There is just a brief AN at the end of this chapter that I would like you (the reader) to read and respond to. Other than that, not much to say here. Hope you enjoy this latest installment.


Outbreak

Part 3:

A seemingly endless deluge of frantic administrators and advisers bombarded President Foster, flooding his perceptions with an annoying cacophony of what had basically degenerated into mere noise in his head over the past ten minutes. Everyone had something to say, a report to deliver, or a suggestion to give or a request to be made, their relentless pursuit for his attention only compounded by the ever growing realization that the national media was watching his every move with a microscope, scrutinizing his every thought and action with extreme prejudice. Some had even gone so far as to accuse him directly of orchestrating the act in order to draw attention away from other national tribulations.

Shaking his head in frustration at the constant flood of information coming at him, Foster tossed a recently delivered report aside and removed his glasses, discarding them to his desk as he drew his hands down his tired face before speaking over the commotion in his office. "Everyone, shut the hell up!!"

His outburst succeeded in bringing an abrupt halt to the maelstrom of government officials that had come to populate the Oval Office, freezing everyone in stunned silence.

Foster eyed the crowd for a moment, his weary gaze flitting between the various department representatives that had been heckling him for favors only seconds ago. "Now, will someone just tell me, in plain goddamn English, what is the situation is and what our options are?"

General Jonathan Winters, who had been sitting patiently on a couch in the office amid the hustle and confusion, a single folder held neatly in place on his lap, spoke from his seat, the leather furniture squeaking as he stood from his position and presented the President with his plan.

"Mister President, I think we should fully consider the fact that we have lost control of the situation. If we don't act quickly and decisively, we risk losing more than Los Angeles. If this thing is not contained.... We are putting the entire nation at risk." General Winters delivered his words with pointed conviction and confidence as he tossed the folder to the Presidents desk, stacking it high atop the other papers and documents that had accumulated there over the past few moments.

All of the other suits and officials stacked up behind him in the office were too cowardly to face down the president directly, side stepping any real answers and hiding behind documents, procedure, protocol or whatever other useless ideas they had built up in their minds to distance themselves from having to be part of the solution. They all lacked the balls to say what was really on their minds and admit the truth, even to themselves. They all spent their days behind a desk approving memos and stamping seals on papers that said this, that or the other thing, but hell if any of them actually knew what they were approving, or even if they were directly involved with their department beyond showing up long enough to get a paycheck. But not Winters. Having payed his dues in the Army, working his way up through the ranks since he joined at sixteen, he was trained to see every situation from a tactical point, to react as if every encounter, every scenario in his life were a matter of life and death, the outcome of which was almost entirely reliant on his ability to make the right call when it needed to be made and not a second later. And in the face of a situation such as this, there was little time for bureaucratic posturing or politically correct ideals bound in red tape. Now more than ever, the country was in need of decisive, effective leaders who would not shy away from the ugly facts when they came barreling at them a dozen at a time.

President Foster shot a bemused glance to the General. Winters stood towering over him, a confident air surrounding him as his resolute gaze fell to the Commander in Chief. Looking back to the document, the President lifted it from his desk and read the header printed in large black letters across the top:

N.D.R.P.

"What is this, General?" He finally managed, his tired eyes flitting between the military adviser and the folder in his grasp. Consciously, he was aware what the "N.D.R.P." encompassed, his question was more so aimed at probing the depths of the General's sincerity regarding the matter.

"That, sir, is our only viable option for containing this threat before it can spread beyond our control." Johnathan answered, pointing quickly to the document. "If you authorize this, I guarantee we can have the situation well in hand within hours."

The President allowed his eyes to traverse once more between Winters and the folder, giving its contents a thoughtful look before fixing his stare on the General. "How long will it take? How soon can you have this in effect?"

The General seemed to do a quick mental calculation of sorts, almost as if he were working out the details in his mind before he answered, straightening out his posture and exuding an air of confidence. "My best estimation.... Two hours, maximum."

"And survivors?" Foster plied further, trying to extract as many precise details as he could from the General's plan of action.

