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Republic of the Living: Exodus Volume 1

By Taz Gallaher

“The dead are coming back to life. That’s the revolution. That’s the big thing that everybody is missing.” - - George Romero, Birth of the Living Dead (2013)

TableofContents

1 Year One: Fresno

2 Year One: The Bronx

3 Year One: On the Road

4 Future Tense: Patient Zero

5 Year One: Fresno



8 Future Tense: Bastion

9 Year One: Fresno



12 Future Tense: The Last Blog Post

13 Year One: Fresno



16 Future Tense: Chokepoint

17 Year One: Fresno



20 Future Tense: Great Military Commanders I Have Known

21 Year One: Fresno



24 Future Tense: Report to the Northern Line Assembly

25 Year One: Fresno



28 Future Tense: Memo from the Department of Parks and Buildings

29 Year One: Fresno



32 Future Tense: The People’s Oral History Project: Peter “Scoop” Daley

33 Year One: Fresno



36 Future Tense: 15th Reunion News

37 Year One: Fresno


39 Year One: On the Road 40 Year One: Viajero

1 Year One: Fresno The dog paced back and forth in front of the window blinds. Whining, it

lowered its nose to the carpet and padded to the front door, then returned to the window. The hair across its low-slung shoulders spiked and it paused, whimpering more insistently. A rough growl bubbled up its throat until the growl gave way to a short, low bark. The animal froze - - its muscled body stiff and taut. Suddenly, it exploded into loud, angry barks, lunging at the blinds and the yard beyond the window.

The noise dragged Chewy upward from his dream. He was in Linda's office. His whiskered jaw rested against her smooth, warm cheek and the sweetness of her thick black hair flooded his nostrils. His heart galloped. Her silk blouse whispered against his bare skin, and he realized that he was nude except for the tool belt strapped around his waist. Linda's small hands dug into his cropped hair. He was hard. Her lips murmured something into his ear, something he could hear but not understand.

“What?” He whispered into her hair. “What?” Her lips moved faster. “I don't know,” he answered, pulling away to look at her lips. Their eyes met. Big, dark circles stared back at him. Her eyebrows flexed with

frustration. “What?” He said out loud now. “What are you saying?” Her hands fell away from his hair and her lips moved soundlessly, her long

fingers weaving in front of her. Her eyes were fastened on something over his shoulder. He turned to look and woke in his bed to the sound of the dog barking furiously. He shook his head once and then again.

“What the fuck!” He grumbled and cleared his throat. “What the fuck!” Jesus Christ. He pulled himself out of bed. Standing on his bare feet, shaking

off the dream. Alone in the dark bedroom. Linda’s image fading away. “Okay. Okay. Cabron!” He shouted into the hallway. “Hold on a minute.” The dog's barking joined the chorus of dogs in the backyard, who had joined in. “Holy shit. Must be some kind of pendejo home invasion.” Chewy wobbled

toward the bedroom door. “Okay, esta bien.” He navigated down the dark hall, across the living room, and into the dining

room. The dog was leaning forward against the window, its body stiff and its jaws snapping. Chewy stumbled and swore to himself. The dog, sensing his proximity, flinched but continued barking.

“Yes, yes,” Chewy muttered to the big, broad-shouldered Shepherd. “It's ok baby. Settle down, Cabron. Settle down, big guy.”

He thrust his hand toward the dog's collar and pulled it back from the window but the dog responded with a growl and lunged forward. He reached out to raise the blinds. The backyard was a cacophony of yelping and barking. The five other members of the pack were bouncing off the sides of their cages, echoing Cabron’s anger and alarm.

“Jesus.” Chewy spat out. “It's just a fucking raccoon or something.”

He paused to think for a minute as the dog yanked him back and forth, still barking. His mouth was sticky and the taste of Linda’s hair lingered in his mouth. “What the hell,” he said to the empty room, “too bad for the damned raccoon.” He dragged the dog toward the kitchen. With a grunt, he pulled the door open and the big animal shot through the opening, almost taking Chewy's heavy frame along with it.

Cabron sped around the corner of the house toward the half-open door to the garage.

