Dead Again (3 page)

CHAPTER FOUR

Peterson entered an underground bunker, walking past an endless cache of military equipment. It was like a supermarket for the latest military hardware: racks upon racks of assault rifles, handguns, flame throwers, C-4 explosives, hand-grenades….It was a soldier’s wet dream.

But Peterson had other things on his mind. Now clean-shaven, sharp, dressed in full black combat gear, an MP5 assault rifle in hand, he was focused. He didn’t look like the same man. His expression, the look in his eyes: he had his war face on.

He wanted to survey his team, to see for himself whose hands he’d be putting his life into, and whose lives he would be responsible for. And he wanted to come upon them by surprise, and to observe them unannounced.

His first stop was the men’s locker room. He opened the door quietly and spotted Corporal Sharon Berman, toweling off, naked. Her body was tight, Amazonian in stature, more muscular than many men, and she wore a sheering crew cut. There was a tattoo on her ass--a mean black skull, with a caption:
hell on earth.

Next to her, naked and toweling off as well, was Corporal Tag Winston. Peterson remembered him: he was an adrenaline seeker, a damn good chopper pilot, and Peterson observed, with approval, that he had more scars than could be counted: shrapnel, bullet holes, knife wounds.

“Did I ever tell you that you have a nice ass?” Tag said to Sharon, as he looked her up and down.

Sharon turned and looked between Tag’s legs: “Did I ever tell you that you have a small dick?”

Tag opened his locker, and pulled out his black combat fatigues. He grew serious: “What do you think is going on out there?”

“People without heartbeats are walking around. Must be a bird flu. Who cares? Line em up and I’ll shoot em down.”

Tag put on his shirt. “Amen to that.”

Peterson ducked out, and proceeded down the corridor, to the main prep room. As he went, he noticed an inscription, scratched on the wall in handwriting. It was a mantra that was all too familiar to him. The first time he saw it was during his induction into the elite unit of which he is now led:

“Locked and loaded, ready to kill,

always have and always will.

Squeeze the trigger and let it fly,

hit the bastards between the eyes.

Before they died I heard them yell:

this shadow team is bad as hell.”

As Peterson entered the vast, cavernous room, an ammunition banana clip was snapped into the chamber of a CAR 15 assault rifle. Holding the rifle was Corporal Cash, mid-thirties, a 260 pound, muscle bound, mustached veteran of every war they never told us about. A deep scar ran from his cheekbone to his chin. He bolted opens the breach on his rifle’s under-mount grenade launcher and chambered a round, lovingly inspecting the bore. Peterson had mixed feelings upon seeing him there: he was a good soldier, but reckless, a danger junkie. And hard to control.

Sitting beside him, on an ammo crate, was Sergeant Armstrong. Muscular, bald, and proud to be black, Armstrong was no slouch either, at six three and over 250. He sat there and ignited a flame thrower, fire shot from its insidious barrel. But Peterson knew him to be as warm-hearted as he was war-hearted. He flashed a great smile, wide and sparkling, as he stared at his weapon. Peterson and he had gone way back, and he was probably the one person he could most trust on this mission.

Peterson knew Armstrong’s life well: all Armstrong ever needed was a male figure to give him a bit of guidance, to tell him he was a good person.
 
A judge finally gave him a choice of six months in the slammer, or a tour in the military. His military experience gave him a new life.

Not only did Armstrong ace basic training, but went on to become a career soldier. He was so good that he was recruited into an elite, classified combat
 
unit, a secret fighting force trained for very particular scenarios.

Upon his arrival in this well hidden operation, Peterson first met him. He was fifteen years Armstrong’s elder, and he became Armstrong’s trainer and mentor, picked him up when he fell down, gave him encouragement and, most of all showed him how to be amongst the deadliest fighting and killing machines in the world. Unlike others, they were expected to be independent “thinking” soldiers, and were trained to sharpen their brains as well as their knives.

The father-figure Armstrong never had appeared in the most unlikely of bonds,
 
with a white man, and a superior officer--Peterson.

“What the hell is going on out there, Sergeant?” Cash asked Armstrong. “I just can’t believe what I’m hearing.”

