Genetic Drift (2 page)

Marcus was joined by Brigand and Jean-Paul.  There was an open door in front of them.  Brigand had been prepared to use any type of detonation required for the assault, so he was upset that explosives were now unnecessary since the Troll had slid open the door. 

Their mission was to gather intelligence, not cause destruction.  

Marcus and Jean-Paul took the lead through the door.  Brigand was close to follow the duo, maintaining coverage of the back.  

Side-by-side, they entered the second corridor.  Like the first corridor, the walls were tempered in metal.  Unlike the first corridor, two fluorescent lines ran along the corridor wall.   The violet hue was dim but it was bright enough to light the space.  Marcus walked to the lines through the violet light.  He looked closely.  Like the fluid coming out of the crack, one was blue and the other one, red.  Jean-Paul tapped Marcus on the shoulder and pointed down the corridor.

Marcus saw the open door and signaled to approach.  As they progressed to the doorway, their footsteps echoed down the corridor.  Brigand maintained his guard at the opposite door.

“I wonder where these lines go?” Jean-Paul asked.  

“Looks like we’ll find out in the next room,” Marcus answered.

Marcus and Jean-Paul used a tactical entry through the door.  Each soldier entered with their guns raised, ready to fire.  They scanned the area for Trolls and none were revealed.  Their absence was a welcomed sight.  Marcus noticed that this area was different from the corridors.  He had heard of other militias attacking bunkers but this area was never mentioned in any briefings.   The interior design of these structures was a mystery since there was minimal intelligence.  It had been less than a year since the Attack. 

The center of the room was filled with four rows of three surgery tables.  All of the tables were covered with what looked like blood.  Vats the size of water heaters lined the wall.  Ten vats filled with the red liquid alternated with ten vats filled with blue liquid.  

“This must be some sort of autopsy room and that must be the source of those lines,” Jean-Paul said.

Marcus looked above the surgery tables as five red lines dangled from the ceiling. A needle extended from each line and rested on each table.  Except for one table.  The red lines hung limply over a huddled mass.  Marcus spotted the mass and walked past the vats, red, blue, red.  The mass caught his attention but he knew it was not a Troll.  It was much too small to be one of those beasts.  He crouched and watched the mass as he approached.  When he was at arm’s length, Marcus nudged the mass with the muzzle of his gun.  He used the muzzle to fling off the blanket and quickly adjusted his gun back on target.  

The mass moved.  He tightened his grip to pull the trigger. 

“That isn’t a blob,” Marcus thought.

The mass was human.  It turned its head slowly and Marcus saw a deep blue eye.  It was a woman, and she was lying naked on the table.  

Jean-Paul spotted Marcus and the woman.  He aimed his machine gun at her.  

“Hold fire, hold fire, it’s a survivor,” screamed Marcus and his arms stretched to create a shield.  Jean-Paul rushed over to the table.

Marcus kept watch on her blue eye.  She kept turning toward him and her other eye appeared.  It was red.  The same color red that was in the vat next to her.  She had an eye that was completely red except for the small black iris that stared at him.  She was some sort of experiment.  She had to be.  She had an alien implanted eye.  

Silence overcame them as they gazed at her lying on the table.  She stopped moving and tried to speak.  Silence was the only sound that left her mouth.  That and her breath.  She shook in her nakedness.  She was in desperate need of help and Marcus knew it.  He helped her sit up as Jean-Paul grabbed the blanket and quickly wrapped it around her.

“Is that a woman? Here?” Brigand yelled, as he entered the room.

“Yeah, we haven’t heard of any people in one of these bunkers, let alone any survivors.  We need to get her out of here,” Jean-Paul said.  

“You’re right, Captain Obvious,” Brigand stated.

“It’s Sergeant and let’s get going,” Marcus replied.  

“What about the rest of the mission?” Brigand asked.

Marcus knew that ‘this’ was what the mission was about now.

“She is the intelligence and we need to leave, now!”  

Brigand and Jean-Paul nodded.  Marcus picked her up and swaddled the blanket around her body.  