The cool night air pooled around his thighs and chest and the single bulb above the door draped the back porch in a soft, yellow curtain. He sucked the dry air deep into his lungs. This was the taste of freedom. After all those years in Lompoc with its cramped cells and corridors, its spicy, humid fog of sweat and disinfectant and bodies. So many bodies. Big men. Little men. Black. White. Tan. Crowding against each other no matter where you turned. That’s what he hated most, he realized as he gazed at the empty, dark yard. So many people jammed into so little space. The constant proximity creating restless undercurrents of danger and suspicion. Eyes squinted to intimidate. Eyes dialed wide open with fear.

The barking dog snapped him back to attention. “Yeah, yeah,” Chewy said to the rest of the pack as he followed Cabron across

the patio. “Okay. Okay. Chilleate!” Inside the garage, a wave of stink flooded his nose - - the heavy sweetness of

mildew mixed with the thick aroma of rotting fruit. He pinched his nose and tried to breathe through his mouth. The alpha dog scrabbled and yelped on the other side of Chewy’s pickup. He had trapped something. Chewy heard moaning and the animal’s deep growl as it latched onto its victim. More moaning and the dog’s growl rattled down its throat.

“You poor little raccoon,” Chewy said to the darkness. “You poor little shit.” He flipped on the light switch next to the door and stopped. From the other

side of the truck, bones and flesh crackled and crunched. Chewy gasped. Protruding beyond the rear bumper of his pickup was a pair of shoes, tap-dancing up and down. Panic coursed through his body like a jolt of electricity and something sharp scratched against his stomach.

“No. No Cabron.” He grabbed a shovel that leaned against the wall. “Let him go,” Chewy commanded, hefting the tool over his shoulder. “Back,

Cabron.” The dog ignored him and Chewy watched the limp body, clamped between the

massive animal’s jaws, sway back and forth like a bundle of rags. He rounded the corner of the battered pickup truck.

The stench was suffocating, rolling in wave after sickening wave across Chewy's eyes and nose. He blinked, desperately trying to fight the stench. Cabron was working his teeth angrily into the man's neck. This was serious trouble. Jail trouble.

Chewy pushed the shovel handle against the dog's flanks. “Off,” he shouted. “Off.” Cabron ignored him and continued jerking his victim back and forth. Chewy

ran his eyes up and down the man's body - - brown dress slacks, a checked sport coat, and a pale blue shirt. A blossom of dried blood covered the front of his shirt.

“Oh shit,” Chewy muttered. He took a deep breath and reached down to grab Cabron's collar, yanking the

dog backward. Its jaws were still clamped onto the man's neck and the body had been reduced to a floppy doll in the dog's powerful jaws. Chewy shook the dog by its collar. Quickly, he dropped the shovel and reached down between its legs. grabbing a handful of downy flesh. He squeezed and the dog yelped. The limp body dropped to the floor.

Panting with effort, Chewy raised Cabron up on his rear legs by his collar and pulled him out of the garage. The dog whimpered - - in pain and apology. He pushed it into the yard where the rest of the pack had begun howling in frustration. Sliding back into the garage, he closed shut the door.

The man on the concrete floor of the garage was definitely dead. The dog had ripped and gnawed clear through the skin and cartilage of his neck, which was reduced now to an oozing mess of blood, viscera, and glistening bone. Chewy wiped his hand across his brow. The man's face was coated in thick, dark blood. He bent down slightly, pinching his nose shut, to make sure the pile of bones and tissue had stopped breathing. His gaze traveled back up the man's body, trying to skip over the canyon where his neck had been, and onto his face.

Chewy gasped. There was something wrong with the dead man's eyes. They were milky white and opaque, looking - - Chewy thought to himself - - like a couple of ping pong balls jammed into his cheekbones. Shivering in only his boxer shorts and tank top, he made the sign of the cross and retreated from the garage.

The dogs had settled down but were pacing silently and nervously around their cages. Cabron sat, panting, in front of the garage door. He looked up expectantly as Chewy closed the door.

He swore to himself. The side gate was open. He stalked to the fence and pulled it shut, bolting it, and shaking its heavy wooden frame once or twice.

Inside the kitchen, he pulled the phone from the wall and dialed 911. The line buzzed and buzzed.

“We apologize,” a woman's voice suddenly interrupted. “All of our operators are engaged. Please hang up and dial 911 again.”

Chewy smacked the phone against the cradle, picked it back up and punched in the digits again. This time he was greeted by a busy signal.

