Earth's Survivors America The Dead: War At Home 1

By Dell Sweet

Project Bluechip: Watertown NY
Complex C: Patient Ward
Test Subject: Clayton Hunter
Compound SS-V2765
Gabe Kohlson moved away from the monitors. “Heart rate is dropping, don't you think...” He stopped as the monitor began to chime softly. Before he could get fully turned around the chiming turned into a strident alarm that rose and fell. “Dammit,” Kohlson said as he finished his turn.
“What is it,” David Johns wheeled his chair across the short space of the control room. His outstretched hands caught him at the counter top and slowed him at Kohlson's monitor.
“Flat lined,” Kohlson said as he pushed a button on the wall to confirm what the doctors one level up already knew. Clayton Hunter was dead.
“I see it,” Doctor Ed Adams replied over the ceiling speakers. The staff called him Doctor Christmas for his long white beard and oversize belly. “Berty and I are on the way.”
“Lot of good that will do,” Johns muttered.
Kohlson turned to him. “Go on in... Do CPR if you want... They don't pay me enough to do it. I don't know what that shit is. Look at the way the Doc suits up. Clayton Hunter will be in rigor before anyone gets in there at all.”
“No argument,” Johns said. He wheeled back to his own monitor, called up an incident sheet and began to type.
“Me too,” Kohlson agreed. “Preserve the video, med and monitor data.” He punched a few buttons on his console and an interface for the medical equipment came up. He saved the last 48 hours of data, and then began to fill out his own incident report. These reports might never be seen by more than one person, maybe two if you counted the person that wrote it, Kohlson thought, but it would always be there. Classified. Top secret for the next hundred years or so. And he wondered about that too. Would it even be released after a long period? He doubted it. The shit they were doing here was bad. Shit you didn't ever want the American public to know about. This incident report, along with the one Johns was doing, would probably get buried deep under some program listing that no one would ever suspect to look into. Or, maybe, it would get burned right along with Clayton Hunter's body. He glanced up at the clock and then went back to typing.
“Uh... Call it 4:32 PM?” He asked.
“Works for me,” Johns agreed.
“I got 94 for the body,” Johns said.
“Yeah... Yeah, me too. That's a fast drop, but we both got the same thing. 94 it is... No heart, no respiratory, dead as dog shit.”
“Dog shit,” Johns agreed. They both fell silent as they typed. A few moments later the doors to the observation room chimed, the air purifiers turned on with a high pitched whine, and they could both feel the air as it dragged past them and into the air ducts. The entire volume would be replaced and the room depressurized and then re-pressurized before the doors would open. And that would only happen after the air was tested and retested. A good twenty minutes away before anyone would step foot into the room with Clayton Hunter.

• Language: English
• Publisher: A. L. Norton
• Release date: Feb 16, 2016
• ISBN: 9781311759863

Dell Sweet

I was raised in Texas and New York. I write short stories, novels, lyrics, poetry. I also enjoy building 3D models in my down time. I have written several series and collections.

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EARTH'S SURVIVORS AMERICA THE DEAD: WAR AT HOME 1

Earth's Survivors America the Dead: War At Home 1 is copyright © 2016 Dell Sweet. All rights foreign and domestic reserved in their entirety.

Cover Art © Copyright 2016 Wendell Sweet

Some text copyright 2010, 2014, 2015 Wendell Sweet

This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your bookseller and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

LEGAL

This is a work of fiction. Any names, characters, places or incidents depicted are products of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual living persons’ places, situations or events is purely coincidental.

This novel is Copyright © 2016 Wendell Sweet and his assignees. Dell Sweet and Geo Dell are publishing constructs owned by Wendell Sweet. No part of this book may be reproduced by any means, electronic, print, scanner or any other means and, or distributed without the author's permission.

Permission is granted to use short sections of text in reviews or critiques in standard or electronic print.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHARACTER BIBLIOGRAPHY

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

PROLOGUE

Project Bluechip: Watertown NY

Complex C: Patient Ward

Test Subject: Conner Hunter

Compound SS-V2765

Gabe Kohlson moved away from the monitors. Heart rate is dropping, don't you think... He stopped as the monitor began to chime softly. Before he could get fully turned around the chiming turned into a strident alarm that rose and fell. Dammit, Kohlson said as he finished his turn.

