that he thought he might pass out. He looked down and very nearly did. Not only did his urine smell pungent, but it dribbled out in thick black clots, his eyes rolled back into his head and he fainted.

CHAPTER 47

23:42 PM

Sophie saw her pistol lying nearby and instinctively reached for it, but the general was one-step ahead and stood on her wrist, making her scream in pain.

Maybe a little torture, thought the general. It’s the least the bitch deserves. He could see that the man was bleeding badly and would pose no threat.

He applied more pressure on her wrist with his boot. He enjoyed hearing her scream and watching her squirm in pain. Soon she would know it was the end, and that was his favorite moment, when his captives knew they faced the end and all hope drained from their being, their eyes becoming dead. Sophie kicked out at him, making him chuckle. She did not give up easily. Good, he thought, this would be fun. He assessed the situation, calculating if he had the time for a bit of fun and still make it back to the helicopter rendezvous point. His computations gave him a five-minute window and he grinned broadly.

He kicked her in the head, sending her half out of the airboat, however the boat rocked with the movement and his action almost sent him too into the swamp. He regained his balance, and adjusted his pose.

He gestured with his hand for her to stand and take a shot. She rose into a crouch and launched herself at him, but he swatted her away effortlessly with a back-hander, sending her into the cage of the still spinning propeller blade. He squashed her face into the wire-cage and she could feel the wind from the revolving blades and feared her hair might catch.

The general pushed her head further and hoped to grind her into the blade. Sophie tried desperately to push back from the propeller, but the general over-powered her. The wire cage started to give and she felt her face inch forward to the spinning blades. She twisted, and turned sharply making him lose his grip. She tried to pull away but was caught by her hair in a lose wire of the propeller cage.

The general laughed at her predicament, this was too easy he thought, confrontation between two great enemies should have demanded a long drawn out protracted affair, not a push over. He gave her a moment for her to free herself, only sporting after all, and he had a few minutes to spare to indulge her. All she was doing was postponing the end, to live her last moments in pain and agony instead of a quick death.

She took a second to regain her breath, glanced over at Luke who stirred, which was a good sign she thought, and with an almighty tug she wrenched herself from the wire cage pulling the front cover with her, exposing the four-foot whirling blades as she squared up to the general.

He lashed out with a kick, she tried to deflect the blow, but it caught her in the stomach, knocking the air out of her and she crouched down, to get her breath back. She slowly stood on the rocking airboat. The general span on the spot with a high hip-kick and caught her below the rib cage and she felt something snap. She yelped and held her side. She tried to stand but the agony was too much.

The general re-adjusted his stance. Enough is enough, better get to the chopper he thought, one spinning head kick should do it, he started to execute the move, when; “Freeze, you bastard sonofabitch!” growled Luke.

Luke held the discarded pistol and pointed it at him. “You?” laughed the general. “A one-armed, one-legged plague-ridden victim. You really think so?” he shook his head in wonder, “Against me? I’m Jumpin’ Jack Malloy, a Four Star General who not only trained in, but relishes unarmed combat?”

“Leave her alone.”

“Well, if you really want to play,” he said, genuinely excited by the challenge. “Then, welcome to the party!”

“Back off,” Luke said, and coughed up blood.

“I don’t think so, son,” he said. It was pitiful, thought the general, as Luke tried to raise himself up on his one good leg. Blood poured from his shoulder wound and he raised the pistol with his good arm, but the effort made his arm tremble. The general chuckled and feigned ducking from side to side as if he could dodge the bullets, then quick as a flash he snatched the gun from Luke’s grasp, startling him, and pointed it at Sophie. “The bitch first,” he said, and pulled back on the trigger.

Luke sprang up from his good leg until he was horizontal on his crutch, kicked out at the general, and caught him with a tremendous blow square on the side, making him stumble. The general almost recovered his balance when, Sophie swept out with a low kick, sending Jumpin’ Jack Malloy, the highly decorated, Four Star General face-first into the whirling propellers.

