CHAPTER 5
“. . . we ain’t gonna give in to these fuckin’ zombies . . .”
From: Collected Radio Transmissions of The Fall
University of the South Press 2053
“Ensign, welcome aboard,” the red-headed man said, offering his hand.
The Boadicea was in movement, cruising very slowly eastward. Most floating docks were designed to be used in ports and stationary, not at sea and in movement. This “floating dock” was actually the bottom of a lifeboat that had been reconfigured and was held away from the ship’s hull by two davits usually used to raise and lower lifeboats.
“Thanks,” Sophia said, stepping off the Zodiac. She didn’t really need the help but she sort of touched his hand getting onto the floating dock. Most people probably needed a lot of help.
She’d worn her uniform. It wasn’t mandatory but she’d worn it anyway. She’d debated then rejected the Master Savior Badge. The nonsubdued version, cast gold from salvaged jewelry, was authorized for wear with NavCam. She had decided to wear her Small Boats Badge. The badge was unauthorized but most of the small boat people wore one. It was a Viking longboat tossed in a storm. That she could get her head around. The Master Savior Badge was just a touch too gaudy.
“I guess this is old hat for you, Seawolf,” the man said, grinning. He was vaguely familiar but a lot of people were.
“I know we’ve met . . .” Sophia said.
“I guess I was just another face,” the man said. “Spring Keyzers. You picked me up about a month ago. Until I saw the movie I hadn’t really realized how many people you must have picked up.”
“Sailboat,” she said, shaking his hand. “Out of commission. What are you doing working guest relations? I’d have pegged you for small boat ops.”
“I’d had enough sailing for a while?” Keyzers said, smiling tightly. “Maybe later. I guess I’m sort of lighting a candle keeping freshies from going in the drink.”
“Understandable,” Sophia said. “Hope you’re doing better.”
“Much,” the man said.
“I’ll get out of your way,” Sophia said. “You take care.”
“You, too, miss.”
* * *
“That was you, wasn’t it?” a woman said, coming out of the theater. She was crying, as were most of the people with her. “The girl lighting the candle? Thank you.”
“For what?” Sophia said. She knew she’d never seen the woman in her life. But she was getting that a lot. Random strangers walking up and saying “thank you.” She wasn’t sure why. Some of them even hugged her and she wasn’t the huggy type. “And the what?”
Sophia had decided that since everyone was talking about the “night sky” movie she should probably see it. So she was waiting for the next showing. Most of the people with her were “boaties,” people fresh off a lifeboat. You could tell by the way they were slightly swaying on the relatively stable Boadicea. Not to mention being thin, extremely tan, wearing slops that didn’t fit well and shivering slightly in the air conditioning. They had a “sponsor” with them, whom she vaguely recognized. She was pretty sure she’d picked her up.
“Everything,” the woman said, hugging her. “Just . . . everything. Thank you so much for what you’ve done. It must have been so hard . . .”
“We need to get going so these people can see the movie . . .” her sponsor said, gently prying the woman loose.
“The theater is clear,” the next group’s sponsor said. “If we could start moving in . . . ?”
“I’ve never seen this before,” Sophia whispered to the sponsor. The lady was probably in her seventies. “Anything I should know? Like, what that was all about?”
“Really, miss?” the lady said.
“I’ve been out on ops since we left the Canaries,” Sophia said.
“Then, yes,” the sponsor said. “I think you are going to really need these.”
She handed Sophia a handful of tissues.
The video started with a montage of videos and stills that most people knew and remembered, to the background of Billy Joel’s “Miami 2017.” No sound on the videos, just the music. The President announcing the Plague. National Guardsmen in MOPP4 at check points. Riots. Video of reporters in “Infected Care Centers,” vast warehouses with “afflicted” tied to cots and even mattresses on the floor, writhing and snarling, covered in feces and sores. Flashes from the CDC briefings. The fairly famous scene of the Fox anchor going nuts on camera. A skyscraper on fire in some foreign city. Quite a few of the shots were from NYC. Fires, riots, fighting in the streets in what looked like Queens. A carrier being evacuated by helicopter with the caption “USS John C. Stennis evacuated due to rampant H7D3 infection.” It had been more screwed up than she realized even before the Fall. She’d been head down in the lab most of the time. A scrolling tally of the living was across the bottom of the screen, dropping like a stone, six and a half billion, then six, then five, then four . . . The body count of civilization ending.