What is it, David Johns wheeled his chair across the short space of the control room. His outstretched hands caught him at the counter top and slowed him at Kohlson's monitor.

Flat lined, Kohlson said as he pushed a button on the wall to confirm what the doctor’s one level up already knew. Clayton Hunter was dead.

I see it, Doctor Ed Adams replied over the ceiling speakers. The staff called him Doctor Christmas for his long white beard and oversize belly. Berty and I are on the way.

Lot of good that will do, Johns muttered.

Kohlson turned to him. Go on in... Do CPR if you want... They don't pay me enough to do it. I don't know what that shit is. Look at the way the Doc suits up. Clayton Hunter will be in rigor before anyone gets in there at all.

No argument, Johns said. He wheeled back to his own monitor, called up an incident sheet and began to type.

Me too, Kohlson agreed. Preserve the video, med and monitor data. He punched a few buttons on his console and an interface for the medical equipment came up. He saved the last 48 hours of data, and then began to fill out his own incident report. These reports might never be seen by more than one person, maybe two if you counted the person that wrote it, Kohlson thought, but it would always be there. Classified. Top secret for the next hundred years or so. And he wondered about that too. Would it even be released after a long period? He doubted it. The shit they were doing here was bad. Shit you didn't ever want the American public to know about. This incident report, along with the one Johns was doing, would probably get buried deep under some program listing that no one would ever suspect to look into. Or, maybe, it would get burned right along with Clayton Hunter's body. He glanced up at the clock and then went back to typing.

Uh... Call it 4:32 PM? He asked.

Works for me, Johns agreed.

I got 94 for the body, Johns said.

Yeah... Yeah, me too. That's a fast drop, but we both got the same thing. 94 it is... No heart, no respiratory, dead as dog shit.

Dog shit, Johns agreed. They both fell silent as they typed. A few moments later the doors to the observation room chimed, the air purifiers turned on with a high pitched whine, and they could both feel the air as it dragged past them and into the air ducts. The entire volume would be replaced and the room depressurized and then re-pressurized before the doors would open. And that would only happen after the air was tested and retested. A good twenty minutes away before anyone would step foot into the room with Clayton Hunter.

Complex C, Autopsy Room

Ed Adams and Roberta Summers had dissected Clayton Hunter's body methodically. The autopsy had been painstaking. It had to be, it was recorded in detail and some General somewhere, hell, maybe even the president, would be looking that video over in the next few days. Maybe even watching live now. They had that capability. There was nothing to see. He had suffered a major heart attack. The heart had a defect. No history. One of those things that just came along and fucked up your two billion dollar research project all at once.

Coronary Thrombosis, He spoke in a measured voice. Appears to be after the fact. The artery looks to be mildly occluded... The myocardial infarction appears to be caused from a congenital defect... Specifically an Atrial Septal Defect... Berty?

I concur. Easily overlooked. The lack of sustenance put a higher demand on the subject's heart, the defect became a major player at that point... Bad luck for us.

Uh, bad luck for Clayton Hunter, Ed Adams added.

Of course. Bad luck for the subject, Clayton Hunter. I simply meant bad luck for a research volunteer to be defective in such a way that in effect it would compromise a project of this magnitude so badly. She turned her eyes up to one of the cameras she knew to be there. This in no way paints a true picture of V2765. We should proceed, unsatisfying as these circumstances might be, we should proceed with subjects 1120F and 1119X... Same compound. She turned back to the corpse on the table. You want me to do the brain biopsy, She asked Ed.

Ed frowned as he made eye contact with her. They had decided, at least he had thought they had decided, not to mention brain biopsies. Three times now he had discussed the importance of not focusing on the changes that V2765 made to the brain. Anything that altered the brain could alter financing, funding, lab time. Even the government didn't like changes to brain matter.

Are you thinking there could have been an embolism? He asked.

'Well I," she sputtered away for a second before Ed rescued her.

I think all we would see is evidence of the embolism that occurred near the heart. We could search out areas of the body and most likely find more than one occurrence of embolism. Well thought, but I believe we will take a look at the brain later in the week. Right now I want to focus on the enzymes, proteins, blood work and readying the other two for a conclusion of this trial.

