When the coastal cities of North America began evacuations, some difficult protocols had been put into place. One such protocol prohibited evacuation clearance to any individual with a violent criminal history. This common-sense strategy was designed to ensure that civilian refugee population required as little internal security as possible. It had been anticipated that the well-armed criminal networks throughout the region would not sit idle, while critical resources were transported to navy cargo ships. It had not, however, been anticipated how insane their reaction would be. A brutal organized crime element immediately added their strength to the surprisingly well-armed Mexican military.
Caught without their wealth, trapped within a country drained of food and medical supplies, and drowning in an ocean of flesh eating undead, Mexico declared war on the US and Canada in a vain hope that they could use their military strength to steal some of the resources they would need to survive. