"So tell me Captain, how is it possible that Burke and her little group of misfits still eludes us? Just what exactly is it our teams are doing out there?" demanded the tall, dark haired man.
"I don't know sir. They've been scouring the western seaboard for them, but so far they haven't turned up anything," replied the officer. Silently he anticipated what the dark haired man's reaction over his answer. Conveniently, he didn't have long to wait.
"What the fuck do you mean they're scouring the west coast!" he exploded angrily. "What about the Midwest and the east? Have you even bothered having any of those teams out searching? Goddammit! As soon as I radioed you from Colorado you should have had teams across the country tracking them down!"
"All of our units have teams scrambled and out searching Scarecrow," the Captain told him placatingly. "At least the ones still in contact with us. Our last reported sighting of Burke's group led us to believe they were heading on a westerly course."
"Did you have a visual confirmation of the helicopters?"
"Yes."
"Who? Did he verify the identification numbers on the aircraft? I want to talk to them," Scarecrow demanded.
"Your mother, her housekeeper, and the groom. That was our last confirmed sighting of Burke. And with all of our birds scrambling to find her, wasting valuable resources I might add, I can't get a reliable report from any of the ground teams, nothing passing over has the known markings of the AH-6 that they stole or the CH-53 with which you supplied them."
Ignoring the other man's accusatory statement, Scarecrow uttered, "My father was right, I'm surrounded by complete incompetents!" He continued to rage as they arrived atthe door. Reaching out he wrenched open the door and swept inside."
"Asshole," muttered the officer under his breath before he too stepped into the room. Surprisingly, the room was nothing more than a large windowed viewing area. Moving forward to stand beside Scarecrow, he looked out the window. Down below, he saw zombies, chained to the walls of various rooms. "What the hell!" he uttered in shock.
"Captain Bryant, Scarecrow, welcome to our little observation room," a small, gray-haired man said from a computer station at the far side of the room.
"Doctor Irwin," Scarecrow acknowledged the man.
"What is all this?" asked Bryant, still looking down atwhat could only be described as rooms of horror.
"Research, dear boy. Research," the Doctor said cheerfully.
"What exactly are you 'researching' then?" pressed Bryant.
"Please, join me," Irwin said, gesturing for the two men to stand beside him at the left most viewing window. "What you see here is Miguel. Now, Miguel was formerly a Sergeant in the Air Force, a mechanic I believe," the doctor mused.
"Get to the point Doctor," Scarecrow said, his impatience showing.
"In good time Scarecrow. Now Miguel here has helped us to understand the initial gestation period of the virus. In his particular case, his bite was nothing more than a shallow scratch on his calf, just above the top of his boot. He survived for nearly a week and a half before the virus ravaged his body enough to do him in. After that, it was less than three minutes before he became re-animated..."
"With immediate aggressive, homicidal tendencies, I'm familiar with the research Doctor," Scarecrow interrupted.
"Yes, yes, quite right," mumbled Irwin. "But the difference is, we've never had one last that long, he's quite unique really, rather extraordinary in fact."
"I get the picture," Scarecrow stated brusquely.
Seeing that any more talk on the subject of Miguel would be a waste of time, Irwin directed the men to the next room below. "This next room is where we're studying the effects of intense heat on the subjects."
Bryant looked below. There was a lone door on the far side of the room directly opposite the viewing window, the other three walls each had what remained of a zombie, chained by its neck, attached to them. Large, bright lamps hung overhead.
Clearing his throat, Irwin explained further, "This is the third batch we've used in the heat room. Even with the virus' degenerative inhibitors, the extreme heat conditions experienced in either desert-like climates, or the extreme humidity of a rain forest significantly speed the decomposition of our subjects. Now, the next room is for studying the effects of extreme cold on the subjects, and in the last room we're trying to determine longevity under optimal conditions," the scientist concluded.
"What do you mean you're trying to determine longevity?" asked Bryant curiously.
"Follow me," Irwin replied, leading the two men to view the room in question. "As you can see, each of our experiments involve three study subjects. These three are all first generation infecteds. We were able to retrieve them and contain them for several weeks before placing them here in our program. They've been denied any sort of nourishment all that time so we can determine just exactly how long they can go without a food source, and more to the point, find out if a food source is really necessary for their continued existence. We're trying to find out exactly how far this virus has removed them from the human race," he told them proudly.
"They're dead Doctor, how much further removed from the human race can they possibly get?" Scarecrow asked.
"Yes, yes, a poor choice of words on my end," stammered Irwin.
"I still don't get the optimal conditions part," Bryant said, changing the subject.
Sighing, the researcher shook his head, relieved to have the direct focus of Scarecrow away from himself momentarily. "Where are you from Captain?"
Caught off guard, Bryant replied haltingly, "Lansing...Michigan...but what does that..."
"Imagine for a moment the median summer and fall temperatures in Michigan, Captain. That's what we're trying to recreate here, your overall average temperatures for a given time frame, for a particular area. We want to know how long these things can survive. The previous two rooms, those were just for studying what extremes of temperatures could do for us. This room, this is the one that really matters for us."
"Wait, you're telling me we released this plague on mankind without knowing how long it would survive?" demanded Bryant.
"You're seriously lacking in vision here Captain. We designed this virus specifically to eliminate our enemies," Scarecrow said.
"But what about all those civilians? Millions have died," Bryant said, struggling to keep the emotion from his voice.
"Merely collateral damage," Scarecrow said smoothly. "Now, before you ask any more of these ridiculous questions, I want you to go radio Dillon. See if you can figure out whether or not he's been in contact with Burke and where the hell the bitch has disappeared."
"You're in charge," Bryant replied, taking one last look into the rooms below as he made his way towards the exit.
"Keep me briefed on any news regarding Burke," Scarecrow called out to him as he began making his way through the doorway. Ignoring him, Bryant left the room, hurrying back through the empty corridor towards the communications relay. Once there he made certain he was alone before going to work on the console. At last a familiar face appeared on the screen.
"It's about damn time," complained the person on the screen. "I was starting to think you switched teams on me." The fuzzy picture on the screen, and the time delayed voice made it seem like a poorly dubbed '70's Kung Fu movie to Bryant. Pointing that out wasn't an option however.
"And piss off the legendary Wraith?" he scoffed.
Briggs' face smiled from the screen. "So what's the good word?"
"Aside from Scarecrow remaining in the dark about your location, there is none. The infection has spread out of control, and those culpable still aren't admitting it. They've got more labs up and running, houses of horror to be more specific. All in an attempt to try and figure out how long those things will live for. So far they've got jack. The only thing they can say for sure is that extreme desert-like conditions will make them rot faster, otherwise, they don't have a clue about how to stop them."
"Lovely. Anything else you can tell me about the virus?"
"Just that your best course of action is to head someplace hot, hope you like the beach and remembered to pack some sunscreen."
"What about reports on other survivors?" she asked, ignoring his attempt at humor. "Do we have any kind of numbers yet?"
"I don't know, all I have are numbers for our military holdings still in contact with us. There are bound to be more groups like yours, scattered across the country and holding out for the hope of rescue," he replied. "We still don't have much information from overseas, Australia is the only plague free country that we know of, they were smart enough to close down their airports, turn away oceanic traffic as soon as this thing reared it's ugly head."
"Bully for the Aussies. What about our ships out on sea deployment?"
"So far they remain disease free as well. The only foreseeable trouble we're anticipating is supplies. There were some ships nearing the end of their deployments when this all started, by this point they've got to be running low on supplies."
"With nowhere to go to re-supply," Briggs said.
"If they can make it to Pearl, Hawaii is our only virus free state," Bryant pointed out.
"How about the Island? Any word from the President or Dillon?"
"They've got troubles of their own. I don't have too many details, but it appears the undeads are amassing on the shore, a few have even entered the ocean as if they were going to walk right out to the island."
"Have they made it?" Briggs asked.
"What?"
"Have they made it to the island? The ones who went into the water," Briggs explained.
"No. No reports of that actually happening, but it's clear that they're up to something. Some of the transmissions we've gotten, I don't know, the guys sending them make it sound like those creatures are making plans, creating strategy to work together. It's impossible, that's what it is," scoffed Bryant. "I think they've watched one too many horror movies."
"No it's not horror movies, and the thought of those things working together, it's not impossible. You'd be amazed at some of the things we've seen out here in the field. I think those zombies are quite capable of learning."
"I guess you're the expert in that department," Bryant tried to laugh. "But I'll take your word for it."
"What about our forces? Has there even been any discussion about launching a counteroffensive? Try to take back our place on the food chain even."
"No...not any kind of talkabout it. We've been losing contact with some of our active units, but that's really not surprising. We had dozens of groups put together in two days or less with little more than World War II equipment at their disposal," Bryant explained. "At least, that's what we're hoping is the problem. If they've managed to overrun underground bunkers..." he trailed off.
"In other words, we're slowing going to implode upon ourselves before we ever get our acts together enough to deal with the real problem at hand," Briggs muttered.
"What was that?"
"Nothing. I need to end transmission, my team's starting to stir, we'll be dusting off soon. I'll be in touch, on the usual schedule," she said, reaching out to end the transmission.