Yes. I agree entirely, Doctor Adams.

You have your samples?

Yes of course, Doctor... Rex?

Ed frowned hard and shrugged his shoulders in the direction of the thick glass. He lowered his voice to a whisper. None down here. That was stupid, Berty.

What was that, Kohlson asked Johns in the control room.

What? Johns asked.

That... Whisper, I guess, Kohlson said.

Oh... That. You know those two got it bad for each other. Probably making little remarks you don't want to hear. Besides which, you make a report on that and we all have to deal with it: Them, sure, but us too because the bosses will be pissed off about it. Best to let that shit slide: If the boss wants to know he will. He looks at all of this shit in depth.

Kohlson looked about to say more when Doctor Christmas began talking once more in the autopsy room.

Let's close him up, Ed Adams said. He stepped on a switch set into the floor, paused, and then spoke again. Lower the air temperature in here. We intend to keep him a few hours while we attend to other parts of the autopsy... No one in here for any reason.

Out in the control room Johns keyed his mic button. Will do... How low, Doc.?

I guess about 34 Fahrenheit will do... Just to slow it all down for a while.

Done, Johns agreed. He adjusted a temperature graphic on a nearby monitor via his mouse.

Kohlson leaned over across the short distance. So we got to look at that shit for a while? Great.

They're gonna sew him up, so it won't be so bad.

Yeah... That's like, I got a mild case of flu. It's still gonna suck, because every time I look anywhere I'm gonna feel compelled to look at it.

Yeah. Me too. It's there. Draws you to it. Like the Bunny on the Playboy Cover. You look at the rest of the magazine, but you know you're gonna end up looking at her. She's the reason you bought the magazine after all.

Kohlson nodded and smiled. And I'd rather look at Miss January than a dead guy with big stitches across his belly and over his chest, sewing him back up again. That is some ugly shit.

Johns laughed. But you look anyway... Human nature. Why do you think people slow down and look at accidents?

'Cause we're morbid mother fuckers, Kohlson agreed.

Well, that too, but it is that fascination with death we have. Look, He pointed at the monitor. Do you think Clayton Hunter knew he'd be laying on a steel slab this afternoon, dick hanging out, with Doctor Christmas shoving his guts back in and stitching him up with his nursey assisting?" They both laughed and turned away.

She ain't half...

A scream cut off the conversation and both men turned quickly back to the monitor.

Clayton Hunter was sitting up on the steel table. Arms drooped at his side. Mouth yawning. Doctor Christmas had backed away until he had met the wall behind him. Nurse Berty was nowhere to be seen.

What the fuck... What the fuck. Get a camera on the floor... Maybe she fainted, Kohlson said.

Got it, Johns agreed. He stabbed at the keys on his keyboard and a view of the table at an angle appeared. Nurse Bertie's leg could be seen, angled away from the table, skirt hiked high. The camera paused briefly and then the view began to shift as Johns manipulated the camera angle. Her face came into view. Mouth open, blood seeping from one corner.

Doctor, Kohlson called over the speaker system. Outside the airlocks had clicked on and the air was cycling. Good, he thought, in twenty minutes the Calvary would be here. Doctor Adams?

The doctor finally took his eyes off Clayton Hunter and turned toward one of the cameras. On the table Clayton Hunter leaned forward and tumbled off the edge of the table. At the same instant the air purifier quit cycling and three armed men in gas masks stepped into the airlock.

Jesus, Johns sputtered. You guys can't do that shit. That air has to be worked? Three more men stepped through the lock and the door to the autopsy room opened as well as the door to the control room. A split second later the rifles in their hands began to roar. The sound was louder than Kohlson expected in the enclosed space. He clasped his hands over his ears, but it did little good. The soldiers, he saw, were wearing ear protection of some sort. Noise canceling headgear. The remaining three soldiers had stepped into the control room, he saw as he looked back up from the floor. They kept their rifles leveled at them, the others were still firing within the confines of the small autopsy room. A small gray cloud was creeping along the floor and rolling slowly into the control room. The stench of gunpowder was strong in the enclosed space. The air purifiers were off. Kohlson knew there was another control room outside this one that controlled this space, and possibly another outside of that space that controlled that space. Built in protection; it was clear that they were in a very bad space.

