The Ebola Wall (6 page)

“You need to drink,” her gentle voice commanded. “Drink lots of water… all you can handle. You’ve lost a lot of blood and may have some internal bleeding. Water will help with your head as well.”

“Who are you?” Shane asked.

“I’m your caretaker and jailer,” she responded with a smile.

“Jailer?”

To answer his question, she turned slightly and patted the pistol holstered on her belt. “Don’t try anything clever,” she said. “I hate shooting people.”

Something in the woman’s green eyes convinced Norse.
I bet you do
, he thought.

The colonel knew he needed to sleep, his long night at the command rooftop depriving him of an entire night’s rest. He was still “revved-up,” however, the positive energy of an operation that had been a complete success still flowing through his body.

He instructed the major to drop him off a mile from his quarters. “I need to walk off some of this stress,” he informed the junior officer. “I know a short-cut through the park.”

“Just as a reminder, sir, we’re supposed to attend the board’s celebration this morning. You didn’t hear it from me, but I think they are planning on giving you an award.”

“You don’t say?” Taylor responded, mocking surprise.

“You earned it, sir. I haven’t seen our people so upbeat since the Q began. Folks are walking around like they have a purpose in life.”

“I noticed that,” the colonel nodded. “I tried to tell our friends on the board that would be the case. Leadership entails keeping morale at high levels, son. Don’t let anyone ever tell you differently.”

Taylor exited the Jeep, again nodding his thanks to the driver. “See you later, Major.” He then began the long walk back to his rack, contemplating what they wanted to accomplish next.

Essentially the ruling council of Houston, the board consisted of various individuals who assumed the leadership vacuum created when the old city and county governments had collapsed.

The board’s membership was a mixed lot. Among their ranks served both a minister and a priest, the latter having beenthe
Archdiocese of the Houston/Galveston Catholic community. A
nother was a self-described “old school Baptist preacher,” who in reality was the leader of one of the city’s famous mega-churches. His pre-Ebola flock had numbered in the tens of thousands. In addition, there was a ranking police commander, a senior officer of the local National Guard Units, three business executives, a hospital president, and of course, Colonel Taylor.

Taylor always felt like he was the outlier of the ruling body.

Every other member had been in a position of power or prestige before the collapse. The colonel had been nothing more than a manager of a small, private security team that guarded warehouses in an industrial complex.

He’d been forced to come out of retirement because of Jenny, his wife of 31 years. Diagnosed with stage three breast cancer, Mrs. Taylor’s medical bills were on the verge of depleting the couple’s retirement funds, his VA insurance clearly not up to the task.

At the advice of another retired Marine, Jack had applied for an open spot, basically a supervisor of a 16-man strong department of night watchmen. Many of the guards were younger jarheads who had left the Corps and been unable to find better paying work.

Compared to his responsibility while actively serving, managing the small operation at the Northside Industrial Complex was light duty. There were two streets of huge warehouses and a couple of small manufacturing facilities, all surrounded by a chair-link, barbed wire-topped fence. They patrolled, checked locks, and manned the guard booth at the entrance. It was a low-key job with little stress, yet provided enough supplemental income to give the Taylor household a chance to see Jenny’s treatment through.

There was another advantage to the job – location. Northside was right down the street from the non-profit hospital complex where the uninsured and underinsured like his wife were being treated. The retired Marine liked being close to his mate, the proximity seeming to comfort her as well.

When Ebola had come to the shores of the United States, the colonel hadn’t been concerned. He’d been around the world enough to recognize media-induced hype, and besides, Jenny was struggling with her medications. He was aware, but not focused on the situation, most of his free time spent at his wife’s bedside.

The first reported cases to hit Houston did little to elevate his concerns. Watching his wife’s body reject her cocktail of medications consumed the colonel’s thoughts and energy. Even when the occasional news report did alarm him, he pushed it back. Jenny needed calm – she had enough to worry about.

When news broke of the virus’s mutation into a more deadly strain, he found himself comforting both a declining spouse and a nervous bunch of employees. Most of his guards were young men with families and small children. His calm, in-control leadership style quelled anxiety and earned respect.

So caught up in the events of his immediate surroundings, Taylor actually missed the president’s announcement of Houston’s quarantine, learning of the life changing news from an employee who was uncertain if he should leave his family and report for work.

“Colonel, I hate to leave you hanging,” the former NCO had stated. “But there’s a lot of very upset people in my neighborhood. They’re mulling around down at the corner, and I can hear some pretty harsh words flying around. There’s going to be trouble, sir, and my wife and kids are scared shitless.”

“Bring them with you,” Taylor had replied, something in the man’s voice making the retired officer’s small hairs come alert. “We can make them comfortable here, and you can keep an eye on them.”

“It’s more than just that, Colonel. Have you watched the news? They’re showing video of empty grocery store shelves, mile-long lines at gas stations, and a lot of very angry people bunching up. Most of the banks have closed, and somebody threw a Molotov cocktail at a police car.”

His employee’s words made Taylor aware he’d been hearing far more sirens than was typical. “I’ll check it out as soon as we hang up. Pack up whatever you can, and bring it with you. We’ll ride out the storm here at the complex.”

Word had spread quickly amongst the tight-knit staff, the guards appreciating their boss’s flexibility and concerns for their loved ones. They also knew the security of being in numbers. By the end of the second day of the quarantine, the colonel found his facility had morphed into a combination daycare center and refugee camp. Girlfriends, children, parents, and friends scampered about turning one of the empty warehouses into a condominium of sorts. Some smartass named the building the “Hotel Zombie.”