The views faded to a shot of Earth’s surface, by night, dated the day the Plague was announced. There were more as the plague progressed and the sparkling strands of light slowly began to turn off, portion by portion, Africa went before South America went before Asia went before North America went before Europe until the entire world was cloaked in preindustrial darkness. The last section that was lit was somewhere in the U.S., near Tennessee she thought.
Then the shots zoomed down, pre-Plague satellite and file images of New York, Beijing, Moscow, Tokyo, Seoul, Hong Kong, filled with people and life and laughter, the cities bright by day and night with a trillion incandescent and fluorescent and neon and LED lights proclaiming to the heavens that Here Was Man.
And then the same cities, in current satellite shots, with avenues choked with decaying vehicles, and raven-picked bodies, and naked infected roaming the deserted streets.
The current night sky shot. Not a light to be seen. A world cloaked in preindustrial darkness.
The music ended. All there was was a scrolling night shot of the dead world from a satellite. It seemed like the movie had ended and Sophia almost got up, wondering why anyone would want to see this montage of horror. They’d all lived it.
Then there was the sound of the scratch of a match that touched a candle. The flame flickered for a moment, then puffed out to a background of childish laughter . . .
And came back as it faded back to her, Sophia, trying to light Mum’s birthday cake and Faith blowing it out every time she tried. She hated that video. She’d been ten and Faith eight and she was sooo pissed at her. She’d been no help making the cake and then Da wouldn’t make her stop. He thought it was funny. Had Da kept the damned thing?
“Quit it, Faith,” she heard herself say. “It’s Mummy’s birthday . . . birthday . . . birthday . . .”
Upbeat instrumental music she didn’t recognize, the screen said “Call to Arms” by Angels and Airwaves. Mile Seven, the forty-five-foot Hunter sailboat they’d started on. New York burning as they sailed out. The first light storms. Trying to figure out how to run a sailboat. Catching fish for dinner. Faith grinning and holding up that big albacore she’d caught. The tropical storm that had caught them off Bermuda. Another video, this one taken by Faith as they were being tossed about like a leaf in the middle of the storm.
“Having fun, Sis?”
“I blame Da for this, you know,” she heard herself say.
“Funny, I blame you.”
At the bottom there was a notation: Wolf Squadron: Squadron manning: 4. Steven John Smith, 45. Stacey Lynn Smith, 38. Sophia Ann Smith, 15. Faith Marie Smith, 13. With shots of each of them from New York and the Hunter days. A couple of those were from the paparazzi who had caught them leaving the BotA building.
Then a shot of the Tina’s Toy as they were approaching the first boat they’d “rescued.” Crüxshadow’s “Sophia” started.
A shot of Tina, looking small and sad with her name captioned. Pictures of Mum and Da and Faith and herself, pulling out the remains of Tina’s family. Ripping up carpet. Scrubbing the decks. Mum in the engine room covered in oil from a burst line. Sophia hadn’t seen Tina in forever, didn’t even know where she was. Last she’d heard the girl was on the Boadicea. She made a note to look her up.
The manning was now “5.” Although, honestly, Tina was never a lot of help. At the bottom the names of the members of the squadron were scrolling continuously. The scroll kept getting longer and longer as more and more people joined the “squadron.”
A picture of them bringing aboard the survivors from their first lifeboat. Chris and Paula and all the rest. She’d taken that shot. Paula was in the South Wing, Flotilla Four, now, still skippering the Linea Caliente. She and Chris had just gotten engaged, last Sophia heard.
The pic Da had them take of the group off Bermuda. “We few, we happy few” as he’d put it. There were twenty-five people in two boats and she knew all their names. She’d held most of their hands coming over the transom. Just like the guy on the floating dock had held hers to get onboard.