“Fuck,” he muttered. He repeated the same process four or five times and finally gave up. His heart

was pounding. After all this time, living small and keeping things tight, an old familiar sensation began simmering in his stomach. Things were tilting out of control. The earth beneath him was dissolving into quicksand.

“Cabron.” He shouted into the yard. “Cabron. Come on. Venga” The dog loped through the open doorway and settled on its haunches, panting

in front of Chewy. “You stupid motherfucker,” Chewy rasped to the dog. “You stupid, dumb,

motherfucking Cabron.” The yard outside settled back into silence. Chewy checked the clock on the

wall. 3:25 a.m. He sighed and pulled the door shut but kept the blinds raised. The dog sat quietly in front of him. It tilted its handsome head and studied him with

coffee brown eyes. Chewy glared at it and pulled a glass down from above the sink. He turned on the tap and took a long gulp of sweet, cold water.

“Gonna be a long night, Cabron,” Chewy mumbled to the dog. “A very long night.”

2 Year One: The Bronx Sunlight flooded into Mona's bedroom. She blinked as she awoke. Monday

morning. She yawned and tried to remember the day's schedule. Mrs. Hernandez at 8 a.m. A quick consult before the elderly Puerto Rican lady grabbed the downtown subway to work.

She smiled to herself as she recalled Mrs. Hernandez's grand-daughter, a darkly beautiful, five year-old the old woman dragged with her wherever she went.

“Donde es su madre?” Mona had asked in her primitive Spanish as Mrs. Hernandez rose from the chair and grabbed the girl's tiny hand.

“Su madre?” The old woman hissed, turning from her granddaughter to Mona. “Su madre vive en el infierno con el diablo.”

Mona raised her eyebrows and nodded. “Okay,” she answered, too stunned to remember her Spanish.

“La proxima vez,” Mrs. Hernandez continued, adjusting her granddaughter's pink jacket. “Dos semanas. Si?”

Dos semanas, si. And now it was two weeks, and Mona hustled into the shower, hurrying to

make the bus that would take her down the Grand Concourse. Her short hair still damp but dressed now in jeans and a sweater, she pulled a yogurt out of the fridge and clicked on the radio. A strange voice greeted her.

“ . . . reached epidemic proportions. All New Yorkers are urged to remain in their homes. All boroughs have cancelled school for the day. Unless you are emergency or medical personnel, it is strongly advised that you remain at home.”

Mona recognized the voice as Ray Flaherty's. NYPD Commissioner. She threw the empty yogurt cup into the garbage can and turned the radio up. Flaherty explained that the city's hospitals had closed their doors. The rabies outbreak was threatening to overwhelm the whole system. Doctors and nurses were required to report to work. Everyone else had the day off.

“Enjoy it,” Flaherty concluded. “Spend some time with your kids, watch a DVD, make yourself some lunch.”

Mona heard the reporters in the room laugh. She left the radio on and drifted to the picture window that looked down from her fifth floor co-op onto the North Bronx. The sun was up. The streets were empty. An old, rusty car rumbled down Bailey Avenue and puttered out of view.

Okay, she thought to herself, I guess things are serious now. It had started just last week. A couple of dozen people from around the five

boroughs admitted to hospitals suffering, according to the tabloids, from dementia. Doctors in front of TV cameras reported that their patients had evidently been bitten - - probably by raccoons or skunks - - and been infected with rabies, maybe distemper. The mayor announced triple overtime for animal control workers, and the carcasses of a surprising number of nocturnal scavengers started piling up at animal control centers and city incinerators. The local news went nuts - - live feeds from the Upper East Side animal shelter, shaky footage of dump trucks unloading

dead animals, crews with night vision cameras roaming the streets after midnight. And still, the number of human victims increased.

Only, two or three days ago, Mona had witnessed another mayoral news conference from a bar stool at Murphy's. The mayor was stern but reassuring. The campaign against animals proceeded. Health administrators told him that the city could expect a peak in human illness within a week or two. Mona noticed that Flaherty, a native son of the Bronx, shifted uneasily back and forth behind the mayor. Later, he stepped up to the microphones to say that police and EMT workers were on full alert and that, yes, there had been a few incident reports of dementia victims turning on neighbors or passersby. Nothing to worry about. If you see anything strange, call 911. Mona sipped her beer as the mayor returned to the podium, announcing the end of the news conference.

At the legal aid office, foot traffic dropped off dramatically. People were staying home. Friday had been light, so Bill Whalen told everyone to take it early and take it easy. As the four attorneys and a trio of paralegals gathered up their stuff, Bill pulled Mona aside.

“It's pretty serious,” he confided to her as he pushed a stack of folders into his tote.

Mona nodded and smiled. “I guess so. Best stay out of Central Park this weekend.”

Bill curled his lips. “Best stay out of New York City this weekend. Seriously. Jean and I are heading to the house in Woodstock.”

Mona was surprised. She'd known Whalen for a decade or more, from her law school days. He was a solid, ex-football player who had arrived at the legal profession after a couple of tours in the Middle East. She'd seen him calmly persuade hopped-up addicts away from the front doors of the law clinic. Once, catching a ride home with him, she’d witnessed him blithely winning a battle of road chicken with a dented, brown livery service car, the whole while recounting - - inning by inning - - his weekend ball game with the guys from the 50th precinct.

“That's pretty serious.” Mona replied. Bill zipped up his tote and buttoned his jacket. “My friends at the station house

tell me it's more serious than the mayor or Flaherty is saying. Not dozens, but hundreds of victims.”

Mona pulled her coat on and tugged her hat down over her ears. “People getting bitten and just going bat shit crazy,” he continued. “Frothing at

the mouth, attacking people. Fucking biting people. Gnawing on them” Bill's eyebrows arched and he paused. “Do you want to head north with Jean

and me?” Mona shook her head. “I'll stay here. New York is always crazy. What's a little more craziness?” Bill flipped the lights off and jangled his keys. “Suit yourself. You got my

number if things get too wild. Just let us know if you change your mind.” “Will do, chief,” she answered, flicking him a salute. He laughed and pushed her out the door. A mild, late spring breeze filtered

through her hair. Bill waved goodbye and hustled around the corner to his car. A kid on a bike raced past Mona, the bike’s handlebars brushing her elbow. A healthy

curse worked its way across her tongue but disappeared when the kid whipped around to look at her. His big, frightened eyes loomed out of his pale face.

She retreated to Murphy's. Despite the scare, occupancy at the bar remained steady - - the two regular drunks slumped at the end of the counter, Bernie leaning against the back wall, and a pair of off-duty cops huddled at a table in the shadows. Bernie turned the television off and wiped the bar. Mona was tempted to move to the cop-table and ask a few questions. Instead, she tipped her glass back, drained it, and dropped it carefully back onto the scarred wood of the bar. She waved off Bernie, collected her coat and bag from the stool next to her, and made her way toward the door, transformed now by the late afternoon sun into a rectangle of glowing light. The street was quiet.

She spent the weekend inside her apartment - - cleaning, doing laundry, reading, watching DVDs, and keeping up on the news. Evidently, things were settling down. No more news conferences and the local channels were stuck playing and replaying footage of the mayor's earlier press conference along with grainy images of urban streets bathed in green-tinged light. Somewhere overseas, somebody had bombed somebody else. The border with Mexico had been closed - - by the Mexican government, which feared the spread of the rabies epidemic. Things must be going nationwide, she whispered to herself.

She barely slept on Sunday night. Something was troubling her beyond the city's latest woes. She kept thinking she had forgotten something, but couldn't remember what. Over and over, she visualized her calendar and her to-do lists. In the early hours of the morning, despairing, she finally unscrewed the bottle of Jameson's she kept hidden under the sink. She poured a finger and gulped the amber liquid quickly. A half hour later, she drifted to sleep on the couch, her TV tuned to a cable news channel over-run with infomercials.

In the morning, after the announcement from Flaherty, Mona called the office. A message told her to call back during normal business hours. She laughed and spread out her files on the dining room table. Mrs. Hernandez's case was stalled in Housing Court. The landlord, a convenient legal fiction, had filed for delay of proceedings in order to submit a financial statement. Mona filled out a form to contest the landlord's motion, visualizing the cold, narrow rooms of the woman's tiny apartment in a crumbling brownstone on 138th Street. Probably not unlike the dank, dirty hallways she knew as a girl on Longwood Avenue, the smell of decay and neglect mixing with rich, heavy odors of cooking food.

She smiled as she remembered her mother’s trim form moving between the stove and the old, noisy fridge. Slicing onions, mashing garlic and spices in the stone bowl she kept next to the sink. She hummed to herself as she made dinner and supervised Mona at the rickety kitchen table. All of Mona’s memories of school and the pleasures of learning were connected to those late afternoons in the kitchen. The way her mother would pause, her finger pressed to her lips, and then twirl around suddenly, quizzing Mona in her thick, Jamaican accent. Somehow, her mother always knew what she was working on - - which math problems, what history topics.

The ringing phone interruped her memories. “How you doing Mona?” Bill’s voice was calm and steady.

“Fine,” she answered. “Everything quiet here. Very, very quiet.” Bill took a deep breath. “Listen, Mona. I'm going to tell you this - - because I

trust you.” There was a pause. “Okay.” “My guys in NYPD tell me it's gone critical. They say they've lost control. The

mayor has set up house across the river in New Jersey. The National Guard is staging over the border in Westchester.”

Mona breathed in deeply. “But Bill, there's nothing going on here. The Bronx is totally quiet. What you’re saying doesn't make any sense.”

“You're way up on the edge of the city, Mona. Downtown and all along the island, things are insane.”

Mona clicked on the TV. The infomercials were still running. “Nothing on the TV,” she said to Bill. “No matter,” he answered. “Pack a bag. Call a car service. Come up

here. Now.” Mona ran her eyes around the apartment. The paintings on the wall. The sofa,

chairs, a couple of file cabinets, and a table. A jacket thrown over the back of the couch. She realized suddenly how little she possessed.

“I can't,” she said slowly. “There's no point.” “Listen, Mona.” Bill's voice grew more excited. “By the end of the day, you

may not be able to leave. I think they're going to seal off the city.” Mona tapped a pencil on the papers in front of her. “Seal it off? You've got to

be kidding me.” “Think about it,” Bill answered. “Mayor in New Jersey. National Guard in

Westchester County. Something’s coming down.” Mona stood and walked to the window. Things were still quiet outside. Maybe

too quiet. She noticed a group of people far down the street, loading bags into an SUV. She scanned the curbs along the street. Parking was always a problem in the Bronx - - but Mona saw gaps appearing here and there in the line of cars edged against the sidewalk. People were leaving.

“How did I miss this?” Mona asked herself out loud. “What?” Bill whispered into the phone. “Miss what?” “Nothing,” Mona replied. “Nothing. Don't worry.” “Come north. Everything is ok here. No rabies, no nothing. Take a little

vacation. Jean has the spare room ready for you.” Mona rubbed her temples and stared down at Mrs. Hernandez's file. She

remembered the shy, raven-haired granddaughter. “Tell you what, Bill,” she said carefully into the phone. “I'll pack a bag. If

things get really wild, I'll abandon ship. Otherwise, I'll wait it out.” Bill sighed. “You're stubborn, Mona. We'll be waiting. And believe it, things

are going to get wild.” “Where the wild things are.” Mona laughed. “That's where I'll be.” “Stay in touch,” Bill said. “Will do, chief.” She put the phone back down.

Across the room, the infomercial selling a new wondrous sponge that never stopped soaking up spills froze. The screen went blue for an instant. An image of the City seal suddenly popped onto the TV, followed by a low-pitched beeping.

“Wild things and wild times,” Mona whispered to the bare walls of her apartment.

3 Year One: On the Road He stuffed another energy bar into his mouth and washed it down with Jolt

cola. The glowing letters and symbols of code rippled down the screen. He tapped his fingers on the keyboard and the stream slowed down. He leaned into the wide, flat monitor to study a few odd lines. With a click of the mouse, he switched to instant messenger.

"Iball lines 200 205." A pause. Text appeared in the messenger. "Hack trap. Retreat." Brady laughed. "Neg. Something else. Command tag line 204" Another pause, and EvelKeebler typed back. "WTF?" Brady laughed again and flung his fingers onto the keyboard, his face awash in

the green fluorescence of the screen. The code stopped. He highlighted, copied, pasted, and added a few new letters

to the clipboard - - all of it seeming to occur on screen in some accelerated, stop motion sequence. He switched to the terminal screen and repeated the same sequence. He hit return, and the code flashed by even faster.

“TY,” he typed into messenger. “Access!” A stylized "LOL" popped into the messenger followed by an animated gif of a

guy clapping. Suddenly, Brady's browser exploded into windows, like flowers popping open in

a time-lapse sequence. His eyeballs ricocheted back and forth across the blooming rectangles.