CHAPTER 48

23:43 PM

Some 4th of July, thought the surgeon general as he washed his hands in the bathroom at the White House down the corridor from the Oval Office, under the watchful eye of his armed escort. The time is now, he thought. Somehow, he would have to convince the armed guard to release him so that he could section the President.

Some tall order, he thought solemnly. Yet he had too for the sake of the country. He would have to persuade the armed guard that it was imperative that he section the incumbent President.

Surely, they could see that the President had become unbalanced, they could worry about the subpoena later, or maybe they could think of a way of impeaching him, either way they would have to worry about the niceties of their actions later. He had to act; the President had totally lost it, having proposed the annihilation of Florida.

He had never heard such nonsense in all his born days. Mental health was no laughing matter, and should certainly not be in doubt in the ruler of the free world.

He marched briskly back to the Oval Office when to his consternation he found the door locked. “What the…?” Quinn Martell said in alarm. He tried the door again. Definitely locked. He heard shouting and turned to the uniformed guard, “Unlock this door, immediately!”

“Negative,” gulped the young guard. “My orders are clear. Guard you and nothing else.”

The shouting got louder. “Listen to them, that’s Vice-Admiral Reed in there. Who has the most experience in defending our nation, him or that preppy nobody?” he pleaded, as the guard stared straight ahead, as trained, and ignored him. “Use your initiative.”

“No can do, sir. Now step away.”

23:44 PM

Sophie gently steering the spluttering, disabled airboat along the Intracoastal Waterway. The boat limped along, as the propellers malfunctioned after removing most of the general’s face. She shuddered as she remembered his howls of agony as the blades turned his face into hamburger.

Sophie heaved the carcass over the side of the airboat and was surprised how quickly the alligators were upon the corpse devouring it. She glanced at Luke who’d sunk into semi-consciousness. He’d lost an enormous amount of blood, she had stopped the flow for the moment. The bullet had passed right through his shoulder, so no permanent damage there, she thought.

She cut the throttle and glided the airboat up to the embankment outside the Good Samaritan’s hospital, on Sandbank Island. My gosh, she thought, back to where we started. She came to a halt almost at the spot where the river ambulances would dock, then dashed inside the deserted hospital, grabbed a gurney and helped Luke onto it.

23:45 PM

The President entered the Oval Office in a manic mood once again. His appearance unkempt, his hair disheveled, and he had large sweat patches under his arms. His face turned puce. “What have you done to me? He raged.

“I… I d— don’t know what you mean?” stammered the vice-admiral.

“You and that quack, Martell, you’ve given me something haven’t you.” He grinned, baring his teeth, and pointed in Reed’s face. “I’m on to your little game.”

Vice-Admiral Reed worried for the President’s sanity, this latest bout of paranoia was too much, and as soon as Quinn got back to the office, they would have to act. “Mister President, we don’t have time for this—”

“Damn well right we don’t. That’s why we’re going to launch Plan Z. You and I, right here, right now.”

“Are you out of your mind?” the vice-admiral asked incredulous.

“You know what Plan Z involved. It’s going to happen, mister, with or without your help.”

“Never.”

“It’s been ratified by the Joint Chiefs of Staff.”

“I don’t care,” said the vice-admiral. “I cannot, in all good conscience be responsible for this madness.”

“It’s not your responsibility — it’s mine. I’ve made an executive decision and that’s final. Now, put your goddamn palm-print on the plate!” he ordered, opening the briefcase containing the nuclear missile launch-codes.

“Not in a million years,” Reed replied.

“You put your goddamned palm-print on the screen now, or I’ll cut your hand clean off and put it on there.”

“You cannot launch a nuclear strike upon your own country, please think again. It’s insane.”

“We’ll bomb the state back to the Stone Age. We have to make sure that’s it’s uninhabitable. It’s the only sane option we have.”

“It’ll make Florida uninhabitable for a hundred years.”