"I don't suppose it would do much good for me to ask where you're headed," Bryant said quickly, causing her to pause for a brief second.
"No, it wouldn't," she said at last, terminating the connection.
"Care to tell me what that was all about?" Peter's voice sounded angrily from behind her.
"That," Briggs said, turning and smiling coldly. "That was just an old boyfriend, I was feeling kinda lonely, you know, end of the world and all, kinda hard to find a date in the jungle, that sort of thing."
"Cut with the bullshit lady, what the fuck is going on," he growled.
"How long were you standing there?" she countered.
"I'm the one asking the questions here," Peter stated.
"Then we're at a stalemate," she responded, looking belligerently at him for a moment before turning and packing up the communications equipment.
"I want some answers now dammit!" Peter demanded, pulling her away from her task and trying to spin her towards him. Unexpectantly, she dropped low, spinning and kicking out her leg. The kick caught him in the backs of his knees, knocking him from his feet. Before he knew what was happening, she leaped astride him, pinning his arms down.
"Now then," she said casually, "Just what exactly did you hear?"
Peter struggled for a moment, but Briggs just shifted her position, slamming her knee down into his chest. Gasping for breath, Peter said, "All right already...All I heard was the part about transmitting on the usual schedule."
"And?" prodded Briggs.
"You've been giving away our position all along haven't you?" Peter demanded, anger once more fueling his struggle, almost allowing him to unseat Briggs. "It was your goddamn people, your goddamn fault that Roger got shot!"
"No, that wasn't any of my people," Briggs said, releasing him and returning to the communications equipment. "This is the first time I've contacted any of them since we left the States," she added, turning to face him once more.
"But if you were talking to them before we left, then you could have told them where we were heading, what your flight plan was, everything. And I bet they were just waiting to pick us all off there when they got Roger too," Peter surmised.
Briggs sighed heavily. "First off, I don't discuss my flight plan with anyone outside of this group, hell, I didn't think that this was such a news flash, but most of the time I don't even discuss it with the group. And then, why the fuck would I help the same assholes that I'm trying to keep away from in their efforts to find me. Think about it man. I may be a little crazy, but I'm not dumb. Whoever it was that shot your friend, they weren't my people."
"Than who was it?"
"Gee, I don't know Peter, the drug dealers whobuilt the damn airstrip, maybe?" Briggs asked sarcastically. "This isn't brain surgery here you know, it's a simple matter of putting two and two together. Now, I understand you're pissed off about your friend, I really do.In case you didn't notice that I was feelingthat way when I kicked the shit out of Steve.I'm not about to betray us."
"And you expect me to believe that?"
"Frankly, I don't give a damn what you believe, Peter. If you want to kill me, then do it, you have other pilots who can fly the birds. Maybe they'll even be able to figure out what island I was leading us towards,"
she said, staring him in the eyes. "Otherwise, I suggest we join the others, find out if Roger's fit to fly, and then move out."
"Okay, but first answer me this," he said.
"Yes?"
"What's the news your friend gave you?"
"Same old shit. The geniuses who created this plague have no clue how to stop it, we're losing contact with some of our outposts around the country, and basically, we've lost our spot at the top of the food chain. Anything else before we draw a crowd?" she asked, gesturing towards the helicopters. The sounds of the rest of the group stirring and getting ready for the day's journey could be heard above the din of the undead.
"Yea, how many 'friends' do you have out there?"
"Truthfully? I don't know anymore," she replied.
"What?" Peter asked in surprise, not expecting her answer.
"Well, aside from not knowing how many of them lived through the outbreak, I don't really know how many of them I can trust. There seems to be a little...dissension in my ranks. I'm cashing in on favors owed and hoping against hope that I'm placing my faith in the right people," she leveled at him.
"What makes you so sure you can trust that Bryan guy?" he asked skeptically, her last statement failing to instill any sense of faith in her friendships.
"Bryant, his name's Bryant. And I was telling the truth about the old boyfriend part," she said, grinning. "He and I go way back, we were friends before I married Scarecrow, friends while I was married to Scarecrow, and he's one of the few things I actually got to keep in the divorce, unknown to Scarecrow of course. Plus, he's one of the few people who know the truth about me and Cowboy," She began walking towards the helicopter, Peter moved to walk beside her.
"What difference is that supposed to make?"
"None at all, except to give me faith in him."
Peter looked questioningly at her, but she just walked away from him, calling out to the group gatherig near Roger's pallet, "If our patient's got the medic's okay to go, then let's get this shit loaded andget our asses skyward."