“Inside,” he typed to EvelKeebler. “Fun begins.” More typing, cutting, and pasting as he navigated his way among and through

the glowing windows. He stopped and scanned the screen. Slowly, he began clicking windows closed.

“Iball,” he typed to his partner. “DOD forum. Encrypt heavy.” An eyeball graphic appeared in the messenger. Brady hummed to himself. He and Keebler had hacked a Department of

Defense bulletin board. The interface was crude, reminding him of something from his days in online high school. The text was full of obscure acronyms and words without vowels. It looked like some strange foreign language, a mash-up of English and machine code. He pored over the text frame-by-frame, highlighting, cutting, and pasting lines onto his clipboard. He sped through page after page.

“WTF?” Keebler messaged him. “Emergency?” Brady ignored him, trying to decipher the text and resurrect the narrative

encoded in boxes and acronyms. Eyes glued to the screen, he poured another slug of Jolt down his throat. Silence crept across the basement. His parents were using up timeshare weeks in Florida. His sister was spending the night at Hal's. A sleek black cat wound its tail around his ankle.

“Not now, Spike,” he muttered as he switched from his browser to his clipboard, trying to parse what he had copied.

“Any luck?” He typed to Keebler. The instant messenger remained blank. He sighed and reached down to stroke

the cat. He pulled out a pad of paper and began listing the acronyms that seemed

most common. SS1. SS2. LFA. NYC-DC4. The last forum entry puzzled him the most. It was time-stamped only a few hours before, some lonely hour in the middle of the dark, Midwestern spring night. "NYC-DC4 SP No entry. No exit." He scratched his thick black hair.

Keebler was a DOD freak. He had been hacking army, air force, navy, and pentagon computers since the early days. Brady could only guess at his age, judging by his frequent obscure references to Iron Maiden and Judas Priest. It was enough that Brady had loaned his expertise to Keebler's project. Now it was up to his partner to decrypt the strange language and sequences.

He was about to get up for another energy bar when his cell phone rang. He glanced at the number on the phone's tiny screen. Keebler. He pushed the phone to his ear.

“This is fucking intense.” A deep, gravel-filled voice ushered from the phone. “You are not gonna believe what we're reading.”

Brady pushed the cat aside. “Lay it on me, evil elf.” Keebler sighed. “Are you sure you want to know?” Brady laughed. “No. I just spent two days totally wired on Jolt and protein

bars so you could knob me off and I could go to bed.” Keebler seemed to skip a beat, eliding what should have been a laugh. “Here we go,” he said. “Hold on tight. Something is happening in New York

City. Something strange and bad.” “There's some news,” Brady whispered. “Call CNN.” “Shut up for a minute,” Keebler spat back. “The police have retreated to

precinct stations and command bunkers. The National Guard has sealed off bridges, tunnels, and main arteries into the city. DOD has alerted the President, who is now evidently bunking in a secure location.”

“Don't shit me,” Brady said. “Come on, you elfin bastard.” Now Keebler laughed, starting to lighten up. “I shit you not,

AlphaRomeo. Even freakier. The other threads tell me it's not just New York. Lots of cities are being sealed off. Baltimore, Boston, Philly. Lots of National Guard call-ups. Lots of traffic between DOD, POTUS, and - - get this - - CDC.”

“Swine flu goes pandemic!” Brady laughed. Keebler snorted. “Not quite. The page you skipped over right before the NYC

page was a set of instructions to National Guard commanders. You want to hear it?” Brady crunched on another food bar. “Absolutely.” Papers rustled on Keebler's desk. “Dig this. I'm reading verbatim, more or less. Urgent. InSec to NG Command .

. yadda, yadda, yadda. Here we go. Avoid contact. Terminate on sight. Swarming requires massive ordinance. Atlanta CDC reports that terminal remedy is incineration or decapitation. Injuries - - abrasions, cuts, wounds - - absolute quarantine. Highly infectious agent. Civilians must be contained. No evacuation. Denver reports block-by-block sweeps partially successful. ROE: treat infected as enemy combatants. Re-supply available at local depots. Luck and godspeed. Yadda yadda yadda.”

Brady's mouth yawned open. He stood and paced back and forth.

“So what you're telling me is that DOD is instructing the National Guard to shoot sick people?”