"We declare Los Angeles a "no go zone" and once the city is secured, we can then work at extracting any survivors on a case by case basis at our own discretion."

Director Hammond blanched as he overheard what the two were speaking of, and sharply interjected himself into the conversation. "Sir, are you actually considering sealing off the entire city of Los Angeles?" He stuttered as finding the words to describe his disapproval was proving to be somewhat troublesome. "Its.... Insane. At the rate this thing is capable of spreading, sealing off a major metropolitan area of the country like that.... You're creating a powder keg that is just waiting to explode."

"And what do you suggest we do, Director?" Winters cut in, displaying his incredulous sentiments towards any possible scenario the CDC could bring to bear on this situation. "The population of that city is becoming more and more hostile by the minute. A military solution is our only solution."

Hammond remained dumbstruck by the suggestion of effecting a quarantine of the entire Los Angeles area. "Think about the scale you are dealing with, General. You're talking about containing a population of almost four million people in a five hundred square mile area. How the hell do you propose we do that when we can't even keep the boarder between Mexico and Texas secure?"

General Winters tried to rebut the Director, but was halted in mid thought as Hammond continued his pessimistic tirade.

"The CDC only employs 15,000 people, and you want them to simply waltz into a cordoned off Los Angeles and test four million people for this thing?" Hammond could not help but allow for a slightly ridiculous chuckle to escape as he continued speaking. "No, that will never work. We need to target specific areas and focus our attention there, keep our assets where they can be of the most use to us. The CDC has counter measures specifically designed to combat this kind of attack. And I think the CDC is a bit more well trained and well equipped to dealing with this than than the Army." He finished, his tone becoming increasingly condescending.

Winters huffed an indignant breath at the Director's words and unleashed his own smarmy remarks. Typically he wouldn't have two words to say to the man, but if he wanted to go down this path, it suited him just fine at the moment. Maybe humiliating the Director in front of the President would work to his ends in getting his own plan approved for use. "That's debatable. You couldn't even quarantine an apartment. I cringe at what your attempt at a major U.S. City would look like."

Hammond retorted with sarcasm, his personal opinion of the General had never been all that high to begin with, so it meant nothing for him to berate the man and undermine his bravado wherever it was possible. "Yes, because the Army ideal of "maintaining order" is to kill everyone that isn't you. Oh yes, things are much more orderly now that there's no one left to fight you." He fired back.

Winters tightened his jaw and exhaled a frustrated breath through his nostrils. Normally it was not in is nature to walk away from a fight, but he had to make an exception in this case. Bickering would get them nowhere, and every second they spent debating and exchanging vicious comments was one second closer to them losing the entire state of California, if not the country.

Turning his focus back to the President, Johnathan addressed him once more. "Sir, we need to act now and seal off that city. The director said it himself, four million people, there is no way to check all of that out in time to signal an all clear, even by sweeping selected neighborhoods. The process would take hours to complete, and the whole time we run the risk of someone with this disease escaping the city limits and taking it God knows where in the country. At least if we keep the city contained, we can proceed with sterilization procedure in a much more orderly fashion."

"You wouldn't call it "orderly" if you saw how thousands of people get when they are trapped in a situation beyond their control, General." Hammond snidely interrupted, unwilling to let his personal grudge against Winters fall to the wayside. "You are taking four million average citizens, trapping them in their own homes and telling them to wait while you test them for an infectious disease that is running rampant in their streets? I don't think it would stay calm for long. Your men would be overwhelmed by a flood of petrified civilians clamoring for the nearest boarder crossing."

General Winters shot a disgusted look to the Director. "Listen here you little prick, I've seen what its like when thirty people are stuck in a situation beyond their control, I know that things turn into a shit storm, and they do in a hurry. At least with my plan, we have a chance to contain this thing and preventing the nation from breaking out into mass panic."

Hammond opened his mouth in preparation to retort the General's condescending remarks, but President Forster quickly intervened.