“We’ll know soon enough.”

Cash was about to say something, but then looked at a some man standing nearby, staring at him, “Who the hell is that guy?”

“Intelligence,” Armstrong responded matter-of-factly.

Peterson looked over. There stood Spooky. He was a talented jack of all trades. Peterson never much cared for him. He was a CIA spook who didn’t have a rank—or a name for that matter. His face was pockmarked, his eyes darting. He finished rolling a cigarette and lit up. Then he went back to his package of C-4 explosives, attached to which was a keypad. Spooky entered three numbers, and the digital read-out beeped.

“Make nice, Spooky,” Armstrong said, an edgy tone to his voice. “This mission is the last of it for me.”

Spooky didn’t look up. “Not to worry, soldier. If she blows up, the last thing that will go through your mind is your ass.”

Sharon entered the room, now dressed in bad-ass full combat gear. She walked up to Armstrong and grabbed his cheeks. He was like an overgrown baby in her hands.

“Retirement, my ass,” she jested, “What are you gonna do, get a job as a ballet dancer? Two minutes in the real world and you’ll be climbing the fucking walls. You need us, man.”

“Like shit on my shoe,” smiled Armstrong as he took out a picture.

“Well, I’ll be. . . Daddy?” Berman said, surprised, snatching the picture. “I didn’t even know you got married.”

“I’m not. But I will be after this is through. Her name is Annabell.”

Cash took the picture and looked at it inquisitively, confused, “A baby?”

Berman spit her words “Yeah, you know, one of those things that come out of a woman?”

Tag entered, too, his hair still wet from showering, “Cash wasn’t born. It took his mother nine months to take a shit.”

Cash was tongue tied. Murder flashed in his eyes.

Armstrong took the picture back and stared, lost in fatherly love, “My baby, a girl.”

Peterson surveyed the room. He saw, kneeling on a small rug, Ali Ishmael, who was bowing down and muttering prayers. A Muslim and a holy warrior, he looked like a statue, at peace with his existence, with dark skin and severe blue eyes.

Then, checking his gun, was Angelo, early twenties. Peterson knew that he was proud Puerto Rican first, and American second. He also knew him to be hard-skinned, growing up in the ghetto. His extraordinary, unequalled talent as a sniper brought him quickly to be a member of the nation’s most deadly unit. He slipped a shiny bullet into his sniper rifle.

And lastly was Johnny-Boy. He was a red-blooded all-American, and the fucking new guy. Peterson knew very little about him except that the new guys are always too eager to please. That’s why they are usually the first to die.

Ishmael rose from his prayers and joined the team.

“Allah is our compass,” he began. “It is his direction that leads one to know that there is no greater honor than to fight and die as a warrior.”

“Not on my watch,” Peterson said, his voice resonating throughout the room like any great leader’s would. He’d had enough observing: it was time to make his presence known.

The group turned, silenced by his presence.

“Commander on deck!” Armstrong yelled, snapping to attention. The team snapped to attention, too, rigid as boards, eyes forward.

“From here on in,
I’m
your compass,” Peterson said as he paced, inspecting them, letting them know who was boss. “There are plenty of other missions out there if you want to die. On this mission everyone gets back home safely. Understood?”

The team pronounced in unison: “YES, SIR!”  

Peterson stood in front of Armstrong, who remained at attention.

“Commander Peterson,” Armstrong acknowledged with a smile.

“Sergeant,” Peterson replied in a formal voice.

“I heard you landed in the loony bin, sir,” said Armstrong, surprisingly out of order.

“You’re right, and I arrived this morning,” Peterson responded, and his composure broke, with a smile swept across his face.

He grabbed Armstrong’s shoulder, and they embraced as old friends.

“It has been a long time you son-of-a-bitch,” Peterson beamed.

Armstrong lowers his voice so the others wouldn’t hear, “I’ve missed working with you, sir.”

Peterson shot him a look of concern, “I think we’re about to make up for lost time.”

Armstrong turned and bellowed to the team: “This is Commander Peterson. We’re piss-ass lucky to have him. If you ever give him shit I’ll personally fuck you in your eye sockets.”