“That’s what we want,” said Hamilton trying to appeal to the man through logic. “We kill every living thing, then logically we kill the bubonic plague’s host, and it’ll die with them. AND it’ll stop the illegal immigrants from wanting to enter the country through Florida; surely even they wouldn’t be dumb enough to venture into a radioactive area.”

“No!” Reed said.

23:46 PM

At the Good Samaritan Hospital Sophie gave Luke a blood transfusion by flashlight. She had Luke strapped to the gurney and drew more blood for a regular check. The prognosis was good from the gunshot at least. She compared before and after blood samples at a makeshift laboratory, and gained puzzling results. She was mystified. “That’s curious…,” she said to herself. “…Surely not…”

If correct, she may have accidentally stumbled upon the cure!

Incredible as it may seem — it had happened before — the discovery of penicillin had been by accident. She told herself to calm down, and thought she should do another test to confirm her theory.

She heard the roar of distant jets and peered from the hospital window and her mouth dropped open; the sky was full of military aircraft heading north and a shiver ran down her spine, knowing that the retreat was not good and had an ominous feeling. Something awful was about to occur. She rushed back to her experiments knowing that the potential outcome of the tests could result in the most important discovery in history.

She prayed to God that she was correct.

23:47 PM

Submariner Pete Williams coughed and tried to breath in the thin, fetid air. Slow, deep even breaths he told himself. If the lack of air wasn’t enough, there was also the intolerable heat. He did not know which would get him first, lack of oxygen or heatstroke. Well, whichever got him first it would not be before he made a pre-emptive strike.

Fuck the retaliation only rule of a nuclear launch. He knew the enemies of the United States were behind the contagion and if he were to die then he would damn well make sure he would take them with him. He needed the captain’s computer, and with a great deal of difficulty, he sat at the desk, and prepared to send the Rag-Heads or Ruskies back to the dark ages. He paused for a moment doubting his motives. The enemy would see the launch and would respond in kind. The US had always calculated on six or seven nuclear bombs getting through and resigned themselves to the loss of several major cities, New York, Washington and Chicago to name a few, should he be the instigator of such mass murder? Would anyone ever know it had been him, and would anyone even care?

He had fed the launch codes into the captain’s laptop, on the outside it looked like an innocuous briefcase, but on the inside it held unimaginable power and destruction. Everything was prepared, he only had to push the button. His vision became blurred and his breathing erratic, the panic rising in him. He made himself calm, and regulated his breathing. He flipped back the plastic safety cover and his finger hovered over the button….

23:49 PM

Sophie entered Quinn Martell’s cellular telephone number into the army satellite-phone they’d taken from the soldier on the barge. He answered quickly, but sounded out of breath. “It’s me, Sophia Garcia.”

“My God, you’re alive!” Quinn’s heart swelled at the news, and he felt himself grinning for the first time in ages. The shouting inside the Oval Office grew so loud that he had to cover his ear to be able to hear her. He nodded to the uniformed guard to open the door and saw that the young guard’s resolve waned; he took out a key and turned it over in his hand, trying to make the right decision.

23:50 PM

Pete Williams was in a quandary. I’ll give it a couple of minutes he thought. He scrolled through the captain’s emails, his vision focusing in and out, when two words struck terror into his heart Defcon One emblazoned across the screen. He knew that this was battle stations, nuclear war imminent. Thank God that he’d already prepared, and was one-step ahead. Should he wait for the official command, or should he get on and do it, and maybe take out a Russian nuclear silo or two. Such proactive action might even save Washington. He was about to start proceeding when the next e-mail turned his bowel to liquid.

His vision blurred again but saw the relevant words, Nuclear launch… and Florida… they galvanized him into action and he pressed the button. The sub shook with the tremendous ferocity of the tomahawk launches. Nuclear War had begun…

CHAPTER 49

TIME ELAPSED SINCE LAUNCH: 00:00.01 — 00:00:59

TIME LEFT TO RETALIATE: 00:09:59 — 00:09:01

Within the first minute of the launch, Russian satellites would detect the missiles in flight. This information would pass to Early Warning Center Staff in Moscow, where the operators would relay the information to the General Staff Command Post located in Chekhov, who would analyze the information.

