Plagued: The Rock Island Zombie Counteractant Experiment (Plagued States of America) (5 page)

Ten

“Fourteen months
,” Warden Mitchell shouted.

Mason wasn’t sure if he couldn’t hear the
warden because he was still in shock, or if the deafening noise of the cell block earlier that night had caused permanent hearing loss.

“W
e’ve gone fourteen months without so much as a sniffle. No accidents! No nothing! A perfect record until you come along and in two days—
two days
—you’ve been here two days, and you kill one biter, put two biters into intensive care, and—” Warden Mitchell stared at Mason with a fatigued look of resignation. His voice lowered to a near whisper, and yet Mason could still hear him.

It must be shock
, Mason thought.

“I don’t eve
n know what to say about Matty. Do you have any idea how bad this looks?”

Mason said nothing.

“At ease, soldier,” Warden Mitchell finally breathed, his ire seemingly spent.

Mason realized he was still standing rigidly, still holding his salute.

“This again?” the warden asked, waving a half salute toward Mason. Mason lowered his own salute and stood at ease.

The
warden sank into his plush leather chair and lit a cigarette. “Want one?” he asked.

Mason shook his head.

The warden took a drag on his cigarette and let the smoke out slowly as he rubbed his temples. “Well, this is going to be one fucked up day. Why couldn’t you have just left the fucking biters in the cage?” he asked, almost pleading.

“I didn’t open the pen, sir,” Mason replied.

Warden Mitchell glared at him, taking another drag from the cigarette, exhaling hard toward Mason. “You could have said something or done something, dipshit. Why didn’t you shoot that fucking biter trying to eat Matty? You’re some kind of marksman, you know that? I wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t seen the goddamned video. Bam – right in the knee, from twenty feet away! Dead-on perfect hit. Couldn’t you have done that to the other biter’s head before it bit Matty?”

“The in
-processing training videos clearly indicate that lethal force is to be—”

“I know what the fuck the videos say
,” the warden shouted. He took another drag from his cigarette to calm himself. “I’d rather be chewing you out over killing a few biters than having to write a letter home to Curtis’ family. Next time, fucking shoot to kill, do you understand?”

“Is that an order, sir?”

“You’re goddamned right it is. Only there better not be a fucking next time. I’ve already got enough scrutiny and congressional oversight to handle. That shit on the Hill made sure of that. And that’s another thing, Jones. How the fuck am I supposed to trust you? I can’t put you back in there to work alone, and I can’t put anyone with you because….” The warden threw his hands in the air and waved them at Mason. “You’re just fucked,” he said while inhaling from the cigarette again.

“I can ha
ndle working alone, sir.”

Warden Mitchell
raised an eye, breathing out smoke from another drag. The cigarette was almost done. He held it next to his mouth and turned in his chair to look out the window at the morning gray. Another dismal dawn on the island. “Fourteen months gone to hell,” he said softly, taking one last drag as he spun in his chair to mash the cigarette out in his ashtray. “With all those reporters all stirred up over the incident at the Hill, this is worse than the last time.”

Accident Report
of September 3
rd
regarding Little, James, Corporal, US Army, assigned to Rock Island as night shift patrol specialist. Official records indicate he was overcome while attempting to corral and detain two non-infectious inmates. Unofficially, he was found with his pants around his ankles in a cell that previously contained two female inmates, both of whom were freely roaming the cell block after having partially eaten Corporal Little’s exposed neck, arms, and legs. Both female subjects were without clothing and one was still partially restrained at the arms.

“No one works alone on graves,” Warden Mitchell said
at last. “I’ll rearrange some other men’s schedules. In the meantime, consider yourself relieved of duty.”

“Sir?”

“Take the day off, but don’t leave the island. And for fuck’s sake, stay away from any reporters if they find you.”

“Sir
, should I check in tonight?”

“
Just a phone call is sufficient. Call your duty officer at your normal check-in.”

“Yes, sir,” Mason replied.

“Unless there’s anything else, you’re dismissed,” Warden Mitchell said, waving another half intended salute toward Mason.