“YES, SIR!” came the response.

Peterson nodded, as he surveyed them one last time.
Yes
, he thought.
If we’re going to fight the devil, this team just might do.

CHAPTER FIVE

Peterson sat in the command room at a long conference table, his team sat behind him in a row of bleachers. Moore and Washington were at the table as well. Moore reached up, pointed a remote at the far wall, and clicked. An image popped up, and Peterson leaned back to watch.

The president of the United States sat at his desk in the war room, in front of a camera. A thick conglomeration of personnel were watching: generals, advisors, the chief of staff, the Secretary of State, and more.

The President’s eyes darted, nervous. His face was tense, his jaw clenched. He looked dazed. A makeup artist placed the last dab of facial powder on his forehead and then quickly dashed away. A voice preceded the president: “We are on the air in three, two, one….”

The president cleared his throat and addressed the nation.

“For those of you who are able to receive this communication, as the world’s satellites have been temporarily overwhelmed, I address you, the American public, in an address of critical importance.

“Mr. Vice President, Mr. Speaker, members of the Senate and the House of Representatives: only 48 hours ago the United States of America was suddenly confronted with what is believed to be a viral infection unlike any other we have seen in our time.

“Indeed, one hour after the Center for Disease Control reported the very first case in the state of Pennsylvania, myself and the Joint Chief of Staffs acted swiftly, deploying the Army’s third regiment to establish a quarantine.

“Today, as you know, the quarantine was not effective against the contagious and inexplicable phenomenon. This infection is also spreading throughout the world at large.  

“As Commander-in-Chief of the Armed Forces, I have directed that all measures be taken for our defense, in keeping with the yet unknown nature of the threat against us.

“Today, at 4:13pm, I have signed a declaration of martial law. Such declaration places all law enforcement in the hands of the armed forces.

“As of now, I ask citizens and law enforcement alike to peacefully abide by such declaration by following the charge of the U.S. armed forces, National Guard and military reserves.

“We must not be mistaken that those who have become infected can be cured. Or that family members, friends, and loved ones who are infected can be restored to health. Because of the danger of those who are infected pose to the stability of our nation and the world, as difficult a decision as it is for me to make, I have ordered that all infected be terminated on site by any and all means necessary, and their bodies disposed of in a fashion keeping with what is best for the health of our nation.

“Amongst civil unrest, hostilities exist. There is no blinking at the fact that our people, our territory and our interests are in grave danger. I plead with you today that we come together and put an end to civil disobedience. We must strengthen ourselves in this grave time and come together as a people. Those disobeying the basic laws of the United States, such as looting and other such reproachable acts, I now order to be punished by the full extent that martial law allows.

“It is my belief that such law and order is imperative in order to regain calm and to properly face this challenge. Without civil order, we face a danger more grave than the infection itself.

“No matter how long it may take us to overcome this unheralded event, the American people, I have faith, will, as we always have before, come together as one and re-establish law and order. With confidence in our armed forces, with the unbending determination of law abiding American citizens, we will inevitably regain control.

“It is my promise and oath as President that we will find an answer to the nature of this infection—and, as soon as can be, a cure. We will bring this event to a prompt and complete end. So help me god.”

General Moore and Dr. Washington, stood and turned away from the wall-size screen as it went blank, and the lights went up.

Peterson, and the rest his team were frozen. There was a thick silence in a briefing room. Peterson could not believe what he had just seen.

My god,
he thought.
Martial law.

Moore took a deep breath.

“There you have it,” he said. “Now, the military is in charge. That means us, people,” he said, looking visibly upset.

He held up the remote, and a bright light flashed from a projector. A virtual image appeared, showing strategic maps and coordinates with cutting edge technology. Moore was illuminated by the projection as he stood before the team, who were listening intently, experts at work.

“The video you are about to see was taken approximately 14 hours ago.”

Aerial photography flickered, followed by footage through the eye of a camera mounted to a helicopter.

Into view came a small, rocky island. The ocean pounded the rocky shore with waves and foam. As it zoomed in, a sprawling complex came into view. It was maximum security, protected by a fortified wall.

Moore paced.

