“Hello, you have reached the Centers for Disease Controland Prevention emergency information line. Please stay on the line.” The voicewas robotic and not at all comforting, but it was better than the elevatormusic that began playing after its brief message.
It sounded like a flute solo version of Twisted Sister’s"We’re Not Going to Take It." For a second, as she watched themonitors in front of her, the infected’s movements synced up perfectly with themusic, turning the entire scene into a macabre music video, their bloody bodiesmoving in time to some twisted waltz.
“Who the hell picks the music for these things? Do theyjust pick a song off of a list?” Clara whined. She was tempted to tell Joan tosimply hang up the phone. It wasn't worth the torture. Just before she wasabout to grab the phone out of Joan's hand and rip it out of the wall, sheheard a voice over the phone.
"Hello," the voice said. "Is anybodythere?"
"Yes, we're here," Joan said hastily, a feveredpart of her terrified by the prospect that the man would just hang up andthey'd never be able to get through again. "We have an emergency."
"What type of emergency?"
"We're not sure if it's viral orbacteriological."
"Mmm-hmm, tell me more," the man said. Theyheard the sounds of typing over the speakerphone.
"As far as we can tell, we're in the middle of somesort of epidemic. Whatever illness these people have, it causes them to cravehuman flesh. They don't speak; there's no cognition whatsoever, they're justhungry," Joan's words were an avalanche, tumbling from her mouth. Thefiner points of the infection were forgotten among the more horrendous aspectsof the illness.
"And how is the illness spread?" asked the manon the other end of the phone in his matter-of-fact voice. He sounded like a'50s news reporter. Clara imagined him sitting at a desk with a cigaretteburning in an ashtray, the glow of an ancient computer monitor reflecting offof his thick, black plastic eyeglasses.
Joan thought for a second, and then said, "I'm not100% on this one, but I know that bites seem to spread the disease. Earlier Isaw a woman who was manifesting signs of some sort of illness, cold-like, butmore intense, 15 minutes later she had become one of them. Also, I know this isgoing to sound crazy, but it seems as if the dead are coming back tolife."
The man's complete lack of shock sent a chill throughClara's spine. Something wasn't right here. He wasn't incredulous, and heseemed to take everything they said as fact. That wasn't right. "Where areyou now, Joan?"
"I'm locked inside the quarantine wing of LegacyEmanuel in Portland, Oregon."
"And are you experiencing any sort ofsymptoms?" the voice asked.
"I don't think so, and neither is my friend,"she reported back.
Clara wanted to yell at Joan for assuming that they werefriends, but when the only other living person that you know of is a voice on aphone thousands of miles away, you kind of bite your tongue.
Keys clacked as the voice typed in more information,"Well, folks, I hate to break the news to you, but you're not the onlyones in this position. We've had reports of this illness all over the UnitedStates, and we have reports from other countries as well. This is not strictlya U.S. event. This is a world event."
"What do you mean a world event?" Clara asked.
"I mean that things are bad all over. We're doingwhat we can, but right now, we know about as much as you two do about thisdisease."
"What are we supposed to do?" Joan asked.
"My advice to you is to sit still, and wait for themilitary to roll in. The country will be under martial law soon. I have it ongood authority that the National Guard is being mobilized. Things should beunder control in no time at all. In the meantime, keep yourselves safe, keepfrom being bit, and if you have to try and kill one of these things, try anddamage the brain. It seems to be the only way to stop them. Good luck, ladies."
With that, the voice on the phone hung up, and it was allover. Joan and Clara looked at each other, both thinking the same thing."We're fucked."
Chapter 48: Move Over Rover, the Army is TakingOver
General Burt Hicks hated the sound of helicopters. Hehoped that whoever invented the damn things had been shot. The noise levelcombined with the ever-present buffeting of wind from the rotors made you feellike you were in some sort of medieval torture device. When they landed on thesecond tallest building in Portland, The General couldn't get off the chopperfast enough.
He was greeted on top of the building by the usualfanfare, some suited men and women who didn't know their assholes from theirelbows, and a handful of soldiers... only this time they weren't wearing theirfull dress uniforms. His soldiers were now decked out in their finestfunctional battledress. Grayish-green fatigues with digital camouflage andweapons with enough punch to rip a man in half... The General would have lovedthe sight if they had been mobilized for some other purpose. But in just amatter of hours, those weapons would be turned upon the average Americancitizen.
But that's why he had five stars, because he was the manthat you could call when things got ugly. General Hicks had never been accusedof having a personality, and he wasn't about to start now. The fate of thecountry, maybe even the entire world was at stake here. If some citizens had todie, well, then some citizens had to die.
The National Guard had been mobilized around midnight thenight before. Things were moving slowly on the operation, and they wereseverely understaffed. Many soldiers hadn't reported in, and it was clear tosee why as he was flying in. The city seemed like a warzone. Even on the outskirtsof the town, he saw signs of the destruction, but as they neared the city, thesmoke and fire had been impossible to miss.
"Good afternoon, General," saluted one of thesuited women.
"Spare me the pleasantries. What's the sitrep?"he snapped, ready to begin the sordid task of bringing this