Mason retreated to the door and left the
warden’s office. Outside were four desks for the administrative team, all empty. Another door led to the reception desk where Mason heard a man’s raised voice.

“
…I’ve been sitting here fifteen minutes,” the man was complaining loudly. Mason stepped into the reception area and halted. The Sergeant behind the desk looked up at Mason imploringly, expecting the warden. The large man in front of the counter crossed his arms and huffed.

“Are you in charge here?” the man asked.

Mason shook his head, looking the civilian up and down. It was easy to tell the hunters from everyone else on Biter’s Island. After seeing them for a few days, Mason knew the tell-tale signs: the rough and calloused looking hands, the leathery skin of long exposure to the outdoors, the loose, aged t-shirts that rip easily if grabbed hold of, the boots—the kind Matty wore—not military attire, but for the handling of zombies, probably a grade above.

“Well then
, what idiot
is
in charge around here?”

“That would be me, Mr.
Opland,” Warden Mitchell said from behind Mason.

Mason st
epped aside while turning. The warden had snuck up on him too easily. Mason’s senses were still dulled.

“Hank,” the large man snapped. “Just Hank.”

Opland, Henry, aka “Hank”, 53 years old. Recent survivor of Biter’s Hill disaster and eight-year licensed zombie hunter. He was the fifth person to apply for a license and maintained the record for longest tenure in the trade, all four of his predecessors having died or turned. He and the other survivors from the Biter’s Hill incident had been airlifted to Rock Island for quarantine. All except one survivor was released from quarantine. Of the released survivors, only Hank Opland remained to continue zombie trade activities.

Mason stiffened.

Eleven

Mason waited outside of the warden’s offices out of view, hiding under the canopy of a large tree near the street. Hank came out fuming, swearing audibly as he stomped to the sidewalk. Mason waited until Hank turned east toward the civilian compound before following him. With the sun just rising, there was a great deal of activity. Soldiers of every branch were crossing the streets from the barracks and heading for the mess hall. Weaving through them, Mason took on a certain level of anonymity that allowed him to follow Hank without being noticed, even when the big man stopped to look back, glaring toward the prison complex and uttering more oaths before continuing for the gate house.

A long chain-link fence with a crown of barbed wire spanned the width of the island, separating the civilian population from the military personnel. At both roads there was a guard
house that served as a checkpoint to limit the hunters, slavers, and vacationers from having unfettered access to the military facilities. Hank stopped at the gatehouse to show his identity, then walked briskly toward the golf course.

They were still on the road when Mason began jogging to catch up to Hank.

“Sir,” Mason called.

Hank stopped and waited for Mason, sizing him up with his eyes. Hank was a much bigger man, a lot like
Matty in a way.

“Mr.
Opland, can I have a word with you?”

“It’s Hank. Did your boss forget to get my phone number while he was screwing me?”

“Sir?” Mason asked in confusion.

“What do you want, boy?”

“I overheard you talking to the warden,” Mason said. “About Biter’s Hill.”

“What about it?”

“Were you one of the survivors?”

“What’s it to you?”

“The dead biter from this morning’s incident. Was it one of yours?”

“You’re goddamned right he was
,” Hank snapped. His eyes narrowed and he thrust a finger toward Mason, poking the air between them as he hissed the words, “And he wasn’t just some biter, kid.” His sneer lingered even as he turned around and started walking away again.

Mason kept up
with the bigger man’s pace, walking two strides to his side just in case Hank got angry. “Sir, there was nothing we could do for it.”

Hank stopped and turned, his face red with rage. “He had a goddamned name! The one that’s dead
—Mike—he was with us in Midamerica. He got bit saving us.” Hank sucked in a deep breath. Mason saw a twitch under the big man’s eye. “They said they would try to cure him, but it didn’t work,” Hank went on, throwing his hands in the air with the same contempt carried in his tone. “First it was something about the inhibitors he received being different, then they said it was because he was too fresh, that the antidote didn’t work on him because he was so new!”

“I’m sorry,” Mason said.

“Yeah, like hell you are.”

“Hey, I lost a man trying to save your friend,” Mason replied hotly.

Hank’s features softened, but he still appeared irritated.