Kohlson saw Clayton Hunter lurch to his feet and stumble into the soldiers who were firing at point blank range in the tight confines. A series of bullets finally tore across his chest and then into his head and he fell from view. A second late the firing dropped off and then stopped completely.

Johns was listening to the sound of his own heart hammering for a space of seconds before he figured out it was his own. The smell of gunpowder was nauseating, and he suddenly lunged forward and vomited on his shoes. As he was lifting his head he saw that the soldiers were retreating back through the airlocks and into the outer spaces of the compound.

Jesus, Kohlson managed before he too bent forward and vomited. They heard the air filtering kick back on as both of them rolled away from the puddles of vomit and quickly disappearing low, gray vapor from the rifles firing. The doors into the autopsy room suddenly banged shut and then their own door whispered closed as well: Once again they were isolated in their small space.

They both sat silent for a moment, and then Kohlson left and returned from the small bathroom with a mop and bucket from the utility closet there. He left and returned with a bottle of disinfectant and sprayed down the vomit and the balance of the small room.

That won't do shit, Johns said solemnly. We're infected. Whatever they infected that guy Hunter with, we got it now.

Kohlson ignored him, waited the ten minutes for the disinfectant to work and then cleaned up the mess. Neither spoke while he returned the equipment to the small closet and then came back and sat down.

You heard me, right?

I heard you, Kohlson admitted. I just don't give a fuck... It's too fresh... I can't believe it right now. He looked up at the clock. Mother fucker... I was off duty in twenty minutes... Twenty goddamn minutes! He spun and looked at Johns, but Johns was looking up at the monitors that were still on in the autopsy room. The smoke was being drawn out by the air exchange, and the horror of the room was slowly coming into focus.

Doctor Adams lay sprawled in one corner, a line of bullet holes stitched across his back. The back portion of his skull was missing, jagged bone and gray-black hair clumped wildly around the fractured bone. Johns gagged and looked away.

Jesus... They killed everybody, Kohlson said as he continued to watch. Nurse Bertie lay where she had fallen. Only her legs visible in the shot they could see. Clayton Hunter lay against the end of the stainless slab. His head a shapeless mass. The stitches across his chest and stomach bulging. Kohlson finally turned away too.

They're coming back for us. Johns said.

Kohlson spun to the door.

Not now, stupid ass, but you can't think we get to live after that. They contaminated our air. We're dead. No way are we not dead.

Kohlson said nothing.

It was six hours before the soldiers came. They had finally taken a better look at the room. Johns moving the camera around as Kohlson watched.

Dave... Tell me I'm wrong, but that fucker came back to life, right? He was unsure even as he said it.

Johns shrugged. I think what happened is they missed something... We missed something. Maybe a lead came off. You know, and the lead came off and so he seemed dead and he wasn't dead at all, not really, he was still alive... Just that lead was off.

Yeah?

Yeah. I mean... I mean the alternative is that he came back to life... You don't think that do you? I mean, do you? Cause that's fucking crazy, Gabe. Crazy.

No. No, I can see what you mean I can see where...

The air lock cycled on and six soldiers stepped into the hall like space that was actually just an airlock between the control room, the autopsy room, the former patient ward and the outside world. Johns tensed, waiting for the door to their space to cycle on, but it didn't.

The soldiers were dressed head to toe in army drab plastic coveralls. Respirators, big units, sat on their backs and a full face shield and breathing apparatus covered their faces, somehow joined into the coveralls. Tape was wound around the elastic cuffs of the legs and the plastic boot covers that joined there. Flexible olive-green gloves covered their hands, also taped where they slipped under the plastic coveralls. They never looked their way at all, just waited for the air lock to cycle and then stepped into the autopsy room. A second later the monitors went dead in the control room.

Fuck, David Johns said. That is not good at all.