Marcus, tall and muscular, towered over the woman’s body.  Even after fighting the Trolls, his makeshift uniform was still smart.  He wore it well.  He had been in the military before the Attack.  The trained habits of working out and eating well never escaped him as he refused to let his body go into disrepair.  He was strong enough to support himself and the woman he draped over his shoulder. 

He led the team out of the area, avoiding the red and blue tendrils hanging from the ceiling as he navigated through the blood stained tables.  He remembered that he had to make a report to Command.

Before Marcus could make his report, a sudden
boom
went off in the distance.  Command came over the commlink. 

“All units abort mission and evacuate all areas immediately, out!” the radio operator yelled frantically.

They began to sprint toward the small opening they had entered during the assault.   The woman felt a sickness in the pit of her stomach from all of the bouncing on her savior’s shoulder.  She could feel her stomach push up to her mouth with every stride he took.  

Marcus was the first through the crack.  Another
boom
sounded directly behind him.  

A large explosion sent a shockwave and flames throughout the bunker.  Brigand and Jean-Paul didn’t escape as flames engulfed the corridor.  Their screams instantly turned into silence.  Marcus managed to carry the woman through the opening.  The blast lifted his body and launched them both away from the bunker.

Marcus lifted his head and could see the woman lying on the ground.  He stretched out his hand but his fingers couldn’t reach her.  He began to push up his body but his legs failed him.  He strained with the thought of moving his legs or his feet.  Nothing would budge below his waistline, no matter how hard he tried.  His arms gave up and his head fell to the ground.  He conceded the movement of his lower body.  The strain in his voice could be heard as he called over his commlink.

“Hotel Bravo, Alpha Seven, SITREP to follow… Alpha Seven, One, Minus Four, Plus One, request assistance, over.”  

“Alpha Seven, hold you low and barely readable, assistance in route, ETA 1-5 mikes, out,” the radio operator replied.

The woman was lying on the ground, weak, unable to move or defend herself.  Each minute seemed like a month had passed.  She felt overcome as she struggled to keep her eyes open.  The sound of the flames waned as the sound of chatter entered the area.  Her vision became blurry.  Shades of light and dark passed in front of her eyes.  A small grin appeared on her face, help had finally arrived.  She drifted out of consciousness and the world went black.  

Day 274

HAPPY PAWS MEDICAL CENTER

CHARLOTTESVILLE, VIRGINIA

It seemed to be a normal day in the town of Charlottesville, with the exception of the convoys of large trucks and SUVs driving in and out of town.  The blasts and the smoke were a far distance away and the citizens not involved in the assault had no idea of the damage on the other side of the hills and mountains.  It was too far away for them to notice.

The medical workers were the exception to the ignorance.  They had been working non-stop since the first casualties arrived.  At first, groups of twos and threes would come in as a vehicle arrived in the middle of the night.  Cuts and bruises primarily, with most of the soldiers either ready to go back on patrol or dead, very little in between.  The number of survivors lessened as time went on.  The hospital received a transport and had the soldiers back on their feet and out of the door in less than an hour.

Maddie arrived in an SUV, along with Marcus.  Marcus, with more serious wounds, was delivered to the hospital.  Maddie, on the other hand, was brought to an old veterinary clinic for her care.  An elderly man, the doctor, was ready to receive her in the early morning.  Being a large man, he was able to carry her without a gurney.  He placed her on the only hospital bed in the building and directed his young assistant, Barron, to start her preliminary care.

Barron was no older than the woman who lay in front of him, but had the bedside manner of a seasoned professional.  His blonde locks draped over his ears and collar as he ran his hands through his hair.  He reached for the cabinet above the woman’s head but his waistline barely cleared the top of the bed.  He pulled out a bag and looked down at the new arrival.

“What the hell is going on with her? What did they do to her?” he looked at the woman from head to toe.  Her body seemed normal, no weird abrasions, no bruises.  He spoke to her as if she could respond, “You hang in there.  I have to get some blood samples for the doctor.”  Barron walked around the bed and put his hand on her wrist.  He kept his eyes on his watch, “Yep, normal.”  He touched her hands, her feet, and her cheeks hoping for some kind of reaction.

