The Doomsday Infection (25 page)

CHAPTER 34

17:30 PM

Quinn Martell never failed to be awe struck by the grandeur of the White House, of its one hundred and thirty odd rooms, and over thirty bathrooms spread over six floors. He circled the building in the Sikorsky helicopter. In fact, the whole of Washington was an architect’s dream, for the planners had created a magnificent city, where the White House stood as the crowning glory amongst so many other remarkable buildings.

The chopper landed on the helipad and an armed guard swiftly escorted him into the west wing of the White House. They marched him briskly along corridors unti
l they entered the private wing. Some of the staff recognized him and greeted him by name, others smiled and nodded, some of the closer aides to the President showed signs of relief. Did he image it or did one elderly secretary genuflect, when he passed her?

Was he their guardian angel, and if so, why? He did not have to wait long for his answer, because as he got closer to the Oval Office he could hear the President ranting and raving from all the way down the corridor and if he was not very much mistaken, he tho
ught he heard furniture smash.

He entered the outer office and a look of joy spread across the secretary’s face. One of the armed guards protecting the Oval Office rolled his eyes, as if to say, ‘at last, someone sane’. Quinn Martell knocked and entered.

Hamilton Parker, turned and at first did not seem to recognize the surgeon general, then flashed his toothy grin as if he was still campaigning. “Quinn, good of you to come, can I fix you a drink?”

Quinn declined and quickly became aware that the other men present in the room, were drinking and in high spirits. He also couldn’t help noticing they all were young, and that he did not know any of their faces.

The President spotted this and explained. “These are some old college buddies I’ve brought in to help.” He held up his hand to stop his protest. “Don’t be alarmed these are some of the brightest advisors and strategists in their fields.”

“Where’s the Speaker of the House?” Quinn asked trying to keep his voice level and knowing that he was going to need a big-hitter to back him up if he diagnosed the
President as unfit for office.

“Aw, he resigned, can you believe? He walked out just like that.” He clicked his fingers.  “I should have him shot for treason.”

One of his friends chuckled at the thought, Hamilton grinned playing to the audience.

“But there has to be a chain of command,” Quinn said. “It must not be broken. You’re the President; there
is no Vice President, who’d take your place if anything should happen to you? Next in line is the Speaker of the House.”

“We’ll, I fired his sorry ass.” He smirked to his pack of giggling cronies.

“You said he walked out?”

“It’s the same thing. I fired him - he walked out. End of story.”

“I don’t think you can fire him, it’s in the const -” 

“I’m the goddamned President and I will do what I like!” he raged
, his face turning purple. He regained his composure and smiled. “The Speaker of the House wasn’t with the program and had to go.” He stomped over to his desk, lit a big fat Cuban cigar and passed the box around to his buddies. The surgeon general scowled. “Oh, what, you’re going to tell me I can’t smoke in a public building?” He sniggered to his friends and got the laugh he hoped to receive. “Or you’re going to tell me they’re bad for my health?”

“Mister President the chain of command must rem
ain intact. It’s imperative, particularly in the present circumstances.”

“Who
’d come after the Speaker of the House?”

“I don’t know off the top of my head,” Quinn said.

“Nor do I, but please don’t worry your pretty little head,” he said. “I’m not planning on dying any time soon. I have a strategy for Florida. It won’t be  a problem soon. So, all I need from you is some drugs, and lots of ‘em, to keep me alert.”

Quinn Martell’s face clouded over, he knew the country faced an equal
ly difficult problem in the form of the lunatic stood in front of him.

17:55 PM

Luke and Sophie
strolled through the Galleria Shopping Mall in Fort Lauderdale as if on an everyday shopping-trip. Unlike regular shoppers buying clothes and gadgets, their shopping list contained weapons and ammunition. Dead bodies littered the Mall and they covered their noses with scarves and tried to avert their eyes, but the bodies were plentiful and they grew immune to the carnage.

