End Days Super Boxset (100 page)

The eleven Ebola treatment centers in the camp were bustling with constant activity and were the places where most of their medical supplies and resources were used. Perhaps the worst job at the centers, however, involved the disposal of human remains. In order to transport remains safely and discreetly, two assigned soldiers dressed in complete protective gear would load bodies into the back of a large military cargo truck, then drive a mile away from the base to a spot where a large burn pit awaited them. It was a standard routine, and it wouldn’t be long before they made their next trip.

Inside each treatment center, military cots were aligned in closely-spaced rows. Nurses and medics moved around in their protective gear, tired and overworked. Morale was low among them after seeing so many of their coworkers become patients themselves. The sores, rashes, and pus-filled sacs on their bodies had rendered those infected unrecognizable.

The groans of pain and agony were never-ending. There were over fifty patients in each warehouse. The sickly patients, most of them dying, or those with not much longer to live, were the tragic victims of a relentless virus which had rapidly attacked and destroyed their tissues, muscles, and organs.

Medicine, serums, and antibiotics did nothing to stave off their physical degradation. The nurses could only provide relief from the pain through morphine, Hydrocodone, Oxycodone, and whatever else they could get their hands on.

Two buckets rested on the floor next to each bed. One was for vomit—usually a thick, dark red, and the other was for diarrhea, often bloody as well. The buckets had to be dumped into sealed biohazard bags and taken to the burn pit frequently. It was as if the insides of each patient were spilling out from every orifice. The virus didn't distinguish between male or female, young or old; the patients were of all ages and genders.

As hard as everyone worked, there was an undeniable hopelessness in the air, and it was growing with the increasing number of patients. Among the ten medical personnel left, there were talks of quitting despite their Hippocratic oath. Survival had become more important. They had already seen their colleagues contract the virus even after wearing full protective gear. There was no sense to any of it.

This attitude was not lost on two CDC medical researchers who had been deployed to the base as representatives of the agency. Dr. Kagan, a balding man in scrubs with a skinny neck and circle-framed glasses, and Dr. Costa, a heavier-set man with an abundance of hair and a dark shade of stubble. Initially, both had been optimistic about their work, but that soon changed.

They believed that the treatment centers were making the disease impossible to contain, and they soon refused to go near them. After that, they refused to even go outside. Instead, they chose an isolated room in a highly secure bunker to do their research.

Of the two underground bunkers at the base, one housed an armory where the military had stored weapons, ammunition, and supplies while another contained several holding cells that—throughout the base's history—had never been used. Whoever had access to the bunkers had control of the base.

Even before the mutiny, Dr. Kagan and Dr. Costa had grown to resent their time at Base 42 and questioned both the military's leadership and its decisions. It didn't take long before they were swayed by Bill Hodder to turn against them.

While conducting tests on different serums in their underground lab, they had come across some startling discoveries about the virus. Under microscopic examination, it looked two times the size of what they had been accustomed to seeing from the West African strain. It was clear that they were dealing with something different.

"Could this particular strain be airborne?" Dr. Kagan asked.

Dr. Costa looked down at the microscope in near disbelief. "I don't know. It appears to be even bigger than the ones we collected last week." He slowly rose and backed away from the counter. "This mutation is out of control. At this rate, I don't know if this base is going to last through the next week."

A silence came over the two men in their dimly-lit lab. Kagan suggested it first.

"The sick need to be removed from this base. That is, if we’re unable to treat this.”

Dr. Costa turned to him dismissively. "This is a military operation, as you know. Our say-so isn’t going to matter."

Dr. Kagan moved in closer, speaking forcibly. "If we take any more outsiders in here, it's over. At this point, I have to start thinking about my family in Georgia, and you have to start thinking about yours."

Dr. Costa seemed perturbed. “Just what exactly are you talking about?”

Dr. Kagan leaned in even closer. “There’s talk of an uprising. We need to be on the right side of this.”

Costa stared ahead, trying to contemplate what he was being told.

"Just stay out of their way," Dr. Kagan added. "That’s what we need to do."

***

Specialist Santos escorted Hodder down the long hall past empty offices and plaques and military photos affixed along the walls. Major Greene's office was located at the end corner and across from it, on the right, was the Tactical Operations Center or TOC. Always busy, the TOC functioned as a hub of communications between Base 42 and various governmental agencies and departments, such as the Pentagon and the CDC. Major Greene was always in the TOC, constantly asking for more support and more resources. However, the idea of support seemed less and less likely with each passing week.

As Hodder and Santos reached the entrance to the TOC, Santos looked up and told him to wait. A large RESTRICTED ENTRY sign was posted on the metal double doors. Bill took a step back and waited as Santos punched in some numbers on a nearby keypad and entered the room.

Inside, there were flat screens attached to the wall displaying a map of the U.S. with infected areas colored in bright red. All of Nevada, some of California, some of Texas, and nearly all of Florida were in the red.

Numbers scrolled on another screen, displaying the number of infected in the millions, and those presumed dead in the hundreds of thousands. Another screen ran a news ticker detailing the pandemonium occurring across the country as a result of the outbreak.

There were three other soldiers in the room, all manning the phones—a captain, a lieutenant, and a sergeant. Major Greene stood in the center of the room monitoring the screens. A large cup of coffee sat on the table next to him.

"Tell 'em we need them to airlift support pronto. We got a crisis at this base, and I don't know how much longer we can hold out!" Major Greene said gruffly to the sergeant holding one of the phones.