Kohlson got up and left the room. A minute later he was back with two diet colas. He handed one to David johns and then sat back down. Johns glanced down at the cola. The top was open already. He looked at Kohlson and Kohlson stared back unblinking. The med supplies cabinet was also in that closet. They had talked it over once. They had decided that... He pushed it away and focused on the low whisper of the air exchange

You think they will outright kill us, Kohlson asked after a few long minutes of silence.

Gabe... I think they will, Gabe. Johns said after a hesitation. He tried to stop himself, but he glanced down at the cola in his hand. It was half full. White powder floated on the surface. Clumped and drifting like tiny icebergs across a cola sea. Probably... No. They're listening in right now, I'm sure. Listening to see where our minds are at: As soon as those flunkies in there are finished with that job they'll be in here to finish up the clean up. He swallowed hard.

Yeah. I guess that's how I see it too, Kohlson agreed. He raised his can and tapped the side. Been good knowing you, Dave.

Johns stared him down for a few moments and then sighed. Yeah. Same here. He raised the can in a salute and then downed it. Kohlson followed suit. Silence descended on the control room.

ONE

CANDACE

March 1st

The traffic leaving the parking lot had slowed to a trickle, the lot nearly empty. The live shows were over, the bands packed up and gone, the dancers gone before or at the same time. The club was empty except Jimmy, the club boss, Don, the main door security, and me.

Why are you still here, Candy, Jimmy asked as he came up to the bar. He was on his way back from the parking lot. It was a short trip across the parking lot to the bank night deposit on the lot next door.

I had an idea that Harry would be by tonight. He wanted to talk to me, I shrugged. Harry was a Bookie, at least on the surface. Off the surface, or maybe it would be truer to say under the surface, Harry controlled most of the organized crime north of Syracuse. Jimmy... Jimmy managed the club, among other things, but the best description for Jimmy was to say Jimmy solved problems for Harry.

Wants to talk you into staying here. That's about all, Jimmy said.

I turned away and pretended to check my face in the mirrored wall behind the bar. I wanted to Dance. I had suggested to Harry, through Jimmy, that maybe it was time for me to move on if there wasn't any hope of me dancing. Anyway, I ended up tending bar. So...

So it's not dancing. He dug one hand into his pocket and pulled out a thick wad of bills. He peeled two hundreds from the roll and pushed them into my hand, folding his hand over my own and closing it when I started to protest.

But, I started.

But nothing. We did a lot in bar sales. You and I both know it was because of you. He smiled, let go of my hand and stepped back. It was me, not Harry, he said.

I fixed my eyes on him. I knew what he might be about to say, but I wanted to be sure.

He sighed. It was me that put the stop to your dancing. You're too goddamn good for dancing, Candy. And once you start? He barked a short, derisive laugh. The law thing? Right out the window. What's a cop make anyway in this town? Maybe thirty or forty a year? He settled onto one of the stools that lined the bar, tossed his hat onto the bar top and patted the stool next to him. He continued talking.

So, thirty, maybe forty, and what's a dancer make? I can tell you there are dancers here who make better than one fifty a year. And that's what I pay them. That's not the side stuff or tips. He moved one large hand, fished around behind the bar and came up with a bottle of chilled Vodka from the rack that held it just below eye level. He squinted at the label. Cherry Surprise, he questioned in a voice low enough to maybe be just for himself. This shit any good, Candy?

It's not bad, I told him. I leaned over the bar and snagged two clean glasses when he asked me, setting them on the bar top. He poured us both about three shots worth. Jesus, Jimmy.

He laughed. Which is why I don't make drinks. It'd break me. He sipped at his glass, made a face, but sipped again. I took a small sip of my own drink and settled back onto the bar stool.

So, I said to myself, smart, beautiful, talented, and you have that something about you that makes men look the second time. You know? He took another small sip. Man sees a woman walking down the street or across a crowded dance floor, beautiful or not he looks. That look might be short or it might be long. Depends on the woman. Then he looks away. Does he look back? Not usually. But with you he does. There are women men look at that second time for whatever reason, and you're one of them. I looked a second time, and then I really looked, for a third time. And I've seen a lot. That tattoo makes men and women look again. His eyes fell on the tattoo that started on the back of my left hand, ran up my arm, across my breasts and then snaked back down over my belly and beyond. I knew it was provocative. That was the rebellious part of me. I