Luke pushed a squeaky shopping cart, which had a mind of its own and kept veering off. Luke and Sophie headed for the gun store and loaded assorted rifles, pistols and ammunition into the cart. He also took items that he had no idea why a normal citizen would think they
were needed to protect themselves – anti-personal mines being one. The next port of call was the Safeway supermarket, where they grabbed underwear, toothbrushes and other personal items to make them feel at least half-human. Looters had stripped most of the shelves, but they were able to stock up on tinned and dried goods.

The supermarket was cold, bordering on freezing. Luke flapped his shirt relieved to be out of the baking heat and opened a refrigerated unit to make the most of it. He scooped a handful of ice and offered it to Sophie, who took it gratefully and wiped the cubes around her neck then between her breasts. Luke turned his head away, finding this surprisingly erotic.

Sophie heard a faint squeak and said; “Listen?”

“It’s the shopping cart,” he said.

“No, it’s in the distance. Can’t you hear it?”

He strained and detected a far off noise, the squeaking made his skin crawl although he did not
know why, he felt danger. “Let’s get out of here,” but stopped dead in their tracks, as they saw rats feeding on the corpses of the dead.

Sophie’s mouth dropped open and she let out a small cry. “Let’s not go pas
t them. Can we go another way?”

“Sure.” He turned and took off in the opposite direction, but the wheel of

his cart squeaked loudly and he saw the nearest rat to them lift its head, its nose twitched as if weighing them up for a food source. Surely, they would prefer eating the dead, Luke thought, or at least hoped. He surmised that it must be easier for them to eat the dead, after all they weren’t going to put up a fight. He hoped that the rats had not yet got a taste for
live
human flesh, because despite the fact that the creatures were small, they usually had a natural fear of humans, but their numbers were vast.

Luke and Sophie turne
d the corner to the nearest exit, then were rooted to the spot, as hundreds, if not thousands of rats filled the walkway. Again most gorged on the corpses of the dead, but some looked up at the squeaking shopping cart. Luke backed up slowly, knowing they should find a different exit. Sophie did likewise, her eyes glued to the multiple threats.

One rat raised its head and its blood-soaked snout t
witched as it assessed them, it then let out a horrendous screech that encouraged the others to join in. The cacophony of screeches sounded to Luke like they had descended into hell, throwing himself sideways as a rat launched itself at him.

Luke turned and pointed at the fire exit. “Go!” He propelled Sophie towards the exit. He whipped out his pistol, shot at one or two rats blocking their path, and kicked out at a third.

He left the shopping cart, wrenched open the door and slammed it shut behind them, as the rats pitched themselves at it. The thumps helped spur Luke and Sophie in their flight.

Luke saw light up ahead along the narrow corridor, when the first rat appeared ahead of them, Sophie skidded to a halt, and Luke shouted, “Keep going!” He fired and luckily shot the rat, flipping it up in the air before it fell on its back wriggling in its death throes. Within seconds, another rat replaced it. Luke shot at it but missed, the bullet hit the wall nearby, making the rat crouch into a smaller target, as they were almost upon it the rat jumped into the air in front of Sophie. She screamed in alarm, Luke shot it mid-flight, spraying her face with its warm blood making her shriek even more.

He grabbed her by the hand and forcibly dragged her along. The rats had pushed open the fire door and a swarming black mass hurtled towards them. “My God,” she uttered, hardly able to take in the scene. She stumbled at the frightening sight.

Luke shouted; “Run!”

Luke and Sophie burst onto the loading-dock into the blistering heat, where a half-f furniture truck stood. The loading crew dead on the ground, their bodies had been eaten by the rats and others scavengers. Luke ran to the front of the truck, opened the driver's door, yanked out the driver's remains, helped Sophie in then hopped up himself. She leaned over and locked her door, making Luke crack a smile, “I don’t think they’re that clever.”

Just as he spoke a rat launched itself at the windshield and cracked it, making Sophie scream. “Hotwire it, quick,” she yelled almost hysterical.

“No need,” he said and turned the keys left in the ignition. He pulled away as another rat smashed into the windshield, fracturing the crack further. Luke turned a full circle to find the exit ramp. The swarm of rats leaped from the loading bay and the exit was full with hundreds of bristling furry bodies.

Luke took great satisfaction, crunching them under the tires of the truck and enjoyed their death squeals, as they crushed under the wheels, but Sophie found it too distressing, she leaned over, turned on the radio, then burst into laughter when she hear
d, “Ben” by Michael Jackson, Luke laughed too, getting the irony of the song.

As Luke got to the top of the ramp, he slipped the gear and the giant furniture truck shuddered to a halt, “What's up? What’s the matter?” Sophie asked
urgently, she looked in her side-view mirror and saw the rats rushing towards them.

“I stalled,” he replied flatly. He re-started the engine, engaged first and eased off the clutch slowly, not used to the low gearing ratio that the lumbering weighty furniture
truck needed. He lurched out onto East Sunrise Boulevard and sighed in relief as they left the rats behind.

That’s one more thing to avoid, thought Luke, one more problem to consider and contend with in their efforts to leave the exclusion zone,
rats
. He smiled and joined in with Sophie singing along to Ben. It seemed absurd after what they had been through but they needed to seize the moments of light relief where possible. He cranked up the radio and lowered his window to let some fresh air into the cab and they smiled at each other as they sang together.

CHAPTER 35

18:00 PM

Prisoner 850416 Jenkins Forest cried in agony, or at least tried to, his parched lips cracked open and a strange strangulated sound came from within.

Kincaid had died some hours ago, and his body released what little fluid remained to add
to the stench in the tiny cell.

Before he died, Kincaid had taken great delight in explaining to Jenkin
s what he could expect from dying of dehydration. He’d told him that he could live for weeks without food, Mahatma Gandhi would regularly fast, going without food for three weeks. He’d told him of prisoners in Europe back in the 1980s who had gone on hunger-strike. The last poor wretch had lasted seventy one days! Over two months without food, but in all those cases the prisoners had accepted water.

Life expectancy without water depended on overall fitness, and temperature amongst other things. He’d given him an example of a young baby left in a car on a hot day
that had died within hours, but no such quick fate awaited Jenkins though, as he was a full grown adult. A grown man could go three to five days without water. It would be constant agony but it was doable, however, Jenkins had severe diarrhea days earlier and that would have weakened his immunity and would mean less fluid reserves to rely on, it was also swelteringly hot; sweating would not help his cause, a person could perspire three pints of fluid a day. Kincaid had calculated that Jenkins could perhaps last two day before drinking out of the john.

That target had been and gone hours ago, he looked in the shit-filled toilet and recoiled, no way, he’d rather die, which he thought
kinda ironic because that’s exactly what he was doing.

Jenkins found himself flipping between hysteri
cal and delusional, suffering from all the symptoms Kincaid had listed in savage delight. It was something to do with lack of fluid to the brain. His heart palpitated and he moved back to the john and looked down at the surface of the water. A stool floated right on the top, from back before they both got the squirts, he could see blood and vomit mixed in with the excrement.

W
as this really his only choice for survival? He'd prefer to die, but he had no means at his disposal to hasten that, his body shuddered as he had another muscle spasm. The cell stank to high heaven. What had he done to deserve this?

Then, of course, he remembered; the tortures, the broken bones, the burnt skin and the pleasure he’d derived from inflicting pain and watching people suffer by his hand. He enj
oyed the torment he caused. He’d gained such pleasure from the misery he inflicted upon his victims. He actually blamed them, in his twisted mind for living wonderful lives, whilst his was so shitty.

Kincaid had been
right, this was payback. He must’ve already died and this was hell. He could not think of anything worse than to spend eternity in the tiny squalid cell, accompanied by a rotting corpse. His nostrils filled with the stench of excrement, vomit and urine. His whole body ached with thirst and in his delusional, befuddled mind, knew what he had to do, he crouched down by the toilet, used two hands to scoop up the fluid that would slake his maddening thirst and drank down the excrement-filled toilet water greedily.