“Located on Plum Island, about two hundred miles east of New York City, code named Ice-Fox, this laboratory was issued by A.R.P.A. to support the CDC with sensitive, classified issues. It is a gem in the military science community.”

Peterson interrupts, “more sensitive?”

Washington interjected, disdainfully. “Obviously, Commander, there are a lot of viral and biological threats out there which fall into classified territory. Really, I’m surprised you’re so naïve.”

Peterson just got one more reason to hate Washington, that little fuck.

Moore continued: “The ARPA pursues research and development where risk and payoff are both very high and where success may provide dramatic advances. This is their brainchild.”

Peterson looked hard at Moore.

“I’ve never heard about this Lab, General.”

“That’s because it doesn’t exist, got it?” Moore snapped back.

“Excuse me sir, but is there a relationship between this facility and the infection?” Armstrong called out.

The General worked the remote, and images of faces appeared.

Washington picked up: “There was a community of seventy five scientists. They are the leading scientific minds of our nation, totaling one hundred and sixty five occupants in all.”

But Armstrong never took well to being ignored. “Sir, do you intend to answer my question? I think we all deserve to know.”

Moore loses his cool: “What the hell do you think? This is why you’re fucking here.”

Washington turned to Moore. “I thought this team was the best, General? They seem like amateurs to me.”

Peterson had enough of Washington and his prissy attitude: “Who is this limp dick freshman, General?”

Washington was taken aback by Peterson’s insult, as if shocked that such an inferior man would launch such an assault.

“Listen up!” Moore snapped. “This situation has all of us stressed out. Keep your damn cool.”

Washington stepped forward again.

“This is about a Doctor Rudolph Winthrop. Graduate from Harvard’s child program. He finished his undergrad studies at the age of twelve, and went on to accumulate over eight doctorates in every subject from math to physics to biology and much, much more. His I.Q. can’t be measured. There’s never been anybody like him in our generation, at least. He is in fact the greatest scientific assets of the United States.”

Moore interjected: “Now he may hold a cure of what may become the greatest pandemic the world has ever seen. Does this answer your question, Armstrong?”

“Yes,” Armstrong answers with a calm, controlled voice, “It certainly does.”

“Was there an accident General? A mistake on our behalf of some sort?” Peterson asked.

“No,” the General emphasizes. “It’s not like that.”

“Then what is it like, General?” Peterson persisted. “Are you saying this lab and the infection is somehow related?”

Moore thought hard for a moment, “No. It’s not.”

“Then what caused it?” came Tag’s voice.

“I don’t know.” Moore responded, and rested his hand on his chin, deep in thought.

Peterson was confused. “Then exactly how does this scientist know how to solve it?”

“He
may
know how to solve it, Commander,” General Moore’s voice lowered in anger, “that’s what I was told, and this is all that I’ve been told.”

Washington interrupted: “That is because how it started is irrelevant now. And it is not what you need to know to successfully accomplish your mission. Dr. Winthrop may hold the answers we need—most importantly, how to bring this infection to an end.”

“Simply put, as of now, Dr. Winthrop is the best bet the world has at beating this infection,” Moore concluded.

Cash raised his hand, like a schoolboy waiting to be called upon.

Moore hesitated, “Go ahead Cash.”

“What does the infection do to people?”  

Moore looked to Washington, who responded, “We don’t have enough information yet. All we know is that people have begun to act with random extreme violence, and are void of basic rational senses. And that it is contagious, and spreading at a lightning-fast rate.”

“Extreme violence? Void of basic instincts?” Sharon piped up.

Moore looked at her, “You have something to say, Corporal?”

“You’re a Doctor, right?” she asked Washington, “Or a scientist? Or whatever creep you are, I expect you can share a bit more about the nature of the infected. The news is reporting that corpses are returning to life and eating people’s flesh. ‘Void of basic instinct’ sounds like just a bit of an understatement.”

Washington smiled politely and turned to Moore. “Perhaps now is a good time, General?”

Moore rubbed his temples, fighting a headache, then said, “Why the fuck not?”

He flipped the remote and a video appeared on the screen.

“Watch up children…and learn.”