“I’ve found a cure!” Sophie shouted down the phone to Quinn, when she heard a distant boom. She glanced out of the window and saw missiles being launched from out in the ocean. She gazed open-mouthed, as the missiles climbed into the sky. She turned her attention back to the telephone call. “I did a total blood transfusion on a patient, and he is well on the way to a full recovery and is completely free of the virus.” She glanced at Luke, slumped in a wheelchair and she saw the first signs of him regaining consciousness.

“Are you sure?” he asked, unable to believe the news.

“I’ve checked and double checked, plus he’d had a blood transfusion two days ago, due to an injury, and I myself had a full transfusion after a recent auto-wreck,” she told him. “There is no mistake. The patient may have only just caught the decease — less than a day I would have said — judging by the spread of the virus, but it looks as though a quick exchange of blood, seems to flush out the system and replace the virus before it has a proper hold.”

Quinn went through an array of emotions, and absorbed the information. “That’s fantastic!” he exclaimed. “Finally, at last, our troubles are over, we can start to—” a gunshot from inside the Oval Office stopped him dead in his tracks and he dropped the cell phone in alarm.

TIME ELAPSED SINCE LAUNCH: 00:01:00 — 00:01:59

TIME LEFT TO RETALIATE: 00:09:00 — 00:08:01

The Russian operators at the General Command Post check on the reliability of the report. If they decide it is valid they then send out alerts to the President and the Strategic Rocket force that control the Russian Federations nuclear missiles. The President then has to send out the authorization launch codes to the missile silos.

“Hello? Professor Martell? Are you still there?” Sophie felt frustrated with the break in communications then looked from the window as more jets roared away. She collected Luke in his wheelchair, “Come on, we need to get out of here.”

__________

The young uniformed guard unlocked the Oval Office door and Quinn pushed passed him. President Hamilton Parker perched on the edge of his desk, literally holding the smoking gun. Vice-Admiral Reed lay dead on the floor, blood still pumped from the bullet hole between the eyes.

“What have you done?” gasped Quinn.

“What have I done? What have I done! Only taken control of our destiny, that’s all! No more prevarication. I’m done with procrastinating like that useless bag of shit.” He pointed using the pistol at Vice Admiral Reed’s lifeless body by his feet. He scratched his crotch, which Quinn noticed. “What is the point of an admiral who is unwilling to defend the country, I ask you, what is the point? Claiming his conscience would not let him be attached to plan Z.”

Quinn watched the President’s behavior, his posturing and boastful manner almost bordering on manic. He looked terrible, sweat soaked his shirt and he could not stop fiddling with his crotch. “You cold-bloodily murdered the Vice-Admiral, because he didn’t agree with you?” Quinn asked stupefied.

“He was a traitor, and that’s punishable by death. I’ve just saved the tax payer a lot of time and money on a lengthy court martial. He would not take action for the benefit of the country.”

“We’ve found a cure, Mister President.”

“What!”

“We’ve found a cure, sir, no need to initiate plan Z.”

“Hamilton Parker, lit a huge fat Cuban cigar, blew out a satisfying lungful of smoke and smiled, “Well, I wish you’d told me that earlier, Quinn” he said sarcastically.

“Excuse me?”

“Because it’s already too late.”

TIME ELAPSED SINCE LAUNCH: 00:02:00 — 00:2:59

TIME LEFT TO RETALIATE: 00:08:00 — 00:07:01

The Russian General Staff Command Post turns on a special communications circuit, connecting the post to all missile silos and mobile launchers — the Topol 14 wheel-based missile launchers, the RT-2 train car ICBM Launchers and the ever-present nuclear submarines. The crews make preparations to counter-launch.