The rubber tourniquet snagged everything it ran across as Barron tied it around the woman’s arm.  The sterile smell of alcohol filled the room.  He opened the package and took out a needle.  He felt her arm for his target and stuck her with the needle.  Watching as he drew her blood, Barron saw that her eyes remained closed and she still showed no reaction to his movements.  

A deep voice came from behind, “Barron, don’t expect too much, she might not be waking up any time soon.  She’s very weak and just hanging in there.”  Dr. McCluskey, or ‘Mac’ as he liked to be called, looked down at Barron and saw the concern on his face.  

“She has a concussion, Mac.”

“She needs rest.  The best thing we can do right now is get that blood to the lab and prevent any other issues that we can’t see.”  

“Yeah yeah, okay.  I’ll go,” Barron said.  

“Oh, and Barron, nobody should know any details about who this is for.  If anyone asks, the panels are for the militia,” Mac directed the young man. 

Barron left the bedside and packed up the lab kit.  Mac, one of the few doctors left in the area, had located his treatment facility in an old veterinary clinic.  All medical care was conducted through satellite medical facilities except for emergency care.  The triage center was still inside the main hospital and that is where the lab was housed.  Mac had developed the concept to minimize the gathering of large groups of people.  Too many people in one place meant that too many lives could be lost at one time.

Barron walked outside of Mac’s clinic and headed straight for the hospital.  There were a few shops still open but since store deliveries had all stopped, the niceties of life before the Attack were virtually non-existent.  The Avalon Militia was formed in response to the Attack and the area was patrolled by militia soldiers.  The citizens were able to walk freely during the day unless the attack alarm sounded.  The militia fended off a few of the Trolls’ attacks on the town.  At least it seemed that way.  Yesterday marked the militia’s first offensive since the Attack.  

“Great job, Derrick,” Barron spoke his congratulations as he walked by one of the militia members.

“Thanks and thanks for your help too,” Derrick shook his head and picked up his pace to avoid more conversation.

Barron was not a member of the militia since he had been selected to assist Mac.  Barron didn’t let Derrick’s comment bother him since it wasn’t his fault he was not in the militia.  He continued on his way to the lab, walking by a shopping center.  The shopping area had been a place where he would meet with his friends while his parents worked at their pharmacy.  He would spend his days there playing, laughing, and joking before the Attack but now it was filled with holes and broken glass.  “Nice walk down Memory Lane,” he muttered in denial of the terrible memories that haunted him.  Barron walked straight through the front doors of the main hospital.  He didn’t bother to look at the directory and went straight for the lab.  He knew exactly where it was and had been there several times since he started working for Mac.  

Barron strolled past the triage area.  There were several people behind the drawn curtains.  Those souls must’ve been from the assault.  He heard screaming as he walked past the first drawn curtain.  Barron hadn’t seen the Emergency Room so active since the first days after the Attack.   Even then, he was there with his mother and father and wasn’t paying much attention to anything else.  They were unable to recover from the first attack on Charlottesville.  He weaved through the hustle and bustle of doctors and nurses.  He knew he wasn’t supposed to look, but the urge overcame him.  He peeked behind the first curtain to see the source of the screaming.  Bloody towels were lying on the floor. A doctor and four nurses were working on a man on the hospital bed.  

“Sedate him now!” screamed the doctor.  The nurse hurriedly injected the man with a general anesthetic.  Within moments, the man lay quietly on the bed.  The doctor and nurses took a step back to collect themselves.  “Make sure he’s back on the monitor and let’s take five,” the doctor ordered the nurses.  The team scurried to put everything in place.  They rushed out of the curtained area to take a much needed break.  Barron watched as each of them walked past, not noticing his blonde mop.  

Unfortunately, the last nurse spotted him and asked, “What are doing here?” Barron opened his mouth but before he could answer, she barked, “You have no business in triage.  Get on with your business and if you don’t have any to do… then don’t do it here.”  The nurse scoffed as she turned.  After a day like this, she was not missing her break.  

Barron turned as if to walk toward the lab.  As soon as the nurse was out of sight, he returned to the drawn curtain.  He slinked his way toward the hospital bed and looked at the man’s back.  It was riddled with metal shards and gashes where the metal shards had been.  He noticed a tattoo on his arm, “Marcus Smith” was written in bold letters.  

