Chapter 2
The
Right Hand
American
Toxic Flu, or ATF, was released into the world on September 17, 2047. The name is
inaccurate; it never was a flu virus. Three small letters do not convey the
horror of its toxicity, the vicious symptoms ravaging its victims before death,
or the death toll counted in tens of millions. Our reactions seem to mirror
those who lived through World War II, once the horrors of Auschwitz
were fully realized and understood.
We
soon came to think of every event as either “before” or “after” Outbreak....
Crushed
by greater loss of life than we’d ever known, Alyssa asked so many questions
about life and death and our beliefs in those first weeks with us that she
about drove us crazy. At first she doubted, especially in our lifestyle; it
seemed too rigid and imposing overall, although she had mostly followed it,
without knowing. It wasn’t as much of a lifestyle shift as she imagined it
would be.
...Her
startling spiritual gifts soon became apparent. She did not always think of
them as blessings...
Beverly Richardson,
Richardson Family History
General Leo F. Horne heard of an outbreak of a strange and fatal disease
through the emergency hotline. He’d been in the field surveying practice
maneuvers for the upcoming war with Saudi Arabia when he was called in.
It was a chill night, and his blood froze once he understood the implications.
Horne
watched on-screen as President James
A. Garrison,
his confidant and friend--Jag for short--died a gruesome death over the course
of a four-day illness.
Horne
took Garrison's last calls privately.
“Get me out of here!” Jag screamed, blinded by the disease. The sight of the
empty sockets wrenched his stomach. He'd seen battle. Gore was no stranger, but
this was his Commander-in-Chief, his mentor, almost a father. He couldn’t show
emotion--not here--not when terror was foremost, above grief. There was nothing
he could do to save his friend.
“Come
on, Leo! Do something! We're all dying
in here!”
“I
can't,” Horne replied. “You’re not getting out. This
is bigger even than you.” No tears fell from his cold, chiseled face. The
quarantine was absolute.
He
cut the connection, and did not answer again.
Twenty
hours later, word came the President was dead.
#
At
38, Horne was young to be the top General in the U.S., but he
was well-qualified. Jag recognized his potential when he was a young soldier
and Jag was first coming into his Presidency. Horne
took risks, and Jag liked it. The risks paid off: Horne
was promoted fast through the ranks, to the disgruntlement of many older
generals. Soon, even they had to concede his military brilliance.
Jag
became his ally, father figure, confessional. He affectionately called Horne the Right Hand. So did the rest of the military, all
divisions, as they grew to appreciate his skill and strategy.
In
turn, Horne mentored his troops the same way, his
goal to be the father most of them never had--that he’d been deprived of,
himself. He deserved their respect, absolute loyalty and obedience, and worked
hard to earn it. Often he did maneuvers in the trenches side by side with his
boys, refusing to get soft in HQ offices, requiring the same physical
conditioning of himself as his boys, and more.
Now
the man who made him what he was, was dead, along with
the Vice President, the rest of the Senate and nearly all the House. It would
be a while before a meaningful vote could be organized, restructuring the
governing bodies.
It
fell to him to lead.
His
troops were marshaled east of Central City for imminent transport to war in the
Middle East. Central HQ offices were teeming
with the virus. Horne had no family. Even if he had,
he wouldn’t dare check his own house for infection. He stayed out with the
troops. Uncomfortable quarters, but safe from disease.
ATF
had to be addressed. He postponed the war he had so carefully plotted for
years, discouraged that the country would have to wait even longer to restore
its oil supply. He’d been looking forward to blowing those rats out of their
holes once and for all.
Horne
didn't send the troops home--they were needed right here. He ordered a quarantine around the perimeter of Central City and
marched his soldiers out to enforce it, laying siege to his own capital. He
would do whatever it took to contain this thing.
He
rang up Dr. Joel Kensington
in Des Moines.
"You're heading up the project to find a cure. Fast."
"You
forget I'm a civilian, General. I don't take orders."
"You'll
be paid well. Listen. Victor
Caldwell is dead. That leaves you
as the top geneticist in the United
States. Get to the bottom of this. ASAP."
Kensington
looked startled, as if Horne had woken him from a
sound sleep and the man believed he was still dreaming.
"Caldwell's
dead? You know for sure?"
"The
entire building blew up with him inside it. Security records show he checked in
that morning, and didn't check out. Satellite photos show nothing left in that
rubble. I believe it's safe to presume as much."
Kensington
accepted this with a nod.
Horne
continued, "I don't need to explain the rewards, financial and otherwise,
that you stand to receive for being the one to solve this puzzle--do I? I'm
offering you a great honor. You'd do well not to refuse it."
"I
understand." There was a pause.
"What
is it?" Horne asked. "Be quick, I'm a busy
man."
