an. If only I could quit my job, I'd probably be done with the story by now. Anyway.
Some general context around demographics in this universe: Given that immunity was established as 10% in St. Augustine, I've decided the total global population hovers around 35%, with a rolling active infection rate of 5-8%. Urban and population-dense countries suffered most (70-80% fatality rate), but for those who successfully isolated and for island nations who closed their borders, death predominately came due to lack of infrastructure and services—food shortages, medical emergencies, etc—and infections from secondary accidental exposure. 15% of the surviving global population is still yet to receive either the contagious or aerosolized cure. Most of this populous resides in Asia. Who knows if the show's writers were employing logic for Season 3 when they based it in Asia but given 59% of the world does in fact live on the Asian continent, it works out nicely that China takes center stage in the ongoing fight to eliminate the virus.
Regarding the looping frequency that made video communications impossible from the White House, I can't get around the plot holes, so it doesn't exist in my world. I don't buy that Val couldn't fix it in two seconds given that she possesses apparent god-tier hacking skills… and there's the minor question of who in the white house had the skills to install the sequence when Dennis didn't turn out to be working for Shaw, right under the nose of both he and Val…
Guest review responses below the chapter.
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Two Kinds of Trouble In This World
living, and dying
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"Fuck."
Above Beng Mu Cun, Jesse circled, surveying what was left of the coastal town. It resembled Lhoknga, Indonesia, in 2004. Flattened. Back then, the international response to the Sumatra-Andaman earthquake and subsequent tsunami had been Jesse's first venture into the world of humanitarian aid, one of the deadliest natural disasters in recorded history… and yet seeing the sheer vastness of the destruction before her, the air was still snatched from her lungs. They may have been there for Wu Ming—because she needed to do something to avenge Zach's wasteful death—but now she felt compelled to stay. To search in vain for any survivors.
As they waded haphazardly through the flooded town in oppressive silence, Sasha noticed Pablo's growing unease. A brief glance was enough to prompt him to speak.
"Should you really be doin' this?" he mumbled under his breath.
Sasha had, after the first ten minutes, realized this was a reckless idea. More so when the bloated arm of a body trapped beneath a leveled building had snagged on her jean pant. And while she liked to pretend that the level of paranoia swept through St. Louis in the days after making port had been excessive, unnecessary, this was something else entirely.
"How much Penicillin you got left?" he pressed.
Not enough.
"Twenty days' worth."
And they hadn't surfaced a single vial of Ceftriaxone in the almost three months they'd been smuggling cure; one of the two medications that Doctors Scott and Rios adamantly instructed would be critical if she caught an infection in her immunodeficient state. Under the bandana covering her face, Sasha's skin was clammy, the fabric offering rudimentary protection from any airborne bacteria, but nothing against the smell.
"You should head back…"
She should. As much as it frustrated Sasha to admit her limitations, this was akin to playing with fire while doused in gasoline. "Just… don't let her stay out here too long." Solemn, Sasha surveyed the immediate area again, trying to pick out recognizable structures amidst the piles of debris that more closely resembled the output of a wood chipper. She couldn't even make out the sounds of insects. "There's nothing left here but death."
They split. During the mile-long walk back to the chopper, Sasha chose not to focus on the ground beyond ensuring she didn't fall or take a flesh wound from the rubble. One scratch or a wayward splinter in this contaminated water and it would be over before she'd had the chance to start. After reaching the concrete flat-top warehouse, and scaling the ladder to the roof. Her feet were drenched. Legs also to her lower knee; a rancid stench soiled into her clothing that would only be resolved by throwing them out.
Shanzhai was a hellhole, no doubt. But the docks in Vietnam were the gates to the portal, and while Peng was a merciless thug, he was at least motivated to protect China's legacy as a sophisticated nation. He held a vision, like the dynasties of old, where New China became the power that governed the world. For that reason, optics mattered, and it was precisely why the most nefarious of trade in the post-cure age—living blood bags—were trafficked through Vietnam, and not Shanzhai. Problem was, Hai Phong's harbor was their next logical step in figuring out what Wu Ming had been doing… and she also needed to leave Chinese territory to place a secure call.
Or she could risk it. There was a decent chance Peng's communications were wiped out by the typhoon… at least temporarily. If she was wrong, though, Peng would intercept, gain their physical location, and have the means to propagate a political shitstorm for the US… and Tom.
She missed him.
It surprised her how easy that was to admit amongst all the guilt, but she did.