Then more boats, the first squadron in Bermuda Harbor with captions of the boats. The Grace Tan. The Tina’s Toy. The His Sea Fit. The disabled oceanic tow boat Victoria’s Boss which as far as she knew was still anchored in Bermuda. People she knew were around, somewhere, but she hadn’t seen in months. The USCGC Campbell. She and Faith throwing grapnels onto the boarding platform at the rear and the survivors of the crew being picked up by the squadron boats. Chris Phillips pulling a survivor aboard his boat at sea. A shot of the machine shop Mike Braito had set up on the Victoria with Mike sweating over a piece of metal he was grinding down. Another person she hadn’t seen in forever. The number at the bottom kept clicking up. More and more names scrolling across until the family’s was lost in the welter.
Two dozen survivors became three, then four. Then a hundred. More boats working at sea. People who had been seen clambering aboard rescue boats now manning them or working in the Victoria. Fishing and cleaning fish. Faith reloading Saiga magazines. Sophia at the helm of her first boat. More survivors coming aboard, wearing sunglasses and shielding their eyes or reveling in being on a boat that was under power.
The Voyage Under Stars. A video taken of the death camp emaciated survivors in cabins and the man jumping overboard to the sharks. The His Sea Fit cruising past the massive liner, the Bertram 35 looking like an ant next to the supermax ship.
Then a shot of all the infected gathered on the landing deck as the music died. And Faith’s voice came up on the radio. Sophia knew what was coming. For those who weren’t catching the words, they were flashed on the screen.
Faith Marie Smith (13): “Da, the Dallas cleared off a deck and put in a ladder. If we wait, the zombies are going to come around again. You know how they are. Permission to, I dunno . . . Get a foothold is what Soph just said.”
Steven John Smith: “Do you have a backup plan?”
Faith Smith: “No, but I’ve got lots of guns and knives and a machete. I’m still looking for a chainsaw.”
Disturb’s “Warrior” started as the voice-over was ending. The vocals came in as Faith went over the side. They’d cut the resulting scrum so it looked as if she was kicking ass not getting it kicked.
Videos of Da and Faith and Falcon and Hooch being washed down by the Coasties, the wash water red with blood. Shots taken from a gun camera of the scrums on the interior. It must have been from Fontana’s weapon, the tracking was too smooth for anybody else. The Charlotte towing in the Campbell, an attack sub being used as a towboat. Boats shuttling back and forth, some shots of her, Captain Sherill who was a flotilla commander now, Chris and Lloyd and Steven, Tina feeding an emaciated survivor soup. Sophia was pretty sure it was Rusty Bennett, now one of the gunners on a gunboat. She’d seen him when he was skinny, not the “robust” guy he was now, but she’d never realized he was that bad off. He looked dead.
Video of the interior of the Voyage with masses of infected bodies piled up by the foursome. Survivors having to pick their footing to get through the passages. All of it in the light of taclights and flashlights. Crews pulling cases of ammo and medicine off the Campbell and then loading the ammo onto the liner. Survivors going through decon showers.
The liner, black and dead as the squadron was sailing away.
Atreyu’s “Honor” as they approached the USS Iwo Jima interspersed with more shots of people coming off of life rafts and boats. The fight when the four boarders entered the cavernous interior of the assault carrier. Marines and sailors coming off the Iwo. A good shot of Staff Sergeant Januscheitis stumbling off the Iwo into a boat, then another, obviously right after, turning around and going back in again, just putting on his gas mask and this time rigged up for some serious zombie hunting. A video someone had gotten of a “scrum” with the infected in the interior and Faith doing her usual job of grandstanding with a Halligan tool. Pallets of ammo, medicine and supplies being lowered over the side into waiting boats. She was there, getting one loaded on the back deck. Wash-down again, with a dozen Marines standing under powerful water sprays, the blood pouring over the side. Faith was in there but she was hard to spot. Shots of the interior by taclight, showing the corridors choked with recent and old dead. A clear shot of a chewed corpse wearing MarPat with a clocked-out .45 by its side. Gunny Sands, thin as a rail, on the leading edge of the flight deck saluting Da as he walked up. The gunny carrying the flag off the ship in the closing and the hatches being welded shut. The Iwo was still there and still plenty full of ammo and supplies if they needed them.