Keebler breathed in deeply. “Yep. It's slaughter on the streets.” “Holy shit,” Brady intoned slowly. “You post it to MalWire?” “As we speak,” Keebler answered. “Think we can get a hack squad going?” Keyboard clicks filled the phone. “Message sent,” Keebler answered. “So far, three level nines are signed up.” “Excellent,” Brady said. “Let's get the word out. Information wants to be free.” There was a moment of silence on the phone. “You seen anything strange there?” Keebler asked. “In my basement?” “Yeah, right, knucklehead. I mean where you live.” Keebler

paused. “Wherever the fuck that is.” Brady laughed. “Illinois. South of Chicago. Corn fields and think tanks. You?” “Just outside Denver. Three-bedroom Tudors and Lipitor refills.” “Anything odd there?” He asked. “Not really,” Keebler said. “Everything's real quiet. It's a small

town. Nobody's waking up for another couple of hours.” “Let's get hacking,” Brady said. “I'm gonna check out street life.” Keebler mumbled something into the phone. “What?” “I'm freaked,” Keebler said, louder and more clearly. “Something is

happening. And it’s happening everywhere.” “Lock the doors and bolt the windows,” Brady said. “Run some water in the

tub. Load the shotgun. String the trip wires. And, don't stay out of touch for a minute.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Keebler replied. “You too. Be careful. Keep hacking.” Brady smiled and closed the cell phone. The cat continued rubbing itself

against his ankles. “Okay, Spike,” Brady murmured. “Let's get you something to eat and take a

gander down Shakedown Street.”

4 Future Tense: Patient Zero Greetings colleagues and comrades, We are extraordinarily pleased to be called here, today, to this august

gathering of the community of scholars to report the Institute’s latest findings. You recall, of course, after the collapse and the wars, the Republic sent out

small teams to recover hard drives, magnetic tapes, and even newspapers and police blotters scattered across the zones. Epidemiologists, statisticians, data engineers, and a small army of other professionals have also pored through terabytes of data salvaged from hospitals and government centers around the nation. They have applied mathematical models, elaborate algorithms and, often enough, simple intuition to the mountains of words and numbers. We continue to search for the ultimate source and basal narrative of the outbreak.

For a time, in earlier days, under the influence of a group of Open Source Anchorites, sequestered on a mountain top commune in Oregon and maneuvering to gain diplomatic recognition from the Republic, the molar theory of outbreak became a reigning paradigm. Polluted winds drifting from China mixed with aerosol particles from the Tokyo meltdown and blew eastward, lifted by stratospheric flows over the west coast and Canada to be deposited on the Eastern seaboard. There, flu season and a new variant of H10N14 created what the Anchorites called the “perfect sandbox” for viral mutation. Over several years, this theory was discredited by new discoveries in the data mining of pre-outbreak records. Next came the “telomere degeneration” theory, followed by Kolchack’s Theorem, then by various approaches that focused on a small USAMARIID research center in Huntsville, Alabama, where scavenger teams had recovered the desiccated remains of three hominids, none of which could be definitively identified as either human or simian. A later investigation revealed, of course, that the “Huntsville Monsters” were in fact a fraud, perpetrated by the scavengers working with a group of dissident Lamarckians. This is a well-known history of investigation, speculation, and even fabulation.

At this point in time, however, here is what we believe that we do know. Sometime in the months leading up to the primary outbreak, a group of tourists

returned from a luxury cruise through the Caribbean, which included a series of multi-day trips into the Orinoco and Magdalena river basins. The tour group was comprised of technology and finance executives, lawyers, and a handful of independently wealthy couples and singles.

At least one of them, a lawyer from Florida who specialized in trademark and copyright law, fell sick a week after returning from the cruise. He was transported to a local hospital and then flown by helicopter to consult with an infectious disease specialist at a private clinic in Baltimore. Suspecting Chikungunya virus, then rampant across the Caribbean, the doctor administered an in-patient anti-viral treatment. When the patient failed to respond, the doctor applied for and secured permission from the central government to administer an experimental retroviral therapy.

The patient quickly recovered and returned to Florida. A week later, he attended a legal conference in Boston. He disappeared from his hotel two nights

later. Activity in his credit card, bank, and company accounts abruptly ceased at the same time.