"Enough, both of you!!" His eyes shot back and forth between the CDC Director and General Winters. "I think we can all agree that we are facing a crisis the likes of which the country has never seen. But the last thing I need to be worried about is my advisers being at each others throats over who is right and who is wrong." He sternly asserted, allowing the tense silence to hang in the air for a moment before he continued. "Director, given the magnitude of the situation, I see no other alternative. We need to contain the threat before it can proliferate beyond our control. I am approving General Winter's plan of action. We seal off the city, effect a travel ban and blockade all routes leading to and from the Los Angeles area. Then, once we have secured a perimeter, we can proceed with the matter of evacuation and sterilization."

Winters flashed a triumphant smile at the President's approval and shot a smug look to the Director as President Foster took up his pen and signed the executive order to initiate the General's plan. "Thank you, Mister

President."


"Spread out, clear this room!" Masterson managed to deliver his orders to the rest of his squad through his stifling mask as the gunfire dissipated into the air as the gruesome creature before them toppled to the floor of the room in a motionless pile, its body torn up by a hail of lethal A.P. rounds.

He hated wearing these masks, they were always so damn restricting. You couldn't see two feet in front of your own face to shoot anything, at least not with any great deal of accuracy. And in these low light conditions, armed with only a flashlight, well, it felt like being in the dark ages to him. He would much rather prefer some NVGs, hell even thermal. Anything that would give him a clearer picture of his surroundings without having to aim and guess at every tiny movement in his narrow peripheral.

The soldiers behind him forced their way into the confines of the decrepit pent house, fanning out to the left and right of their C.O. as their lights darted anxiously around the room.

The Captain maintained his tense posture, holding his rifle tight to his shoulder, his fingers wrapped firmly around both grips as his right index finger rested comfortably on the trigger. His reflexes were ready for anything, but mentally he kept them in check. Though his orders from the field were to terminate survivors with prejudice, he simply couldn't shake the years of learning he had taken from his father. Although boot camp drilled him at how to become proficient with a rifle, how to shoot straight and never miss his mark, their curriculum was somewhat lacking in the "morality and responsibility" department. At least it was in his day when he first joined the service. With the new politics and ideals ensnaring the countries most recent engagement on the world stage, there may have been some changes, maybe the introduction of some P.C. ideals here and there, but then again, it didn't really matter. All Masterson knew was what his father had taught him, his words still as fresh in his mind now as they were five years ago:

"As a soldier, you are a defender first and a fighter second. Don't let anyone tell you differently. I don't care what they say in the training camps these days. People look up to that uniform, they expect things from it. And what they expect is for it to defend them and protect them in their hour of need."

Of course, his father was from a different generation of people who had a different generation of thought far removed from where the rest of the country stood today. Even so, the years separating their service to the country did not dilute the meaning or truth behind those words to him.

As the members of his squad spread out behind him, Masterson worked his way forwards, inching closer towards the mangled corpse in front of them, his light shining brightly on the tattered body when a sudden noise abruptly drew his attention upwards again. Reacting on instinct, he brought the muzzle of his rifle to bear on a small annex in front of him, illuminating the darkened interior of the room with his light as his finger simultaneously began to apply a gentle pressure to the trigger.

However, as his light caught the motion in the back room, he allowed for his grip on his rifle to relax slightly, slowly lifting his finger from the trigger as he took a cautious step forwards towards the doorway of the room. Part of him told him to just fire, fire and forget. Follow orders like he had been told to do. But his gut instinct overpowered whatever conscious, subservient mindset he may have been in and urged him to act against his field commands. His mind, as it had always done either upon his command or on a more sub-conscious level, had done a rather quick calculation of the scenario before him, applying attained knowledge to sort out what his response should inevitably be. And in those few split seconds it took for him to comprehend, compile and analyze the information in his mind, it just simply hadn't added up for him. If she was one of them, she would have attacked with the other one, oblivious to her surroundings or even what was happening. But she wasn't exhibiting behavior like the others. She was almost docile in appearance, huddled on her knees next to the wall with her hands pressed tightly against the sides of her head, covering her ears as she seemed to sob quietly.