Lieutenant Carrington could hardly believe that he was heading to Florida again, scrambled for the second time in twenty-four hours. This time on a mission beyond imagination. As one of the volunteers to fire nuclear warheads, he’d had to undergo a battery of rigorous tests to show that, in a crisis he would do his duty and actually fire the doomsday weapon. He’d passed the psychological tests with flying colors, but nothing could have prepared him for how he felt now, right now, actually in the arena of combat, whether or not they would have the fortitude to fire the weapon. It’s not like he would be firing on a foreign power, an enemy of the state, but fellow Americans, not the disease-ridden carriers, but healthy, law abiding individuals, who had committed no other crime than to live in the wrong area.

The results of peacetime nuclear strike tests had been buried, concluding that not all the US weapons would be fired. The military personnel had failed at the last moment. In fact, less than half of the missiles had not launched, and these were only tests. The personnel, not what the military consider the ‘best of the best’ were mostly young, at their first posts and finding the monotony mind-numbingly boring. Yet at the last moment unwilling to fire, reluctant to be responsible for the sheer numbers of deaths of Russians or whoever, and the counter-strikes leading to multi-million deaths of American citizens.

Lieutenant Carrington had no such qualms and was in fact, looking forward to the destruction. He banked the F-18 Tomahawk and headed directly to his target in Orlando, chosen as the optimum strike point. He contained a smile as the culmination of all his training had finally come to fruition. He was determined and ready for all they could throw at him. He knew of all the tricks they could play, sending him messages telling him it was a mistake, or a false alarm, but his training had taught him to resist all such subterfuge. He savored the notion. Do your worst, he urged, do your worst.

TIME ELAPSED SINCE LAUNCH: 00:03:00 — 00:3:59

TIME LEFT TO RETALIATE: 00:07:00 — 00:06:01

Within the forth minute of missile launch the President of the former Soviet Union, would confer by telephone with his Chiefs and early warning centers to confirm that the missiles are heading for Russia.

“What do you mean, ‘too late’?” Quinn whispered aghast.

“I have ordered nuclear strikes on Florida; three F-18s are speeding towards Florida as we speak.”

“Three?”

“We’ve calculated that two spineless cowards are expected to chicken-out and not fire on their own countrymen. It’s pathetic. Our military personnel are an embarrassment.” He scratched furiously at his crotch.

The significance of the scratching and the sweating of the armpits finally dawned on Quinn. “Have you — have you been to Florida recently…?”

“Not me, no.”

“The Secret Service arrived at the door and drew their weapons alerted to trouble by the sound of gunshot. They saw that the President held a pistol. Quinn held up a hand for them to stay where they were.

“Have you been in contact with anyone who has visited Florida recently?”

“No, I swear.”

“Not interacted with anyone other than staff and family?”

“Nope. Cross my heart,” he teased.

The young guard coughed. “That’s not completely true…,” he said. He felt himself backing away from the President as if he radiated death. “There was that young blonde.”

“Hey, what’s the point being the President, if you can’t have a mistress?” he joked. “I’m hardly up there with Kennedy, on that score. It’s only the one…” He spread his arms wide as if to say, ‘come on guys’.

“I recognized her from Sports Illustrated. She was April’s center spread,” said the guard nervously. “And a former Miss Miami?”

Hamilton Parker grinned. “So what if she was? I sneaked my mistress out of the zone. She was checked over first and given a clean bill of health.”

“Open your shirt,” said Quinn.

“No way!”

The surgeon general went to grab the President’s shirt when Hamilton Parker pointed his pistol at him. “I don’t think so.”

When the President fully extended his arm towards him, Quinn could see the tell-tale signs, his finger-tips had blackened. “My God, you’ve got the Bubonic Plague… you’ve brought the Black Death into the White House…” he gasped as his blood ran cold.

The guard backed further away and pulled his decorative neckerchief up over his nose, and hoped the thin piece of silk cloth would help.

“Back away,” Quinn waved the staff in the doorway back. “Seal the office off,” he said, but the Secret Service would not leave there posts.