Meanwhile, two more ailing cruise passengers found their way to the Baltimore clinic. The first, a young Silicon Valley businesswoman, received the same retroviral treatment as the Florida lawyer. She flew to Connecticut to recuperate with her parents. Within a week, she and her parents had likewise disappeared from all transaction records. The second tourist was one of four heirs to a media conglomerate founded by his father, a well-known former U.S. Senator and Wall Street investor. This patient too received the Baltimore clinic’s retroviral therapy. As we know from paper records recovered from the CDC’s final headquarters in Santa Fe, New Mexico, he did not respond well.

The records indicate that on the fourth day of treatment, the patient’s vital signs plummeted. Shortly after registering a pulse of 27 bpm and a core body temperature of 88 degrees, the patient suffered cardiac arrest. He was defibrillated and placed on life support. Less than a day later, his vitals rebounded and then accelerated. The Baltimore clinician administered a series of drugs to return the patient's heart rate and body temperature to normal levels. They remained normal even after he was disconnected from life support and then permitted to recuperate at a local hotel, where he was carefully monitored for three to four days. We know that some days later his father filed a missing persons report with the Baltimore Police Department. Within days, the father appeared on several morning television shows, looking pale and haggard, to plead with audiences for help in locating his son.

Boston. Hartford, Connecticut. Baltimore. There is at least a certain elegance to this version of the outbreak

narrative. For instance, records indicate that crime rates, especially for assault, escalated in Hartford within a week of the disappearance of the young businesswoman and her family. These inexplicable and virulent flares of violence, as we now know, were often the precursor to outbreaks. Three weeks after the woman’s return to her parents’ home, the governor of Connecticut issued public order notices for Hartford and contacted the CDC, then still in Atlanta, the FBI’s Violent Crimes Task Force in Boston, and the U.S. Department of Health and Social Services. Within forty-eight hours of those communications, the Connecticut National Guard implemented a quarantine of Hartford, the first of many similar and fruitless efforts.

Things were quieter in Boston, until the first few days of May. Again, violent crimes began spiking, especially in the Back Bay neighborhood. Boston police closed off the neighborhood within days. However, further eruptions of violence began to spread east and west along the Charles River. May 15 is obviously still famous for the Battle of Columbus Avenue in Boston’s South End. As far as we know, this was the first armed conflict between humans and the Returned. Many residents who fled the fighting found refuge in the nearby Cathedral of the Holy Cross and this became one of the longest-surviving Bastions on the East coast until its evacuation by the Centuria Malatesta and a NorCal Airship flotilla almost twenty-five years ago.

In Baltimore, meanwhile, crime rates reached new levels within several weeks of the ex-Senator’s appearance on television. The data here is somewhat confusing, as Baltimore already experienced some of the highest crime rates in the nation. We

do know, however, that patterns of violence, especially assault and homicide, began to shift. Normally high rates of violent crime in poorer neighborhoods like Upton, Druid Heights, Perkins, and Middle East were quickly matched and then exceeded by rates in more affluent locales like Canton, North Baltimore, Coldspring, and Greater Roland Park. By May 15, the day of Boston’s Battle of Columbus Avenue, Baltimore had become a landscape hopscotched by violence and morbidity.

Because of its proximity to Washington, D.C., Baltimore was quarantined within a week by combined National Guard and federal land forces. Routes 95 and 895 - - the main arterial roads leading southwest to Washington - - were blockaded to civilian traffic. On May 22, a day that will live in infamy beyond the annals of the old nation, the last elected U.S. President ordered an aerial bombardment of the town of Landsowne on the Maryland-D.C. border to stop refugees from approaching the capital. This would be the first deployment of the U.S. military against the nation’s own citizens. Many historians consider this the precipitating event of the Great Crash. (Even as we recover further data and information, the “Quincy Firestorm” remains the most devastating similar incident.) By June 15, except for a Bastion in the National Aquarium and smaller, scattered refuges, Baltimore had become a dead city.

Baltimore. Hartford. Boston. We representatives of the Simone Weil Institute believe that these are the

primary sources of the outbreak - - the blastoma, if you will, of the Returned. Obviously, some of you will reject our focus on the cruise ship passengers as speculation or even fiction. Some of you will also decry the glaring absence of clear, causal links between our three Baltimore patients and the outbreak. However, in the absence of complete records and data, elegance exercises persuasion equal to or greater than accuracy. We thank your for your time.

Another world is possible. x

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Lawrence Hanley

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