The Canary Islands. Nightwish’s “Last of the Wilds.” Pure instrumental. The first use of gunboats. A shot of Anarchy laying waste to infected on a beach. She’d have to check her log to figure out where. The landings in small towns. Clearing the Boadicea. People stumbling onto boats in marinas. The crews enjoying a lunch and beverages in San Sebastian de la Gomera. The “Israeli Beach” scene, as she mentally tagged it, with everybody having guns leaning up against their chairs just in case some infected showed up. The whole group posing in front of “The Corner Café at the Marina” with their guns and bottles of wine. She hadn’t realized how many people were videotaping.
She hadn’t realized how often she was being videoed. Or how many group photos she’d been tagged in.
The manning numbers kept going up.
Faith’s premature landing on the cruise liner pier at Santa Cruz de Tenerife when the infected had poured out of the interior of the supermax liner and the four Marines had had to call for close fire support from the gunboats. Clearance in Santa Cruz harbor. More liners to clear and survivors in shorts and sunglasses fumbling their way onto boats. Climbing the cliffs at El Chorillo to pull the survivors out of condos. That had been a nightmare. Especially for Faith who hated heights. Clearing small towns and picking up refugees. A shot of her with her sniper rifle, picking off some infecteds. Sergeant Major Barney dressing down Seaman Recruit Steinholtz on a breakwater. Again. Shots of Anarchy. Lots of shots of Anarchy.
A short shot of Cody’s funeral at sea as the song died with the caption “Specialist Cody ‘Anarchy’ Smith, U.S. Army, KIA, Canary Islands Operating Area.”
She wasn’t sure if “eaten by sharks” was technically Killed in Action but she wasn’t going to bitch. She still missed him.
Then the song she’d been wondering if they’d use: Nightwish’s “Last Ride of the Day” as the “Manning number” kept clicking up and up.
Machine shops and unrepping and people cleaning out the Boadicea. Ripping up carpet, just like she and Da and Faith had done so many months ago. Clearing out the skeletons “Da’s Little Helpers” left of the bodies. Vacuuming those up. Scrubbing bulkheads and floors. Cleaner mattresses coming aboard from salvage. People working in galleys and engine rooms and the main saloon filled with people. People boarding the Social Alpha off a Zodiac. Squadron ops with civilians and military manning radios and computers. Tracers at night. Dinner in one of the mess halls. A swarm of Marines going up a boarding ladder into a ship. A shot of a full flotilla heading to sea, the boats nose up and crashing through the waves. Nurses helping survivors that were on death’s door. Loading the battle boxes on a gunboat, case after case of .50 caliber ammo coming out of the hold of the converted fishing boat. More chewed infected on a beach with the video focusing on the cloud of brass pouring out of the new water-cooled dual .50s. Coiling down ropes. Grapnels going over to a derelict boat. A group of Marines holding a line against a mass of infected somewhere in the Canaries. Faith was standing behind them apparently buffing her nails. A team working on a stripped-down engine in an engine room. A sewing shop she didn’t even know they had. More survivors over transoms. The market in “Downtown” on the Boadicea. A shot of her, Sophia, in the pass in review, saluting Da. A Zodiac sporting a tiny Irish flag crewed by what looked like a child outbound into the setting sun. Gunboats chewing up infected in a marina with Zodiacs inbound for the beach. Faith in combat rig, striding past a group of rigged up Marines, the girl’s face like an axe, returning their salutes as if she’d done it a thousand times. The pass in review, making it look much more professional than it had actually been. The full squadron heading out to sea with Mount Teide glowing red in the background.
Then back to the dark sky of a dead world. A satellite passing over India and North Africa. Shots of dead Mumbai, Cairo, Casablanca, scrolling fast . . .
Zooming in on a cluster of lights. The squadron center at sea. The only light in the blackness as the music crescendoed. Then a caption:
“Welcome to Wolf Squadron. The hell with the darkness. Light a Candle.”
At the bottom was “Manning: 3,201.”