Drawing the bandana from her face, Sasha perched against the step of a landing ski and looked in the direction of the South China Sea. From her vantage point, she couldn't quite make out the ocean, and the realization came that it was stupid—insane—to act like facing a bearing could reveal Tom's location. And yet she was. At least one of the US fleet had to be out there. Fresh doses of contagious cure had been showing up in Peng's warehouses for weeks…
Maybe she was going about this wrong. If they cornered a local partner and convinced them to talk, they wouldn't need to risk Vietnam or using the sat phone at all. She could simply reverse engineer the location of one of their destroyers and solicit Jesse to fly her to its deck—except the helo's radio was out, and approaching in a vessel identifying them as Chinese was, in a word, suicidal.
Sighing, Sasha folded her arms and let the back of her skull hit the metal cabin with a dull thud.
"Where are you, Tom?" she whispered to the void.
USS Nathan James, Wanshan Archipelago—30NM from Ngong Shuen Chau Naval Base, Hong Kong
XO Garnett stepped out onto the starboard bridge wing where Captain Chandler and the Master Chief stood surveying the ocean surrounding them. She suspected, in part, that they were enjoying the ability to feel daylight after a cumulative five days spent trying to outrun, then sustain Typhoon Bill. "Sir, D.C. Central reports hull intact. We took a few minor scrapes from equipment when we got hit by the rogue wave, but nothing we can't patch up."
Captain Chandler accepted the report she furnished, flicking through the details before addressing the Master Chief. "Have Gator plot a course to Hai Phong. We need to refuel, and I don't feel like hanging out in Peng's backyard any longer than we have to."
"Aye, sir."
Having lifted EMCON after reaching international waters, Tom ended the video call with President Michener, then leaned into his desk chair. A summit in Hong Kong. Already, the rabbit hole beckoned, and he found in that moment the temptation of Sasha's letter almost undeniable… he swiveled to face his bed cabin, fixated upon the nightstand where it lived.
She'd told him three months.
Three months was tomorrow.
But whatever she'd written in that letter wouldn't help guide him to her—Tom knew that to be fact—and he wasn't prepared to accept Sasha's parting words. No. He wanted her to say it to his face. Ignoring the delusional notion—that were Sasha dead, he'd intrinsically know—he occupied time by cleaning the backlog in his inbox. Most emails were internal communications, but there were two personal updates: one forwarded by Kara from his father, and another from Mike explaining that Hannah, Ashley, and Ava had a disagreement, but Christine and Kelly were working them through. Tom re-read that email four times, uncomfortably suspicious that Mike kept redacted the subject of their fight, and then fired back a response that he needed a video conference with Ashley while they refueled in Hai Phong.
Ire still burned thanks to Shaw's confiscation of the laptop he'd provided Jed after Baltimore. Despite understanding that surrendering equipment belonging to the United States Navy would be required—eventually—Shaw's scathing email denouncing his 'vagrant and undeniable breach of national security' that was 'unbecoming of an officer of his rank' had not been well received. Tom had engaged in enough reflection to perceive which areas of gray he didn't care to make black or white again. The ability to communicate with his family being one. Some grace was owed, in Tom's opinion, and Mike agreed, but the position of SECNAV had been consolidated into the Chief of Staff. Simply put, the only person who could override Allison Shaw was Jeffrey Michener… and according to Mike, Allison Shaw had Jeffrey Michener by the balls.
Next, Tom reviewed the proposed security measures for the summit, amused by the idea of Tex in a room full of foreign leaders running his mouth, and then ignored the ache after reading 'Peng offered a translator. Goes without saying we'd prefer someone we can vet. Still working the problem. Likely we'll assign one of the local partners. Standby.'
He stopped and opened the next email.
Subject: RE: TEMADD Transfer Directive
Approved.
Please find attached herewith notice of transfer directive, 655-43-56 Green, Joshua Daniel, O-3 CMDR USN.
Tom hit reply: 'Outstanding.'
White House, St. Louis, Missouri
A soft knock drew Mike's attention. "Come in."
Upon receiving Kara Green, Mike hit minimize on Tom's response, paranoid that the subject line would catch her attention if she approached his desk. This was meant to be a surprise, and Mike only wanted to regret that they were unable to engineer it sooner. Lt. Damon, acting commanding officer of the SEALs they'd encountered in Norfolk, had just been cleared to deploy after suffering complications from a wound earned during the battle to capture MacDowell.
Kara's tote hung from a shoulder, and it prompted him to recognize the late hour. A spike of guilt pierced his psyche—it was growing hard to deny that he was using work as a method to avoid being at home. Kids weren't the problem… it was Christine, and the grief amplified in each other's presence that made him dread stepping through that door.