"I
may need special clearances...access to records...permission to use whatever
procedures that might be required." Kensington licked his lips. He was not
known for his ethics. Caldwell,
at least, was better at covering his tail, better at diplomacy with his
superiors.
Horne
didn’t have to think. "Granted. I don't care how
you do it. Whatever it takes--any equipment or lab you need, say the word and
I'll acquire it for you. Money is no object, with the entire human race at
stake. The only thing you can't do is violate quarantine."
"But!"
"No
exceptions. This thing is fatal, Kensington. If you work inside the
quarantine zone, you and your staff will likely all die. Then I'm back to
square one with no answers. I don't have the time, for one, and I can't afford
to lose your expertise. This thing had to be engineered. You have to reverse
its effects."
"It
would speed the process considerably to have active test subjects!"
"It
would only speed the process of your death. Haven't you seen the reports I sent
you?"
"Begging
your pardon, sir, but you're not the scientist here."
"I
know that. Are you refusing the job and the terms?"
"No--no,
I'm not. I'll do it, General."
"You
can call me Sir."
"Yes...Sir."
"Good."
America would have to deal with military law--his law--until
the crisis was over. And he liked being called Sir.
For no rational reason, one evening he found himself
suddenly craving a good Havana
cigar.
Horne
banned smoking in all forms from his troops. It made them weak, unhealthy,
unable to fight the good fight. He hadn't smoked himself in years.
The
craving intensified to the point he could not rest. He fought down a great deal
of frustration with the circumstances fate had dealt him, but he failed to
fight down this tobacco craving.
At
19:32 hours he stalked to the nearest temporary barracks. They were little more
than hard reinforced plastic tents, not designed for long-term housing. If this
went on through the winter, he'd have to do something. They weren't designed to
hold out a twenty-below Midwestern wind-chill.
The
soldiers snapped to attention.
“At ease.
Listen. You’re good soldiers--the very best. I know you follow all my orders to
the letter. But listen, if any of you have a cigar
smuggled in your gear, I need one now.”
“Sir?” the nearest said, startled.
“I
need a cigar!” he bellowed. “Somebody in here has to have one!”
“Sir,
possession of cigars is against regulation, sir!”
“I
know that, Corporal. This isn't inspection! I need a good smoke!”
“Sir, does this change regulation, sir!”
“No!
Just find me a cigar. Fall out and search the barracks! There will be no
punishment unless you fail.”
They
scattered.
“The
generous donor remains anonymous!”
#
Thirty
minutes later, a trembling young private approached him in his office with the
contraband. Thunder rumbled outside as the door opened; another storm was
coming through. Odd for this late in the season. He
hated this dratted unpredictable Missouri
weather. Hot one September day, freezing wind the next.
“Sir, your cigar, sir!”
“At ease.
Private, is there more where this came from?”
“I
did not inquire, sir!”
“Find
out, in case I need another one.”
“Yes, sir!”
“Good
work. What unit are you from, soldier?”
“Special Unit 5-3-9 dash 8-2-1, sir.” The young man relaxed slightly.
Horne
smiled. “Your unit provides my best soldiers. I'm sending my best girls to your
unit tonight--my treat. All night. And tomorrow, your
unit is excused from maneuvers. You’ll need the rest.”
The
soldier’s face barely changed, but Horne saw in his
eyes that the news pleased him a good deal. He looked at the name badge. “Private Right Hand Hawk. Tell me...what was your number
before you became a soldier?”
“Sir?”
He
lowered his voice. “You know exactly what I mean, Private.” He looked
him in the eye.
Right
Hand Hawk was near undone, trembling. “8-8-5, Sir!”
“Ah.
I remember your file. Excellent performance in training sims. Remarkable
aim and reflexes. Nearly as good as my own.”
Recovering,
the soldier fought back a smile, working to keep his expression stoic. “Thank
you, sir!”
“You're
quite young yet.”
The
private stammered. “Begging your pardon, sir, my age is unknown. I passed all
tests for entry into the service. Sir.”
“I'm
aware of that, soldier. I'm offering to look it up in your file if you like.” Horne noted the glimmer behind the eyes, the hungry
curiosity.
“Please--that's
not necessary, sir.”
Horne
was pleased. The proffered tidbit would smolder in the boy's mind a long while,
cementing his loyalty. “Dismissed.”
Right
Hand Hawk saluted.
“By
the way, soldier--”
“Yes, sir?”
“Good
choice of name. I like it.”
“Thank
you, sir!”
“Sometime
we'll sit down together and you can explain it to me.”
“I'd
like that, sir!”
Horne
returned the salute and the soldier left. He sat and chewed the end of the
cigar a long while before lighting up. How do you plan a strategy against an
unknown enemy? Mother Nature gone berserk? Or human evil? Occam's Razor pointed to a human culprit as the simplest
explanation.
He
had to find out who did this, how, and why.
And
how to beat it before more people died.
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