Victor Methos - Pestilence

“That’s scary.”

“Yeah,” she said, taking off her surgical mask. “It is. You’re done. Leave the Band-Aid on at least an hour.”

“Thanks.”

When the girl had left, Sam stepped outside into the night air and stretched her back. She glanced up to the moon as Duncan came out and sat on one of the steps of the trailer. He leaned back on his elbows. “Where you staying tonight?”

“I didn’t even think about it. I was hoping at Jane’s in-laws’ house.”

“We can probably get a ride down there, unless they’ve already been rounded up.”

Sam pulled out her cell phone and saw she had a voice mail. She turned the sound on and listened to it.

“Sam, Clyde Olsen. Your sister is being held at one of our facilities. If you want to visit her, you can. I’ve given you clearance. She’s at facility One-Nine-Two-Two. It’s in Rustic Canyon. Give me a text when you’re done with the vaccinations, and I’ll send a jeep up to drive you.”

She hung up and texted back the number, stating that they were done and needed a ride. She got a text back. Okay. Nothing else.

“What is it?” Duncan asked.

“My sister’s being held at one of their facilities.”

“Are they going to let you see her?”

“Yeah, Clyde said he’s cleared me.”

He got up and stretched his arms over his head. “Sam, are you sure you want to see her locked in a cage?”

“What else am I supposed to do? Bury my head in the sand?”

“She’s going to be fine. This… thing just needs to get sorted out.”

“Sorted out by who, Duncan? How many people know what’s going on here?”

“I don’t know.”

She tapped the cell phone against her chin. “I need to figure out a way to get her out of this state. Is there anything you can do?”

“I can take one person on a flight with me, not two. And especially not a family with kids.”

She started to say something, but her voice was drowned out by the sound of helicopter blades hovering above them.

The air was warm and tasted like salt so close to the ocean. The palm trees on the side of the interstate were swaying lightly with the breeze, but Howie Burke couldn’t enjoy the view because of the noise-rumbling diesel engines and choppers thumping in the air.

The jeep he was driving had a top, but no doors. He had searched it and found no uniforms, so he never rode along with other trucks or jeeps. He always stayed behind, hoping they wouldn’t bother checking to see who was driving.

Though the interstate had a fair amount of military traffic, it was nothing compared to the usual everyday traffic of any highway in Los Angeles, and he was making extraordinary time. And it didn’t hurt that no traffic cops or Highway Patrol officers were anywhere in sight. Within twenty minutes, he was in Malibu.

He stopped somewhere near the beach, close enough that he saw the twirling barbed wire on the top of the cage. They had added more cots and fences, but they were guarded by fewer troops, towers, and military vehicles. They were stretched thin and clearly hadn’t planned for the influx of people.

No one was on the street, and Howie turned the jeep off and got out. He was perhaps a block from the entrance to the cage. Walking through the night air in a dead silence was one of the most chilling experiences he had ever had. Something about a forced quiet over an entire section of the biggest city in the world was unnerving-not something he had ever thought he would experience.

As he drew near, he saw the layout well. Of the three towers in the immediate vicinity, only one was guarded, and the soldier was leaning back with his rifle sitting next to him. He was staring blankly over the city and would glance down occasionally at the people lying on the cots, covered with gray blankets even though it was probably eighty degrees.

Howie waited behind a cluster of palm trees. He wasn’t sure exactly what he was going to do. Even though there were only about five guards anywhere near the fence, that was five too many. He was no fighter or soldier.

He tried to spot Jessica through the fence, but the floodlights had been dimmed, and all he saw were indistinct bumps lying on cots.

Howie thought briefly about ramming the jeep through the fence, but the guards might open fire and hit Jessica. Staring at the two entrances again, he was wondering if he could get into the back one when he heard something behind him.

Turning around, he saw a man in a military uniform holding a rifle. He was playing on his phone and not paying attention; he hadn’t seen him.

Howie moved first. He jumped on the guard, taking him down to the ground. They were both around the same weight with similar builds, and neither of them could get an advantage. Howie had his hands wrapped around the rifle, and the man was grunting as he tried to push him off.

Just don’t yell, Howie thought. Please don’t yell.

The guardsman twisted the rifle around, and it smacked Howie in the eye, slamming that eye closed. He tried to swing again, and Howie lurched back. The rifle missed his face by only inches. Howie then got on top of the rifle, his hands spread evenly on it, and pushed his bodyweight down. The rifle pressed against the guardsman’s throat, strangling him.

The guardsman tried yelling, but the rifle was pressed so hard into his windpipe that just a squeak came out of him. He was pushing against the rifle, but didn’t have good leverage, and soon, his hands weren’t a factor. Howie was pressing with everything he had, his shoulders straining, veins sticking out in his forearms.

The guardsman tried kicking up with his legs to get enough momentum to throw Howie off, but he couldn’t do it. He tried one last time to twist the rifle away from his throat. Instead, it got a better angle on the windpipe. Within a few moments, he’d passed out.

Howie lifted the rifle in the air, aiming the butt at the man’s head. He could crush it with enough blows, and the man wouldn’t even feel any pain. Howie pictured himself doing that. But it didn’t happen. As alien as this situation was, he couldn’t do something so out of character.

Moving quickly, he took the guardsman’s uniform and dumped his own clothes in the bushes. The uniform was slightly smaller and was tucked too snugly in the crotch. The name sewn into the uniform over the chest said Sanders. Howie took the rifle and jogged over to the entrance of the cage.

The helicopter, a dull green with gray splotches, touched down not far from where Samantha was standing. She watched as two men came out, ducking their heads low, though they couldn’t possibly have touched the rotating blades unless they jumped. One of them was Clyde Olsen.

“Tell me you didn’t go through that entire batch of vaccines?” he said, coming up to them.

“Isn’t that the point?” Duncan asked.

His face contorted as if he’d eaten something sour. “The vaccines were… ineffective. We had inoculated a group about five hours before you’d arrived… They’re beginning to show symptoms.”

“Symptoms?” Sam said angrily.

“It was a risk we had to take, and they were fully informed. They chose to take it.”

“They shouldn’t be displaying symptoms for at least a day,” Duncan said.

“It’s… The damn thing is mutating so fast, we can’t keep up. Its incubation period has gone from seventy-two hours down to four.”

“We have to get these people quarantined,” Sam said.

“Already taken care of. I… uh, about the vaccines… One of the groups… I don’t quite know how to say this.”

Samantha’s stomach was in knots. He didn’t have to say it. She already knew. Her sister had been one of the ones inoculated.