“We’ve been working on him since six last night,” Barron heard the nurses coming back.  He ducked under the curtain.  Out of fear of getting caught, he waited until the walkway was clear of the nurse that scolded him.  When he heard her voice next to Marcus Smith, he darted toward the lab.

The lab was a few turns away from triage.  Barron entered the lab and was greeted by Ron.  “Hello Ronald, I’m dropping off a blood panel for Mac,” Barron chuckled his hello.  He knew that Ron hated his first name.

Ron sternly shot back, “First off, it’s Ron, don’t call me Ronald.  Second, give me the panel. You’re lucky this is for Mac.  You smartass.”  

Barron stared at Ron’s freckles and buckteeth.  Ron was a giant compared to Barron.  Even with a counter between them, Barron had to look straight up to see his face.

Ron continued, “Let Mac know that I’ll have the results back in a couple days.  I have other things to test with a higher priority.  When the guys who are protecting you need something, you get it done.”  His tasking was set by the authorities in town.

“These panels are for the militia as well.  Don’t you think these are a priority too… Ron?” Barron asked, “Mac is doing this for the militia.”  

Ron looked at the vials of blood and then back to Barron, “Okay, since they are for Mac and the militia… I’ll have them done tomorrow.”  

“Thanks… Ron,” Barron snickered.

“Watch it, they’re not done yet,” Ron said to a grinning Barron.  Barron dropped his smirk and walked out of the lab.  As he was making his way to the exit, he returned to Marcus Smith’s hospital bed.  He glanced through the curtain and saw the doctor and nurses removing the metal shards from his back.  “At least they aren’t deep,” muttered Barron, pulling his head from the curtain.  

Barron walked back to Mac’s clinic, passing by the shopping center.  Derrick was nowhere in sight and the few shops conducting business were closing down for the evening.  Nobody was allowed out at night except for the militia.  They were the only ones permitted to be outside after the sun went down for citizen’s protection.  

The Trolls were active only at night and the militia members standing guard shot on sight, or even sound.  That was life.  Get everything done during the day.  When the sun went down, it didn’t matter if death was delivered by the Trolls or by the militia, nobody wanted to die.

Barron entered the clinic and heard Mac, “Barron, get back here now!”  Barron ran to the new woman’s bed.  He knew that was where Mac would be since she was the only one there.  He entered the room and the woman was convulsing.  “Grab her!” Mac yelled.  Barron ran to the other side of the bed and threw his hands out to catch her arms.  She was shaking uncontrollably but he kept his full weight pressed on her arms.  Then she suddenly stopped convulsing.  Her body froze.  Mac released his grip, “Barron, you can let go now.”  Barron lifted his hands and looked at her monitor.  

“Mac, her vitals are the same as when I left,” Barron said.  

“She started a couple of seconds before you walked in the door.  Her pulse started to race and I came into the room.  I thought she was going to shake right out of bed,” Mac said, wiping his brow.  Mac had a high standard of care but she was different.  There was something about this woman that made Mac nervous about her welfare getting poorer.

“Let’s get an X-ray to see if we can spot anything in her… I should have done this earlier,” Mac said, upset with his decision to wait.  Barron had never seen Mac this worried.  Normally, Mac was as calm as a glassy sea.  Even after the Attack, Mac was the standard-bearer with everyone.  He kept a level head and saved many people.  

“Can we give her a name?  I’m tired of using pronouns all of the time.  Can we call her something else other than she, her, it, that woman, that girl?”  Barron asked as he helped moved the stiff body onto the cart.  

Mac, lightening his mood, said, “Sure, what do you have in mind?” as he lifted on his side.

“We’ll call her Tulip then.” Barron always liked the names of flowers.  He gently placed Tulip’s rigor mortis-like body on the cart.

Mac looked at him, rolling his eyes, “Really, all of the names in the world and you pick Tulip… great job.” Mac gave Barron a thumbs up.  “Let’s get Tulip into the X-ray and try to find out what’s going on,” Mac changed his tone to serious as Barron pushed the back of the cart.  Mac turned on the light in the X-ray room and steered Tulip into position.