Greene was a tall, bulky man nearing his sixties but seemingly unfazed by aging. He was in better shape than most of the soldiers at the base half his age. He had a thick white mustache, as if he were an old-time cowboy. The persona was certainly there, typical for a military man who had permanent residence in Sun Valley.

There seemed to be a lot of commotion in the room, and no one immediately took notice of Santos walking slowly toward the Major as he suddenly turned around.

"Santos! What the hell are you doing in here? Can't you see we're busy?"

"Yes, Sir. I know, but—"

Greene wasn't finished. "And how did you get in? This is a restricted area!"

"I have security clearance, Sir. They gave me a PIN."

Greene scoffed. "Well, we're gonna hafta change that real quickly. It's sergeant and above in here."

"Yes, Sir."

The three other soldiers remained on landline phones, not turning around to see what the major was griping about.

"So what is it? We gotta crisis on our hands and you’re distracting me! Spit it out!"

"Sir. Um. Bill Hodder is with me, and he wants to speak with you."

Greene took a step back, surprised. "Hodder? What the hell does that silver-spoon baby want to talk to me about? I don't have any time for his shit right now!"

Santos leaned in closer, shifting around nervously while trying to keep his voice down. "It's important, Sir. There's talk of an uprising."

Greene tilted his head and gave Santos a look. "Uprising? By whom? The Ebola patients?"

Santos was almost whispering. "No, Sir. The civilians on base. The healthy ones."

Greene backed away, disinterested. "Look, tell Hodder to go pound dirt. I don't have time for this happy horseshit right now. I got people dyin' left and right. You're dismissed, Santos.”

"But—"

"I said you’re dismissed!" Greene shouted, causing the other soldiers to turn around at last and look. Santos felt humiliated. Defiant, he remained and spoke loudly. "It's about last night, Sir. The dead civilians. Word is getting out."

Greene squinted and twisted the corners of his mouth to one side. It was clear that Santos had got to him.

"You tell Hodder..." he stated in a slow and baritone voice, "...tell him to wait in my office."

"Yes, Sir," Santos said. He scurried out of the room as the team inside went back to their business. Once the doors closed, Greene let out a big, exhausted sigh.

***

Hodder stood against the wall across from the entrance as Santos came out. "He said to wait in his office and that he'll be with you in a minute."

"Very well," Hodder said. He pushed the door open to Major Greene's office right next to where he was standing and began to walk inside. Suddenly, he stopped and turned to Santos. "Just wait outside and be ready for the signal."

"Wait, what signal?" Santos asked.

Without response, Hodder walked inside and shut the door. The office was decked out with military plaques and awards from Major Greene's long, distinguished career. He had a glass display case with miniature figurines, military coins, and numerous other items from his travels and deployments.

Hodder had a strange contempt for the military, even though his own father was a high-ranking Air Force general. He had spent half his childhood moving from military base to military base and had always found it difficult to adjust. His father thought his antisocial behavior was a weakness. Hodder had gone into politics to prove many things: he was able to show his father that he could connect with people and be accepted by them. He could also manipulate and control them.

Despite obtaining his law degree, starting a legal practice, running for office and becoming a Senator, his career was dwarfed by his father’s, who had a high-ranking position at the Pentagon. For a moment, his mind drifted back to the bad things: the disappearance of his first wife, that thing with his young female intern and the subsequent trial where he was eventually acquitted. His political career hadn’t survived and his father disowned him, just like that. But even after his father’s passing, Hodder still felt like he had something to prove.

Major Greene’s large mahogany desk sat squarely in the middle of the room with two vinyl-covered chairs in front of it and one vinyl swivel chair behind it. The window behind the desk let plenty of light into the room, with the curtains drawn aside and the sun rising.

Hodder leaned against one of the chairs and scanned the room. He patted his jacket pocket for reassurance and felt something metallic and thick, on-hand just in case.

The door opened and Major Greene walked in, going straight to his desk. "Mr. Hodder, what’s on your mind?"

"Good morning, Major."

Major Greene told Hodder to sit as he walked around to his desk and sat in his oversize chair. The major seemed preoccupied and overworked. He began scribbling something onto a notepad, then threw the pen across the room, cursing. Apparently the pen had stopped working. He regained his composure, looked up at Hodder, and folded his arms.

"To what do I owe the extreme pleasure of this early morning visit?"

"Thank you for your time. There's some very important matters that we need to discuss."

"You don't say?" Greene said, tilting his head.

"Absolutely. The question is, where do we start?"

Major Greene looked flummoxed. His face appeared to turn red as he looked at his watch. "Santos said that you wanted to discuss last night."

"Sure," Hodder said, nearly smiling. "Let's start there. Who gave the order to massacre those civilians?"

Greene immediately put his hand out. "I'm gonna have to stop you there. Those civilians weren't shot for target practice. We were trying to protect the base. It was a hard decision. A tragic one. But none of those civilians had been in-processed."

"So you gave permission?"

Major Greene shook his head as his voice rose. "No, I didn't. It was my sergeant of the guard, and I completely back him up on this one. The soldiers were behaving within protocol and the rules of engagement as far as I'm concerned."

"I think that's disputable," Bill said.

Greene lunged forward, as if ready to attack him, but controlled himself. "Would you prefer if we’d just let 'em run off? Maybe they could've gone into your room, infected the whole lot of ya'."

"Were there any infected among the dead?"

Greene glared at Hodder with contempt. "I think we're done talking about that. What's your next concern?"

"Several things, actually," he began. "As you know, I speak for the majority of the people on the base."