Hamilton grinned, hoping to win them over. “I’m fine, seriously. You don’t—” His eyes flipped open in shock, as a bullet from the guard’s sidearm pierced his heart. He dropped to his knees. “What the f—” then fell forward.

Hamilton Parker III, the 46th President of the United States of America for all of forty-eight hours was dead before his face hit the floor. A cacophony of sound erupted as the Secret service men emptied their chambers into the young guard as if the sheer number of bullets would make up for their lack of action which resulted in the President’s assassination on their watch.

TIME ELAPSED SINCE LAUNCH: 00:04:00 — 00:04:59

TIME LEFT TO RETALIATE: 00:07:00 — 00:06:01

During the fifth minute of launch, the incoming missiles are now in reach of ground-based radar centers. These centers confirm the satellite reports.

Submariner Pete Williams opened his eyes, and through blurred vision saw the three jets on the radar screen converge and move down from the north of Florida. Ha! Got you first, he thought and slumped to the floor and sucked in a lungful of foul tasting air. He smiled to himself as he thought through the minutes left until detonation and the frantic Commies running around the missile silos preparing to retaliate, hoping to send their rockets before their own destruction. They would not doubt for a moment that the Americans’ knew the location of every one of their nuclear missile silos and that they’d be knocked out in the first wave of missile launches in an attempt to prevent them from responding to the unprovoked attack.

“You sure this will work?” Sophie asked Luke from the dockside of Miami Beach. He sat in his wheelchair holding the control-bar of a motorized hang-glider, the small engine puttered as they faced the ocean.

“Nope. But it’s our only chance.” He looked along the jetty and made a calculation, knowing that they needed to reach between fifteen and twenty-five miles an hour before the jetty ran out.

“By the way,” she added, “You haven’t forgotten that I’m afraid of heights?”

“So, you want us to escape to the Bahamas on this hang-glider flying how high exactly?”

She held her hand up to her shoulder, and her brows knitted in what she hoped would be a hard to refuse look. “Can you do it?”

“Sure,” he said. “Let’s go!”

She ran down the dockside pushing Luke in his wheelchair and the hang-glider with all her might, the edge of the dock loomed up ahead. She increased her efforts and they started to work up a reasonable speed until they ran off the jetty, the wheelchair fell away hitting the water with a mighty splash and they plummeted towards the ocean…

TIME ELAPSED SINCE LAUNCH: 00:05:00 — 00:5:59

TIME LEFT TO RETALIATE: 00:05:00 — 00:04:01

With five minutes gone and with less than five minutes left before detonation, the Russian President must now make the decision if he wants to launch a counterattack. He will transmit the permission codes to the General Staff Command Post, to Air Force and Navy command posts and to the Strategic Rocket Forces command post.

Quinn stood with his hand raised, swearing the oath, unable to take in the surreal events. “Mister President,” said the senior court Judge, and the senior secret service man handed Quinn the briefcase containing the nuclear launch codes. The brief ceremony watched by video-link by the chiefs of Staff at the Pentagon war room, as Quinn Martell was hastily sworn in as the 47th President of the United States of America.

The Surgeon General did not have time to absorb the enormity of his promotion. His mind was on the Tomcat F-18’s hurtling towards Florida to release their payloads. A shiver ran down his spine and his mouth went dry, but he stood straight, stiffened his resolve, and turned to the video-link screen. “Recall those jets. Now!”

“Can’t be done, sir, they’ve crossed the point of no return.”

“Get on the radio, talk them down!”

“But, what about plan Z?” queried the General Air Force Chief of Staff.

“It’s been rescinded. We’ve found a cure.”

“Praise the lord!” he replied, and then turned to a subordinate. “Get those pilots on the horn, now!”

TIME ELAPSED SINCE LAUNCH: 00:06:00 — 00:6:59

TIME LEFT TO RETALIATE: 00:04:00 — 00:03:01

The Russian General Staff Command Post transmitted the authorization codes, plus the war Plan, which includes targets and the unblocking codes.