“Did the w
arden tell you what happened?” Mason went on.

“Not much. He said three of my stock were involved in an accident and had to be disposed of.”

“Disposed of?”

“Put down. Their injuries were bad enough to affect their resale value, so they’re compensating me at the going market rate.”

Mason stared through Hank as the words settled in. He had been lied to before. There was nothing unusual about that in the Army or in politics or the world as a whole.
For God and
country
. That was the biggest lie of them all. Standing on a wall facing a horde of the living in Egypt or the dead here didn’t make a difference when it came to that. Both were about appearances. The appearance of stability and control in an environment far from it. The only difference between Egypt and Biter’s Island was that they could control what people saw here. In Egypt, it had been a free-for-all.

“I’d like to tell you what happened last night, but I can’t without running the risk of you going off to the
warden or the reporters or others who might open their mouths to the wrong person. It would all get back to me, I can assure you.”

“Why’s that?” Hank asked, squinting with one eye suspiciously.

“Because I’m the only one alive who was there when it happened.”

“
Well, I can keep secrets pretty well. Mike’s been in quarantine for four weeks and up until five minutes ago, only the warden and that bitch chief scientist Kennedy knew who he was.”

“Kennedy?” Mason asked with interest.

Twelve

“Is this him?” the Senator asked as he took a seat behind the desk. The encounter was weeks old, but Mason remembered it clearly. The location of the meeting was a back room at
Blanc
, one of a dozen restaurants in Larimer Square. Mason had been driven in from the airport in a black SUV with tinted windows. His driver may as well have been a mute for as much as he talked during the forty-minute drive. Mason looked out the window and kept track of the markers, wondering where everything was and where he was going. After what seemed an endless barrage of traffic signals, the driver pulled into an alley and parked the vehicle. They went in through the back door, past the cooks and kitchen staff, who acted as though they hadn’t noticed either of them arrive, then straight into an office with no windows. When they arrived, the office was occupied by a man in an expensive white suit.

“You’re here,” the man had said, putting down his pen and stuffing his notepad into a drawer before getting up and walking past Mason, smiling
at him but saying nothing else.

Mason
had thought to follow the white-suited man, but the silent driver put a hand on Mason’s shoulder and pointed at the visitor’s chair. When the Senator arrived, Mason stood, his mind racing, wondering why a Senator wanted to see him, and why here, in secret?

The driver nodded to the Senator.

“Jones?” the Senator asked.

“Yes, sir?” Mason replied.

“Go get me a Bourbon, would you?” the Senator asked Mason’s silent driver. They were alone then. The Senator walked past Mason, grinning ear to ear. He sat down and waved for Mason to do the same. “Do you know why you’re here, Lieutenant?”

“No, sir.”

“Do you know where you are?”

“Downtown Denver, Colorado.
”

“Specifically? I’m told you have an eye.”

“Your driver took the 70 after Peña from the airport, to the 36 to the 70 again, where we passed through two checkpoints, then to the 25 south, exiting Fox Street and travelling past the ballpark, taking Blake Street to 14
th
Street before coming up a back alley to this restaurant.”

“Shit, you
are
good. It’s a damned shame. I could use someone like you in my office. Do you know who I am?”

Mason didn’t answer right away. He still didn’t know what all this was about.

“William Jefferson,” the Senator told him.

Mason remained still.

“You don’t follow politics much, do you, son?”

Again Mason said nothing.
Senator Jefferson wasn’t someone he would vote for.

“A
ll right, I get it,” the Senator said. “If I was in your seat I probably wouldn’t want a bunch of idle chit-chat, either. I have a proposition for you. How would you like to do something great for your country?”

Mason didn’t get a chance to answer. A knock came at the door followed by the silent driver carrying a tall glass with ice and Bourbon in it.

“Do you have the file?” Senator Jefferson asked the driver as he accepted the glass. The driver nodded. The Senator waved a finger toward Mason as he sipped at his drink. The driver removed an envelope from the inside pocket of his jacket, revealing the butt of a 9mm pistol Mason already knew was strapped to his belt. The driver tossed the envelope past the Senator onto the top of the desk in front of Mason. Mason eyed the driver as he stepped behind the Senator with his hands crossed in front of his belly, ready to draw down if there was trouble.