"The latest transcripts from Hayward," she placed the stack beside his screen, "they just made port in Manilla. There's some valuable intel on the pirate's preferred trade routes, and it sounds like they're becoming more aggressive. They're no longer afraid to target military ships if they believe they're the carrying cure."
Mike sucked some air through his teeth. "Just what we need." He dragged the folder toward him and saw the way she hesitated.
"It's… sir, it's getting pretty late—"
"I'll be outta here soon enough. The James just lifted EMCON. You know how Tom is when he's got a bug up his ass. Better for everyone if I keep the peace."
She humored him by continuing the charade. "Of course, sir. I'll see you tomorrow."
"G'night, Green."
Hai Phong, Vietnam—May 12th, 2014
The problem with Hai Phong was that it wasn't as simple as Jesse flying them across the border—not in a Chinese helicopter, at least—and not without a refueling option. It had been one of the major reasons Pablo pushed so hard to strike a deal with Wu Ming. All they had to do was steal the cure from Peng, get it to Shanzhai, and his fleet of pirates took care of the rest. After Jesse had exhausted her need to search for survivors in Beng Mun Cun, they'd returned to the penthouse in Hong Kong and devised the plan. It really wasn't much of a plan… especially given their limited inventory of cure. The only other valuable asset they had left to barter were the antibodies running through their veins, and Sasha was barred from using it as currency thanks to the result of that goddamn oil rig.
In a word, they didn't have shit.
Two cases of cure secured their transport on an overcrowded fishing trawler with a maximum speed of 12 Knots. It was the roughest fifty hours Sasha ever had the misfortune to endure at sea. Jesse had stayed in Hong Kong to find fuel and retrofit a new radio—the one positive thing to come out of Beng Mun Cun—and along with Sasha's intention to find answers, the satellite phone was burning a hole in her pocket.
Her skin was crawling again walking these docks. There were too many people. Here, everyone wore face coverings in the open streets. To remain exposed was the mark of the cured, or worse, the caste of immune—no type of blood was more valuable—and the global denouncement of the snake-oil cure from what remained of the scientific community held zero value to the walking dead.
Takehaya was always watching—the ghoul of the east—and the unsuspecting were easy prey.
Swiveling to avoid colliding shoulder to shoulder with a man scampering in the opposite direction, Sasha canvassed the buildings and shifted the bandanna covering her mask higher on the bridge of her nose. Though virtually lawless, the docks still followed a general order, different pirating factions operating in a warped code that amounted to a ceasefire. The symbols were subtle. A particular fruit left mismatched in a vendor's stall… a rag of specific color tied to a wire between buildings… or, in Wu Ming's case, a bottle of Baijiu.
Pablo was mere inches removed, such was the density of the crowd, and Sasha used her elbow to gain his attention. "There," she pointed.
The storefront itself was closed, a corrugated metal roll-up shuttering its opening and padlocked at the bottom, but the canvas awning was bright red as the Jiugu brand bottle Wu Ming preferred, and '白酒', Baijiu, was painted on its underside.
Above the storefront were apartments, three additional stories, painted in a faded turquoise that was peeling from cracked plaster and clashed with the awning. It was semidetached, a narrow alley breaking the line of mismatched buildings on its eastern side. Upon the second floor were windows shuttered by rusted white security grills, the kind you'd see in strip malls, and beyond them, a small balcony where a diesel generator whirred. Empty buildings didn't require fuel. A glance was all Sasha needed to confirm that Pablo concluded the same, and he pounded on the metal roll-up.
Much as Sasha had in Shanzhai, she announced their intentions in Vietnamese this time.
Silence met them. Well, aside from the bustle of people, the seemingly endless buzzing of generators, and the harsh blare of moped horns from disgruntled drivers trying to weave through the trade crowds.
"Wu Ming đã chết, và sứ giả là người tiếp theo," she declared. Wu Ming is dead, and the messenger is next.
First, the seal on the window was broken, the sound squelching in the humid air. Then, the shutter rattled open and a thin, silver-haired woman with deep wrinkles and a littering of age spots thrust her head out. Aggressively, she made a motion with an arthritically clawed hand in the alley's direction, then slammed the security grill shut.
How the fuck had he ended up in what was best described as a lair? Pablo couldn't see an inch of wall space because they were stacked floor to ceiling. A minuscule pathway led to a counter, but that too was covered feet high in—well that was the problem—he didn't know what to call the alarming amount of dried-out animal parts made more ominous by the singular gas lamp emitting light. He'd expected guns. Cure. Ammo. Alcohol… hell, he'd even take blood bags over the proverbial monkey's paw. In fact, after thinking of the allegory, he grew even more uncomfortable.
