Jonathan Maberry - Dead of Night

Viral marketing. Goat considered that, and for a moment he thought that it was an unfortunate choice of words; then he looked at it from a different perspective. It had a flavor of poetic justice to it.

By the end of the second hour the number of hits on YouTube had climbed to the high five figures and every time Goat refreshed the page the number jumped by hundreds. And then by thousands. The spread was geometric.

But Billy Trout did not call back.

Even though Goat’s system could accept a satellite call via his Skype, the connection did not work in reverse. Goat could not reach Trout.

Goat licked his lips and drummed his fingers and drank too much coffee. And felt his nerves burning down to the gunpowder.

Finally he couldn’t take it anymore and he posted the second video. This was the one where Billy was videotaping Dez Fox while she argued with the National Guard Colonel on the walkie-talkie. If the first video was a slap in the face, then this was going to be a full swing-of-the-leg kick in the nuts.

He kept glancing at the door as if expecting federal agents to come busting in any second. Well , he thought, too bad if they do … but it’s already out there. So, fuck you.

The president of the United States watched the monitors on the wall. The rain and wind had diminished significantly. Two minutes ago he gave permission for the six Apache helicopters to take off, with four Blackhawks flying close support. The Apaches each carried fuel-air bombs as well as their usual complement of Hellfire missiles, machine guns, and rocket pods. There was enough firepower aboard those helos to destroy an average-size American city. Far more than was necessary to wipe Stebbins off the face of the earth.

The order he had given was to fly to Stebbins. Nothing more. Not yet. He couldn’t imagine how he could shape his mouth to give the kill order for this.

Scott Blair, the National Security Advisor, came hurrying into the Situation Room. He waved away the staff members sitting closest to the president and then bent to speak in a confidential tone. “Mr. President? We’ve just learned that someone in Stebbins is sending out messages.”

“What kind of messages, Blair? And to whom?”

“The wrong kind, Mr. President,” said Blair. “What’s worse is that they’re being posted on the Internet. YouTube, mostly; fed by links on Twitter, and other social media sites. We’re working to control those sites … but the Internet is volatile. The National Guard units in Stebbins are attempting to locate the sender and shut him down.”

“What’s he saying?”

“I can play it for you, sir. Do you want me to clear the room?”

“If it’s already on the Internet, there’s no point. Play it.”

Blair nodded and punched some buttons on a computer built into the table. The screen switched from the weather report to a page of the YouTube Web site. Blair pressed Play and a good looking white man with blond hair and a pinstripe shirt appeared. The man was soaked and his face was lined with stress. His eyes, which were robin’s egg blue, stared into the camera with laserlike intensity.

“My name is Billy Trout…”

Everyone in the room stopped to watch and within seconds there wasn’t a sound. Not a murmur or side comment. The president felt his throat constrict as he watched the video. The video included footage of infected bodies, mangled and partially consumed, torn by bullets, splashed with black mucus. There were two other people in the video, both police officers, both showing signs of injury and stress. A white woman and a black man. Trout named them and gave their badge numbers. The last few lines of the video hit the hardest.

“… this is not a natural disaster and this is not a terrorist attack. This is a man-made disaster, and I know who is responsible and how this occurred. Please post the link to this video. The only thing that can save the lives of all these people, all of these children , is the truth. Call your local papers, call the news services. Contact your local congressperson. This is not a local problem. This is not Pennsylvania’s problem. This is a threat to the entire country, if not the entire world. Please … we are alive in Stebbins and the devil is at the door. Do not let them commit mass murder. Save the children of Stebbins County.”

The video ended but the room remained absolutely silent. All eyes were on the president.

“You’re sure this isn’t a hoax?” he asked.

Blair shook his head. “Billy Trout is a reporter for Regional Satellite News. Small time but well respected. Officers Desdemona Fox and JT Hammond are with the Stebbins police. She’s former army. DMV searches match them to their photo IDs. This is real.”

“Several hundred people? That’s great news! I want the Guard to get to those children. Protect them and get them out of—”

“Mr. President … I don’t think you appreciate the complexity of this. Our Wildfire containment protocols have six different response models for suburban outbreaks. All of them offer options for many aspects of the problem, but on one point they all agree. If hard containment is possible, then that is the only safe and reliable course of action.”

The president stared at him. “No way, Blair. I can’t accept that. You’re saying that a Red Wall response is our only response?”

“Regrettably, sir, that is correct.”

“No. That is unacceptable.”

“Sir … you’ve seen the reports, you know that we can’t let a single infected host out of the Q-zone. Not one. This isn’t cholera or typhus. We can’t inoculate against this. No one has a natural immunity to these parasites. Each host is one hundred percent infectious. One drop of blood contains enough larvae to—”

“I know, damn it.”

Blair adjusted his glasses. “Then, sir, you have to understand the severity of this. We don’t have diagnostic protocols for this. We don’t have prophylactic measures beyond sterilization.”

“So, what would you have me do? Drop fire bombs on that town while someone is broadcasting it to the world? There are seven thousand people in Stebbins County. I don’t think I want to go down in history as the president who slaughtered more people than were killed in the entire war in Afghanistan! Twice as many as died on 9-11.”

Blair sighed and shook his head. “Given the field reports we’ve received, Mr. President, I doubt as many as ten percent of those people are still alive.”

“Those are estimates, Blair, not hard numbers, and you damn well know it. There could be four or five thousand people still alive. I won’t authorize a strike unless we have exhausted all other possible options.”

“Well, sir … whether we drop bombs or not, sir, we have to stop the sender. So far nothing he’s said is damaging to your administration, Mr. President, but we can’t take any chances.”

“How would you suggest we stop him?”

Blair did not have to spell it out; his look was eloquent enough.

“Christ,” growled the President. “Is that the best we can do? React like thugs?”

“This is a commanding response to a very real threat to this country, Mr. President. This isn’t a hurricane or broken levies. If we drop the ball on this, or if we’re too cautious in our response, then we could be looking at a pandemic that would make the Black Death look like—”

“Skip the dramatics,” snapped the president.

“Your pardon, but I’m not being dramatic. If anything I’m understating the nature of this threat.”

The president shook his head. “I’m not going to authorize a sanction against someone who is trying to save American lives. I’ve compromised a lot since taking office, Blair, but I haven’t slipped that far.”