Submariner Pete Williams’s chest heaved as he tried to suck in life giving oxygen, he thought that the missiles should detonate within the next three minutes, he should still be alive to witness this historic event.

Luke pushed forward on the control-bar and the hang-glider whooshed up into the air a good fifty feet above Sophie’s comfort zone, making her shriek, they banked steeply, leveled the hang-glider, pointed the craft towards the Bahamas and opened the throttle to its maximum fifty mph.

TIME ELAPSED SINCE LAUNCH: 00:07:00 — 00:7:59

TIME LEFT TO RETALIATE: 00:03:00 — 00:02:01

The Russian strategic launchers are prepared. The commanding officer at each site had confirmed that the order is genuine and compared the final authorization code against the code kept in his safe. The officer began to implement launch procedure.

Lieutenant Carrington saw the jet on his starboard side, bank sharply and head one hundred and eighty degrees, retreating homeward. “You pussy!” he yelled. “You should be ashamed to wear the uniform. It’s a trick you idiot. It’s someone trying to impersonate your boss. You should be court marshaled!” He could almost cry with the weakness of his compatriot.

Carrington ignored the voice in his own earpiece. He found it easy to tune out the monotonous drone of a person trying to talk him down. It was ridiculous. Did they really think he would fall for that?

He saw the jet on his port side, bank and disappear from view. “You fool, it’s a trick, can’t you see that?”

So, it was all down to him. Well, he wouldn’t be deterred so easily. He’d been given a mission and he would finish the job.

TIME ELAPSED SINCE LAUNCH: 00:08:00 — 00:8:59

TIME LEFT TO RETALIATE: 00:02:00 — 00:01:01

The commanding office at the missile site activated the silos missile system with his safety key and with a sinking heart entered the unblocking code.

Within the Pentagon War room, the silence was deafening. Each person held his or her breath, too scared to breathe as if maybe this would break the spell. One solitary sound broke the silence, the voice of General Air Force Chief of Staff Thornton echoed around the table, as he tried everything within his power to talk Lieutenant Carrington into turning back. He had tried ordering him, tried threatening, and tried cajoling him. However, he could not convince the pilot that the order had been rescinded.

Over the speakers, he heard Lieutenant Carrington’s sing-songy voice, “I’m not listening to you. Save your breath whoever you are. In fact, I’m taking out my ear-piece now, adios!”

Thornton turned to the video-link screen to the White House, ashen faced and with a half-shrug said, “That’s it, then…”

TIME ELAPSED SINCE LAUNCH: 00:09:00 — 00:09:59

TIME LEFT TO RETALIATE: 00:01:00 — 00:00:01

Without notification to rescind the previous order, the commanding officer launches the retaliatory nuclear missiles….

Lieutenant Carrington saw his target and grinned. He could have fired the missile from a distance but he wanted to get in the thick of it. Cinderella’s fairytale castle at Disney World in Orlando made an appropriate destination, that such an iconic place of joy and wonderment was chosen for the target for such devastation and destruction. He fixed the pink castle on the cross hairs of his manual targeting system, then without a second thought, fired. “Have a nice day!” he quipped, lowered his blast shield, and banked rapidly away.

Submariner Pete Williams, with his dying breath heaved himself up on the captain’s desk and watched the monitor displaying the detention of a nuclear weapon, bang in the middle of Florida. Well, he had paid the damned communists back ten-fold he thought triumphantly. He tried to suck in air, but there was no breathable air left, and he slumped to the floor and died.

The USS Amarillo nuclear powered submarine sailed on, unmanned and undetected.

Sophie persuaded Luke to fly low and they skimmed the surface of the waves. Suddenly a blinding flash behind them lit up the sky in all directions. Sophie went to look as she heard the nuclear explosion rumble. “Don’t turn around, not yet!” shouted Luke and they stared straight ahead for a moment. Then as the light dissipated they turned and were awe-struck to see in the far distance a mushroom cloud develop over Orlando. The blast wave hit the hang-glider a few seconds later, flipping them over, and plunging them downward….