While listening to Sasha seek information from the Crypt Keeper in Vietnamese, he became distracted by the lottery tickets strung like decorations from the ceiling. That a lottery existed wasn't the nature of Pablo's interest; it was that these tickets were written in mainland Chinese, and not Vietnamese. While he was far from literate, Sasha had made it a point to teach him how to identify country of origin. After three months spent smuggling in the east, he could reliably differentiate between Korean, Japanese, Vietnamese, and the regional variances in Chinese written symbols.
Why was the Crypt Keeper—as he'd chosen to name her—running a Chinese lottery out of Hai Phong?
Before he could inspect a ticket, however, Sasha's entire demeanor changed. From behind the counter, Crypt Keeper produced a single vial of cure and flashed the use-by date. Mother fucker. Not this again. Crypt Keeper wasn't interested in exchanging information for their cure because she had newer vials… at least that's what he assumed.
But Sasha didn't appear to argue, and she didn't barter anything else, or hand over the couple gold coins they'd snagged from the Singapore Reserve Bank.
Impatient, Pablo switched weight from one foot to the other, cooling his need to interrupt.
Sasha hated it when he chose to interrupt.
A few more minutes of dialogue ensued, and then Sasha turned his way. "Give her the case."
"Yes ma'am," he drawled sarcastically, shifting the ruck from his shoulder to unzip and hand over the second from last case of cure they possessed.
Crypt Keeper inspected the contents, studying the vials close to the lantern with her crooked fingers, and Pablo resisted the urge to make visible his impatience. Finally, the woman slammed the case shut, then rounded the counter while peering at the ceiling. Pablo watched intently. Now standing before him in the cramped space, he saw that her spine was also deformed. Again, with the aggressive motion, she pointed her clawed fist at a ticket. He glanced at Sasha, and then slowly reached up to retrieve it, but before his arm had lowered, Crypt Keeper snatched the paper and thrust it to Sasha, jabbing the black circle on its back.
"Peng," she spat, then shuffled back behind her counter.
"Hiểu," Sasha nodded, before addressing him. "Time to go."
They were back in the alley; the door slammed behind them and ignoring that he was in the dark, Sasha instead powered up that satellite phone and punched in numbers with more urgency than he'd witnessed in months.
"Err, hello?" he began, "you wanna clue me in on what the grim reaper lady had to say?"
With the phone against her ear and ringing, he assumed, she checked—unnecessarily because the side alley was deserted—that she wouldn't be overheard. "Nathan James refueled at the port a day ago and left several pallets of cure. The local partners are due to bring more this week."
He was almost stupefied.
"Standard protocol should have them sortied offshore for security to transfer the pallets underway," she tore the phone away. "Navy Red's offline. They're at EMCON." Running a hand through her hair, Sasha then swiveled in the opposite direction, facing north toward the docks. "Why the hell would Tom risk refueling in Vietnam?"
Pablo suspected that question was meant for herself because he sure as fuck couldn't answer it.
"Unless something happened to the island depot…," she murmured, her back still turned. "The US hasn't used this port since they mined the harbor in the 70s."
"You're speakin' a foreign language."
She whirled around. "We need to keep eyes on the dock. If Tom's refueling here, then the rest of the fleet is too—and if we're lucky? Nathan James is sitting within 50 nautical miles of us. Right now. We can use a local partner to send them a message."
Guest Review Responses:
Guest 1 I'm so glad you're loving it. I really enjoy the dystopian 'anything goes' nature of Asia and that song seems so fitting. I'm sorry the update has taken me so long, hopefully you're still around! Glad you are also enjoying a little bit of info on what's going on with the wider crew, though I have to tell myself not to go on too many tangents with them I still want to know what they're doing!
Guest 2 Thank you! You're right, just because Sasha stopped trying to convince herself that she's not in love with Tom, doesn't equal their problems being solved. It just means they are willing to try when the timing is right. The Tomsha reunion is something I drafted almost 2 years ago now which seems insane, but lately, this is how long it takes for me to formulate an update for the "point A to point B" chapters. Between the amount of research I end up doing, real-life work, and then finding time to write them when it takes me about 20 cumulative hours to produce one chapter, I kind of suck right now, LOL. BUT, I still love this universe and these characters and want to finish these stories. I'm laughing at your hopes for the reunion... I cannot spoil either way! Also, thank you for your review of the excerpt I posted in looking glass! I'm glad it was a scene you wanted to see and it answered some questions.