Sophia realized she’d used up all the tissues. And all she wanted to do was go back to the boat and head back out to sea.
* * *
“Mr. Walker,” Steve said, gesturing to the chairs in his office. “Sophia.”
“Captain,” Sophia said, sitting down.
Sophia had gotten the word that she had to “meet with the squadron commander” before the division headed back out for operations.
“This is more of a ‘Sophia’ and ‘Da’ conversation,” Steve said.
“Have I done something wrong?” Sophia asked.
“If you had, it would be a captain and ensign conversation,” Steve said. “And, frankly, I think the real answer is that people will be . . . conflicted about that. It’s time we talked about vaccine production with the powers-that-be.”
“Fuck,” Sophia said quietly, lowering her head.
“I am somewhat out of my depth, sir,” Walker said, looking back and forth. He thought for a moment, then looked at Sophia. “Seriously?”
“I was told you were quick on the uptake,” Steve said.
“Somebody had to do it,” Sophia said, shrugging. “Better me than Faith.”
“I’m still unsure that it needed to be or should have been my fifteen-year-old daughter,” Steve said. “But you are the only thing we have close to an expert. We haven’t even picked up any biology laboratory technicians.”
“I barely counted as one of those, Da,” Sophia said. “And I’m really hoping that I’m not going to be stuck in a lab making vaccine until who knows when.”
“You won’t be,” Steve said. “We’ve found people with . . . well about the same background as you had when you started working for Doctor . . . Damn, what was his . . . ?”
“Curry,” Sophia said. “Doctor David ‘What is it about Mad Scientist you don’t understand?’ Curry.”
“Do I have a purpose here, sir?” Walker asked.
“I suppose that is up to you, Mr. Walker,” Steve said. “I have some people who are generally capable of managing a lab. I don’t, sorry, consider one of those people to be Sophia. On the other hand, I’ve been given the impression that you have some abilities over and above tying knots. And, frankly, the ensign is going to need someone . . .”
“As emotional support when it becomes common knowledge that Seawolf the Hero started out working in a clandestine human chop shop?” Walker said.
“That. Yes. Although for now that will continue to remain confidential.”
“I’ll be okay, Da,” Sophia said. She didn’t look okay.
“You will be eventually,” Steve said. “Because this will eventually become sort of ‘well, that’s how it works.’ And, note, we’re going to have to vaccinate all the babies we’re about to have. They won’t automatically be immune to H7D3.”
“I hope somebody has some clue about that because I’m totally clueless and I don’t want to kill a baby,” Sophia said.
“Mr. Walker, will you admit to some knowledge of this field?” Steve said.
“Honestly?” Walker said. “I passed the Special Forces Medical course, if that’s what you’re asking. I haven’t been in anything resembling a biology lab in thirty years. And even then it was a very brief course on analyzing medical complaints under field conditions.”
“So I was right,” Sophia said, brightening. “You were Special Forces!”
“Yes, I was,” Walker said. “Am, for certain values. You’re never ex-Special Forces unless you get thrown out. In fact, technically, I’m still a member of the U.S. Armed Forces.”
“Whatever you’re willing to admit to, that brings up an entirely separate issue,” Steve said. “We are about to have a baby boom. Lieutenant Fontana is a graduate of the same course. You and he are, in fact, our best trained people at, well, everything medical. Our one trained nurse worked her whole career in a doc-in-a-box. And even then she was mostly a triage and taking blood pressure type.”
“Special Forces medics are not doctors, sir,” Walker said. “We’re very clear about that.”
“There are no doctors, Mr. Walker,” Steve replied. “The only known MDs in the world are in a hole at the CDC. When in the fullness of time we retake the Atlanta area they will be mobile. In the meantime, we have no doctors nor nurses nor any of the rest.”
“Checked the islands, sir?” Walker said.
“Which ones?” Steve asked.
“Most of them,” Walker said. “There were little medical schools all over the Caribbean, sir. I’d be surprised if some of the instructors didn’t survive. Even the advanced students would be useful.”