At the White House President Quinn Martell stared at the video link dumbfounded as the realization dawned that they had done it, detonated a nuclear bomb over Orlando. A shiver ran down his spine, “Gentlemen,” he said in a calm, efficient, yet friendly tone. “What is done, is done, we must try to limit the damage, but as the virus is airborne it is now out of control and heading this way.” He paused as the message sunk in and the men for once, lost their cool, each one worried for their loved ones. “We need suggestions and fast.” He looked around the frightened faces, as a telephone rang incessantly in the background. “Anyone? Jump right in, anything, doesn’t matter how bizarre.”

General Chief of Air Force Chief of Staff Thornton picked up the telephone and the blood drained from his face, “Mister President, th… the Russians have launched a full scale nuclear attack…”

“What?” Quinn said in sheer bewilderment. “Why?”

“It appears that it is in retaliation for the attack we launched on them…”

Pandemonium broke out in the War Room, as the men suffering from the blow of the Florida nuclear strike, were now going to have to respond to an unimaginable nuclear attack.

Yet Quinn felt strangely calm, “Gentlemen, time for recriminations is later, we must move, and fast, we can help destroy our own weapons, get me Moscow…”

EPILOGUE

THREE MONTHS LATER

In the White House Press Room President Martell delivered a televised speech. “…This indiscriminate plague has now all but passed, it came from nowhere… after lying dormant for five centuries and has evaporated just as quickly… we as a nation lost approximately one third of our citizenship, around the eighty million mark.” He paused for a moment so that the enormity of the figure could be absorbed. “Worldwide, the figure is four billion, roughly half the pre-Bubonic Plague figure… it has been calculated that it will be another one hundred and fifty years until we are back to our pre-plague population… the nuclear strikes, foreign and domestic accounting for ten million. It has been tough, but if it’s any consolation, it could have been far worse, we as a species could have easily been obliterated from the planet. Mother earth gave us a timely reminder how fragile human existence is, and gave us a swift kick in the backside, as a wakeup call. We won’t get caught again… we have survived and grown as a nation… thankfully, to an antidote discovered by the doctor standing next to me.” He turned to his left to where Sophie stood alongside Luke. She looked bashful to be in the spotlight, as the photographers snapped her picture, and she blinked as the flashing lights gave a stroboscopic effect. “Her part in this catastrophe and the millions if not billions of lives saved worldwide, is incalculable. It is possible to assume that the human race might not have survived… and it is with this gratitude that I give her and her department, unlimited funds, to watch, and wait for the next pandemic — and there will be another one — to act with speed and efficiency to exterminate the contagion.” He paused, smiled and turned to Sophie. “Ladies and gentlemen, it gives me great pleasure to introduce you to the new Surgeon General; Doctor Sophie Garcia-Spencer.

THE END

Copyright

Copyright: Martin Lamport

Published: 23th May 2014

The right of Martin Lamport to be identified as author of this Work has been asserted by him in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in retrieval system, copied in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise transmitted without written permission from the author.The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Content

Martin Lamport
THE DOOMSDAY INFECTION

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

CHAPTER 22

CHAPTER 23

CHAPTER 24

CHAPTER 25

CHAPTER 26

CHAPTER 27

CHAPTER 28

CHAPTER 29

CHAPTER 30

CHAPTER 31

CHAPTER 32

CHAPTER 33

CHAPTER 34

CHAPTER 35

CHAPTER 36

CHAPTER 37

CHAPTER 38

CHAPTER 39

CHAPTER 40

CHAPTER 41

CHAPTER 42

CHAPTER 43

CHAPTER 44

CHAPTER 45

CHAPTER 46

CHAPTER 47

CHAPTER 48

CHAPTER 49

EPILOGUE

Copyright