Taking one more careful step forward, he spoke out to her. "Miss?" His voice was muffled by the mask, his words met in silence as the woman seemed to have no idea they were here, or even that he had spoken to her. He raised his voice slightly and spoke again.

"Miss, are you alright?! Have you been infected?!" He allowed for the muzzle of his rifle to drop somewhat as he relaxed his finger on the trigger and took one more step towards her, coming to stand in the doorway to the room as he awaited a reply. He hoped that she would say something, just to prove that she wasn't one of them. But then again, he partially hoped that she wasn't an actual survivor, his ultimatum from his superiors clear in stating that she needed to be treated as an expendable liability if she had actually managed to come this far without making contact with any of the infectious people.

Angela's mind hadn't yet come to grips with the situation. Her body was still frozen in place, paralyzed by the pure dread that had come to engulf her senses. That creature, the sound of gun fire, it was all coming together for her. Her luck was out, her life was going to end in this place, the final chapter in her existence played out beyond her control by a dozen others as she hid in a darkened corner, consumed by grief and lamenting the life she would never get to lead.... So why hadn't it happened yet? Why did she still feel like she was in this?

Slowly, she opened her eyes and looked to the floor in front of her as a beam of radiant white light passed over her knees before flickering in her left peripheral, forcing her to throw up a hand in front of her face to blot out the harsh light as she turned her attention towards a voice.

"Are you alright?"

The voice seemed somewhat agitated as she stared into the harsh glare of the light through her fingers, her eyes making out only a dim figure a few feet from her.

"Have you been infected?!" It repeated.

Angela finally pieced it all together, or at least thought she had. Reacting with a mixture of excitement and apprehension, she finally managed to shake her head slowly and lower her hand as her eyes finally acclimated to the sudden flare of light. "No...."

Internally, Masterson breathed a sigh of relief when she finally answered. But as quickly as he was allayed they had found a living person in the middle of this hell hole, his joy was short lived as he struggled with his personal feelings. His moral compass and sense of decency was clashing violently with his sense of duty and obligation to his post. Now it seemed to be his turn to freeze in place, his body motionless as he wrestled with the choice he had to make. How did he do it if he was going to do it? The merciful way to do it would be to just take aim and squeeze the trigger without giving it a second thought. Making it quick for her was the best he could do. Approaching her would give her hope, and he couldn't deal with that, especially if it meant he had to betray the hope she would be entrusting him with in the next instant of their meeting.

As Masterson tried to decide just what he was going to do, his mind racing with indecision, the woman gasped sharply and pointed behind him, screaming to him.

"Behind you!!"

Quickly he spun, bringing his rifle to the ready in the process. But, as he whirled around to investigate, he felt something slam into his side and tackle him to the ground. He let out a sharp grunt of pain from behind his mask as he fell helplessly to the floor under he weight of the impact, his rifle sliding free of his grip as he finally managed to twist about, finally managing to catch a glimpse of what had hit him. Much to his shock, it was that same man they had shot down when they entered. Why the hell hadn't he stayed dead like the other one? Frantically, he tried to hold off the creature with his arms and hands as it clawed viciously at him, screeching and flailing at him, trying to scratch through his protective face mask and attack his face.

"God dammit! Get it off me!" He shouted to someone, anyone as he fought to keep the thing at bay and reach for his sidearm at the same time. But his struggle for his weapon was allowing the thing to land hits on him as his upper body strength, burdened by the weight of his combat uniform and the infected man, was proving too little to keep the savage assault away as the man used his bare hands in an attempt to gouge at the Captain's face, punching at him violently.

Instantly, three other soldiers rushed into the room, their weapons drawn and at the ready.

"Don't shoot! You'll hit the Captain!" Newman barked, training his rifle on the man as he attempted to line up a clear shot.

"Just shoot the fucker, Corporal!" Masterson shouted.

"Sir, I...."

"DO IT!!"

Newman and the others were motionless for a moment, when a sudden voice rose up over the commotion.

"Hey!!"

A sudden flicker of light pierced into Masterson's peripheral as the creature inadvertently stopped its attack and looked up from its position above him.