18:05 PM

I
n a Humvee parked along Bay View Drive, a side street not too far from the ocean, Sergeant Hank Gruber removed the helmet from his sweltering hazmat suit and lit a cigarette and dragged deeply. “Hot dam, that’s good,” he uttered. He’d been gasping for a cigarette for hours, and could not wait any longer. He knew they were the only patrol in the area and therefore no one could catch them. Since yesterday they had had nothing to patrol, no activity, everyone was quietly dying, or already dead. Their armed presence was pointless, but he followed orders and patrolled his designated segment of Fort Lauderdale.

He savored the smoke as it entered his lungs and he took a second grateful drag, taking it deep down, “
Ahhhh . . .” he sighed in a satisfied voice.

“I don’t think you’re m
eant to take your helmet off, Serge,” said a private.

Sergeant Gruber glared at the enlisted m
an. “Don’t tell me what to do, Private. Besides it’s only for when you’re around the victims; there’s no virus here in midair,” he said waving an arm around him to make his point.

“I don’t think so, Serge. It’s an airborne virus. It could be anywhere.”

“Duly noted. I’m having a cigarette, if you want to sit there like a little girl that's up to you, or you can join me,” he said offering the cigarette packet. 

The enlisted man removed his helmet gratefully; glad to be out of its stifling heat. The thermometers were registering over one hundred degrees in the shade for the umpteenth day running, a Florida record.

He wiped his brow, took the proffered cigarette, and lit it. “Thanks, Serge,” he blew a plume of blue smoke and sighed deeply, having a nicotine rush. The third man in the crew removed his helmet, he declined the cigarette glad to be out of the claustrophobic helmet. He breathed in fresh air heartily, when he became aware of music.

The three-man crew star
ed in utter disbelief as the furniture truck trundled past them with chests of drawers, wardrobes and other items of unsecured furniture spilling from the back of the truck. They were even more dumbfounded to see the driver and a girl singing their hearts out seemingly without a care in the world.

“Were they singing, ‘Ben’?” the sergeant asked in stunned bewilderment.

18:06 PM

Hamilton Parker stared at his reflection in his bathroom mirror in the White House bathroom. “Is that a hickey?” he said aloud to himself. He wriggled around trying to see the blemish; it seemed to be on the back of his neck. He pulled the skin of his neck trying to see the mark better. It was no good.

He strolled into his luxurious bedroom, fetched a h
and-held mirror from the First Lady’s dresser, and went back to the bathroom. “Shit,” he said flatly. He had a hickey. He’d told Miss April to be careful, he told her repeatedly not to leave any visible marks. No marks period. He didn’t want the First Lady seeing love bites anywhere intimate – or anywhere else for that matter.

He went back into the bedroom, sat at his wife’s dresser, and found her powder. He was no stranger to make-up, having done countless interviews and TV broadcasts, it was the norm to be painted up like a clown, and as he was due
on a live TV debate later, it was not to unusual for him to have make up on. He found his wife’s foundation brush and went about applying a liberal covering over the hickey. The things he had to do, he fumed. He cursed Miss April and would have to reprimand her. It wasn’t on. OK, so she was as dumb as a bag of wrenches, but even she must understand the gravity of the situation. Hickeys were a no-no. He could not remember receiving one, when he thought about it. He was normally pretty good at making sure that his casual partners never left any signs. But Miss April was different she could do things . . . his mind drifted as he thought, and realized that’s exactly what must have happened, his mind wandered as he was lost in ecstasy.

He dabbed his neck with the brush
, turned his head and saw another blemish, under his chin. He arranged the mirrors to focus on the unusual place to received a hickey, goddamn her. For Christ’s sake, he cursed and attacked the second blemish with the powered brush.