“That is . . . interesting,” Steve said. “And something no one else had brought up. But it is not germane to the current discussion. I’m aware that I cannot order you to do anything, Mr. Walker. Both because you insist you are a civilian and, from what I can surmise, if you did ‘blow your cover’ I’d be outranked.”
“Really?” Sophia said.
“That is not to be discussed, Ensign,” Steve said. “But we need medical personnel desperately. Both for the vaccine program and for the approaching baby boom. Would you be willing to temporarily suspend your cruise to assist?”
“You don’t need to sweat it, Captain,” Walker said. “I was planning on bringing it up. Just wasn’t sure when was appropriate. I am at your service in this matter. Both to help set up the lab and as a baby doctor.”
“Thank you,” Steve said. “You are hereby the lab manager for the initial vaccine production. Sophia is in charge of the lab, you manage it. Does that work?”
“Absolutely,” Walker said. “And as soon as we get it up and running, and someone else to manage it and run it, I’ll segue over to baby doctor. I’d appreciate a brush up with the doctors at the CDC.”
“You can feel free to schedule that for yourself and Fontana,” Steve said. “You’ll both be talking with them extensively. I’m going to pull Fontana off of running Marines and put him in charge of setting up the facilities for pregnancies involving medical emergencies. Nurse Fallon is already getting swamped with late-term complications. So . . . Sophia, are you ready to break cover? At least with the Powers-That-Be?”
“What’s that thing that Lee said at Appomattox? I would rather die a thousand deaths. Ready.”
Steve clicked something with his mouse and nodded at the screen on his computer.
“Sorry to keep you waiting, Dr. Dobson,” Steve said. “As has been discussed, one of my original crew had experience working in a professional if clandestine laboratory that produced attenuated vaccine prior to the breakdown in civil order. NCCC Galloway, we have assurances that there will be no legal repercussions from your office.”
“None,” Galloway said. The National Constitutional Continuity Coordinator, functionally the Acting President, was formerly the Under Secretary for Under Deputy Secretary of Defense for Nuclear Arms Proliferation Control. He was one of many civilian appointees rotated through secure points in the event of a disaster like, laughably, a zombie apocalypse. The point was to have a civilian, preferably someone elected or approved by Congress in charge of the military and nuclear release codes. He was number one hundred and twenty-six on the very long list. “You have the documents as well as my personal assurances.”
“Very well,” Steve said, touching another control. The conference came up on the large plasma behind his desk. “Ladies and gentlemen, my daughter Ensign Sophia Smith.”
“Sophia?” General Brice said, startled. “Seawolf?”
“Somebody had to do it, ma’am,” Sophia said, her face tight. “I won’t say I’m glad or anything, but if we hadn’t we’d have been in the same boat as the Lawtons and the subs. Even if we didn’t get the Plague.”
“And the other gentleman is . . . ?” Dr. Dobson said.
“Thomas Walker,” Steve said. “He is a former SF medic who has management experience as well as some slight lab experience. He knows a Bunsen burner from a test tube anyway. He will be managing the lab.”
“Sophia,” Dr. Dobson said. “Since there is a blanket pardon in place for all persons involved in the vaccine production you were involved in, could you give us a few more details, please?”
“The lab was for Bank of the Americas,” Sophia said. “It was run by Dr. David Curry . . .”
“I could see Dave doing that,” Dobson said, grinning mirthlessly.
“I . . . saw many of the CDC teleconferences when the Plague was spreading,” Sophia said. “Dr. Curry kept it running in both the hot and cold zones. So I recognize you, sir. My job was most of the processing. Dr. Curry would . . . do initial preparation of the materials. It was the one bit I wasn’t willing to do.”
“Initial preparation?” General Brice said. “Sorry but we’re going to have to approve this for use by the sub crews. We need to have some idea of what exactly is going on.”
“Grinding up the spinal cords,” Sophia said tightly. “They would be brought in by . . .” She stopped and looked at her dad.
“My brother Thomas Smith was General Manager for Security and Emergency Response for Bank of the Americas,” Steve said. “Tom’s teams, covering as one of the standard contract Biological Emergency Response Teams, would find infected, secure and terminate, strip the spines and deliver them to the lab.”