Its horrid visage was illuminated only for a second, its pupils retracting as the light flooded its eyes as it released a hellish scream before a loud crack sounded out in the room, followed by a sudden explosion of flesh, bone and brain matter as a single bullet smashed through its skull, penetrating its face at the bridge of the nose and forcing its way out the back of its head, dislodging a large chunk of the skull in the process as viscera trailed from the exit wound and the man fell to the floor in a motionless heap.

Masterson reacted quickly, scrambling to his feet and rolling the lifeless corpse off of him as he stood. He eyed the mangled body for a moment before looking back to where the shot had come from.

Angela held the rifle in her hands, her breathing rapid, her eyes wide in astonishment, the palms of her hands sweating as it seemed like every nerve in her body was trembling as she tried to comprehend what she had just done. She had just shot a man in the face and killed him without so much as even flinching or pausing. She had fired guns before, on a few occasions, but it was always a some paper target, it was never anything living, she could never do that. But apparently she was wrong.... Because she just did.

"I'll take that back now...." Masterson calmly interrupted, approaching her and reaching his hand out for the rifle.

Angela shot one more glance at the crumpled remains of the withered old man on the floor in front of her before she turned her attention to the Captain. She looked to him, then to his outstretched hand, then to the rifle in her grasp. Suddenly realizing the full gravity of what she had done, she handed the rifle over, treating it now as if it were some kind of awful relic of death that made her physically ill to hold.

As Masterson wrapped his fingers back around the rifle, he gave her a nod of approval before placing a gentle hand on her shoulder, recognizing the mental struggle she was going through. He had seen that look on the faces of recruits more times than he could remember, that look of uncertainty and disbelief upon realizing that they had just been responsible for taking their first life. "Hey, you did good. It was me or him.... Frankly, I'm glad you chose me." He said, adding a vague smile to his expression, which he quickly retracted upon remembering that she couldn't see it through his mask.

Angela gave him a vacant stare, his words failing to register at the moment, but she felt like she deserved to give him some kind of response, even if it was a silent nod. And that is what she settled for, simply because it was all she could manage right now. She felt like any attempt for words would be useless. What could she say? There wasn't much to say. She killed him. It was kill or be killed.... Simple as that, or so she hoped.

As Masterson turned his attention back to his men, his radio clicked on in his ear.

"Bravo Two-Zero, do you copy?"

Reaching a free hand to his mic, the Captain responded. "This is Bravo Two-Zero, go ahead."

"Pull out and regroup at Hotel Bravo, designation grid Kilo Two-Three."

At first, the coordinates stunned him. The designated rally point was well beyond the city limits. Why would they make that kind of call? Unless.... A slow realization dawned on him. This thing must be happening somewhere else inside the city. And if that was true.... He couldn't even imagine trying to contain an entire populace of a major American city being effected by a biological attack, much less the fact that this thing seemed to be turning out to be a full scale attack instead of an isolated incident. Whatever the case, he was just relived to be given the order to pull back. "Affirmative. Bravo Two-Zero out."

Turning back to his men he relayed the command. "Pack it up! We're Oscar Mike!" He reached back to his mic and contacted Richards. "Richards, secure the entrance, we're leaving."

"Sir?"

"Orders from the top. We're done here. Have our men extracted and ready to roll in five, Sergeant."

"Yes, sir."


AN: Okay, to the readers of this story, you now have a choice to make concerning the future of this. Do you want me to maintain Angela as a regular character through out the rest of the story? If the route is chosen where she remains part of the plot, my options for providing entertaining/exciting and suspenseful reading are somewhat greater. However, that is prone to meaning less frequent updates as I have to build a series of belivable scenarios, ways out, how they tie into the main plot, etc.... Contrariwise, if you chose the route of not having her continue to be a part of the story, then updates will probably be more frequent as I am much more adept at writing about military scenarios as opposed to age old frame work of a set number of survivors who get picked off one by one until the last three either make it out or die trying. So, what say you, reader? Feel free to say so in your review what your opinion is on this choice.