The events of morning Q+3 completely justified everyone’s concerns. Taylor, spending the night on a cot in his office, was awakened by a very upset watchman. “Sir, something’s going on down at the hospital. I know Mrs. Taylor is there, and I thought you would want to check it out.”

Rushing outside, Taylor spied a column of smoke rising into the morning sky. There was a nearly continuous chorus of sirens. Hustling to his car, the colonel made for the hospital, praying his wife was unharmed. He soon found his way blocked by a huge crowd of people and a wall of Houston police officers. St. Mary’s charity hospital was burning, streams of water reaching skyward to fight the boiling smoke and flames soaring from the windows of the complex’s third floor.

“They’ve got a cure in there,” someone in the throng was shouting. “Those doctors have a cure, but you’ve got to be rich before they’ll let you in.”

Another group was chanting, “Cure the poor! Cure the poor!”

Someone had even made signs, a mulling group on the sidewalk holding up placards accusing the government of everything from conspiracy to outright fraud.

The colonel had seen his share of unrest. He’d been in Iraq when the regime had crumbled under the weight of American armor, watched an insurgency drum up local anger in Mosul a few years later. It was obvious that the situation in front of him was about to get out of control. It only took a rumor… a single misspoken word or partially heard phase to get it started. He had to get Jenny out. But how?

Luckily, a Marine Corps officer isn’t easy discouraged. Taylor began circling the facility on foot, seaching for any opening to bypass the police and fire units keeping the public at bay.

He discovered the hospital’s dumpsters unguarded. A few moments later he pulled on a blue, disposable surgery smock and skull cap. The distracted cops let him pass without question.

Recalling the enormous facility’s floor plan, Taylor headed for the emergency room entrance. Rounding a corner, he came upon a grassy area filled with patients lying on the ground, nurses and aides hustling everywhere to deliver care.

Fireman and staff were bringing more stretchers to the triage area, often laying the patients on the grass and then rushing back into the building to retrieve others. It was bedlam.

He made for the entrance, but paused after encountering a harried-looking nurse with a clipboard. She intercepted two fireman exiting with a stretcher between them. “Where is that patient from?” she demanded.

“The 2
^nd
floor, east end,” came the reply.

“Over there,” she pointed. “Do you know the patient’s name?”

“Are you kidding me, lady?” the exhausted rescuer snapped. “I don’t know my own name right now.”

Not giving her time to catch a breath, Taylor approached with authority. “Where are the 4
^th
floor oncology patients, nurse?”

Without even looking up, the frustrated woman pointed towards a section of the grounds. “Over there, just past the fountain,” she responded.

Taylor didn’t bother to thank the woman, figuring he’d already pressed his luck. He identified the collection of prone cancer patients lying haphazardly on the otherwise meticulously manicured lawn. Three of the bodies were covered, head-to-toe, with sheets. After unsuccessfully scanning the infirm for some sign of recognition, he began the unpleasant task of peering under the linens in search of her. Less than a minute later, he found his spouse. Jenny was dead.

The colonel couldn’t remember much after pulling back that sheet. His wife’s normally bright face was blackened by smoke residue, her hair smelling like she’d been hovering over a campfire for an entire weekend. The grief-stricken husband simply sat down on the grass and began weeping, gripping his mate’s cold hand.

Taylor had no idea how long he’d sat beside Jenny’s body. What he could recall was being shaken out of his trance by a small explosion, immediately followed by the screaming of several dozen people. Someone had torched a police car, the demonstration now escalating into a full-blown riot.

It took him a few moments to shake off the fog of bereavement, to pull his head out of the muddle of losing the only thing in life he had left. Both of his sons were dead and gone – Jenny had been it. Bending to give his wife one last kiss on the forehead, Taylor rose stoically and began meandering back to his car.

Mass confusion and turmoil swirled around the colonel as he trekked through what had essentially become a combat zone. With squared shoulders and a stiff walk, he marched right past the worst of it. He felt there was nothing left to lose.

He was met with friendly, caring faces upon returning to the complex. Most of the men in his employ could tell something had gone badly wrong. His people rallied around their stricken comrade, offering condolences and sympathy when he finally announced that his wife had died in the fire.

If there was any silver lining to the colonel’s cloud, it was in the timing. He was barely functioning two days later when the fever hit. A grief-filled core had voided his appetite, so there wasn’t much to vomit. The pain brought on by Ebola-B was nothing compared to the agony he was already experiencing.

Houston had slid into complete anarchy. There were no functioning hospitals, no available ambulances. Cell and landline phone service had all but ceased to exist. Roving mobs of angry, dejected people roamed the streets outside of the complex’s high barbwire fences.

The security team, now living exclusively within the confines of the complex’s grounds, did its job. Some sense of survival brought them together, an instinct that made them all realize that the only thing separating their families from the animal-like behavior outside the gates was each other. They did what they were hired to do, protecting the warehouses and facilities under their charge.

Their small island of sanctuary was threatened more than once. On Q+8, a sizable mob began gathering at the front guard shack, several of the younger males pointing toward the group of un-looted buildings residing on the grounds. The security detail soon found itself in a standoff with three dozen hungry-looking men.

The firefight erupted less than 20 minutes later. In addition to their sidearms, the colonel’s team had access to AR15 rifles and 12-gauge shotguns. “A pistol,” the Marine often said, “is only useful to fight your way back to the rifle you never should have put down in the first place.” The battle at the front gate didn’t last long.