“I see,” General Brice said. “Go on, Ensign.”
“Dr. Curry would do that part of the preparation. It isn’t tough except emotionally. Drop the spinal cords in a blender and hit blend.”
“Okay,” Secretary Galloway said, twitching slightly.
“Then he would give me the materials for processing. Centrifuge until the layers are separated. Remove the liquid containing the virus bodies using a pipette. Separate using a medium, which is the most time intensive part. Also . . . ‘tedious’ doesn’t begin to describe it. It’s like watching paint dry except you have to actually pay attention to it. Measure an exact volume of virus bodies into containers. You can use glass test tubes for that but we used disposable ones. Calculate the X-ray charge for that volume depending on whether it was primer or booster. X-ray with the specified output and time. Remove the irradiated virus bodies and place precise quantities in vaccine containers. Mix with specific levels of deionized water. Then there’s quality control. When we started, Dr. Curry would test it with reagents, I’m not even sure what kind, then double check with the SEM . . .”
“Sem?” Galloway asked.
“Scanning electron microscope,” Dr. Dobson said. “According to your records, there’s one at the immunology lab at Guantanamo. May or may not be working. On the other hand, there’s a way to make one that’s not too hard. According to Commander Freeman, a nuclear engineering specialist would find it child’s play. Ditto the mass spectrometer they’re going to need. And we know what the reagents were. That’s different from them being available. What about a vaccine test kit?”
“They had those in New York,” Sophia said uncomfortably. “That’s what he switched to when they came out.”
“Vaccine test kit?” Galloway said. “Again, what?”
“When vaccines suddenly hit the street, there was only one source,” Dobson said, just as uncomfortably as Sophia. “Which at the time was classified as first degree murder with bells and whistles. What we are now planning on doing in job lots.”
“Agreed and understood,” the NCCC said. “On the other hand, we’re already killing the infected in job lots. Might as well put them to some use. Callous? Yes. Necessary, also yes. We’ve had the discussion.”
“The point is, sir, if I may,” Sophia said, gulping, “street dealers were offering vaccine. Sometimes it was just distilled water. Say one of them gets busted. What is he actually carrying? Remains of a person who was murdered or just water? One is a con, the other is conspiracy to murder. So they came out with small test kits for ‘street vaccine.’ Cop busts a guy with what looks like vials of water, tests it, it’s vaccine, he busts him for possession plus they start capital murder charges.”
“Ah,” Galloway said, nodding. “Makes sense.”
“I was sort of there on the sharp end, sir,” Sophia said. “I spent a good part of the time in New York terrified somebody would burn us and I’d end up in prison. I knew the Fall was coming. I did not want to be in prison when it hit. Thing is, the tests were cheap, mass produced, and they actually were accurate enough to tell if the vaccine was good or not. Not only could they tell if it was good, they could determine if it was good primer or booster and even whether it was from a human or another ‘higher order primate.’ Just inject a few drops into the plastic thingy and it gave you a response in a few seconds. So then the dealers and people who wanted to buy vaccine on the street started buying them. They were selling over the counter in New York before the Fall. We’re going to need more than the X-ray generator. We’ve found those. What we really could use, for quality control, is some vaccine test kits. Not to mention graduated pipettes, tips, syringes . . . And separation medium. That’s going to be hard to find. There’s a lot of material besides an X-ray generator.”
“According to our records Gitmo should have all of it,” Commander Freeman said.
“Then I guess we need to take Guantanamo Bay, sirs, ma’am,” Sophia said, shrugging. “If it’s as well stocked as indicated, I can get the lab up and running in a day or so. And then we can start taking poor deranged Marines, sailors and civilians and turning them into vaccine,” she ended, a tad bitterly.
“Ensign Smith,” the NCCC said. “I want you to know that whatever your feelings in this matter, this will not be held against you legally in any way. And for myself, personally, thank God you did do what you did, didn’t get caught and are going to do again. It is, literally, the salvation of humanity. Hole is out.”
“Anything we can provide on this end at this time, Ensign?” Dr. Dobson said.
“Prayer?” Sophia said. “I’ll get back to you when we’re getting the lab set up.”