Mason looked at the envelope but didn’t touch it.

“Go on, soldier. Take a look.”

“I don’t understand,” Mason replied.

“Look, son, the zombie plague has had its way with us long enough. I’m a patriot, just like you. I want to put a stop to it. Really, I do,” the Senator said with what sounded like sincere concern even as he took another sip of Bourbon. Mason wasn’t sure if he should buy it, though. Just because the Senator said it well didn’t mean he meant anything. “I want to make America great again. I want to put a stop to all the animosity toward us around the world. I want to clean up America and tear down the walls that divide this great nation. District Rules, Rural Rules, and then there’s the Plagued States where there are no rules, and yet it’s all America. We’re supposed to be
one
nation under God. I haven’t seen our union for over ten years. The America I grew up in is the America I want your children growing up in, but we’ve got to start by fixing it today.”

“I don’t have any children,” Mason replied flatly.

“It’s a figure of speech, son,” the Senator said with a disarming smile.

“It was a good speech, sir.”

The Senator took a drink and set down the glass, turning to look over his shoulder at his man. “I thought you said he would be on board.”

“He passed all the psych profiles,” the driver said calmly.

“He did?” the Senator asked skeptically. He turned and looked at Mason. “Do you understand what kind of honor this is to be chosen for a mission like this?”

“I don’t understand, sir. What mission?”

“Hasn’t he been briefed?” the Senator snapped at the driver, turning to glare at him.

“No
, sir,” the driver said. “We did show you his file. He’s the one we took from the psych ward.”

“Oh, yeah,” the Senator said, snapping a finger, then spun in his chair to look at Mason again, measuring him, gauging him as he took another sip of Bourbon. “Does his file say anything about his attitude?”

“A few reports of insubordination since the incident, but otherwise a match.”

“A few huh?” the Senator said.
“Let me ask you one question, Jones. When you used to stand the wall in Egypt and you could see those screaming protestors marching up the street with their picket signs and their sacks full of rocks, how did it feel knowing you weren’t allowed to shoot them unless they breached the wall? Even when they hurled stones and Molotov cocktails at you? Even when their snipers fired at you from nearby buildings every other day? Or their bombs exploded from cars charging the check points? How did it feel to be holding in your hand the weapon that could put a stop to it—your M-14—but guys like me sitting here at home told you to stand down instead of engage? Did that piss you off?”

“Which of those questions did you want me to answer, sir?” Mason replied.

“Fuck this,” Senator Jefferson said, throwing his hands up as he stood. “He’s not the one.”

“Maybe,” the driver said with a shrug. “Maybe not.”

“Why are we wasting our time with him? Find me someone else. Someone who gives a shit.”

“Sir,” Mason tried to interrupt.

“Shut up, son. You fucking blew it. It was nice knowing you, kid,” the Senator said while scooping up his glass. The Senator stopped at the doorway, his back to Mason and the driver. Mason didn’t stand. His driver didn’t budge. The envelope remained on the desk in front of him.

“Sir?” the driver asked
the Senator after a short silence.

“Send him in anyway. Maybe she can change his mind.”

“Yes, sir,” the driver said blandly. The Senator closed the door behind him as he left.

“What was this all about?” Mason asked the driver.

“You’re due at Fort Hood in the morning for in-processing and training. We have you on a red-eye. Take the envelope. It has some background about the facility and people assigned. Commit what you can to memory by the time we reach the airport. I’ve got your travel orders in the car. Your contact at final destination will be Danielle Kennedy. Can you remember that?”

“What is it that you guys want me to do? Where am I going?”

“Right now, you’re going to the airport. Kennedy will brief you on your assignment once you get to your final destination. It’s probably better for you to just go along for the ride. Get the lay of the land. Keep your eyes and ears open.”

“I don’t understand,” Mason said, staring at the envelope. “You know why they took me off the wall in Egypt, don’t you?
You know why I’m back home, right?”

“Yeah, I do. That’s kind of the point.”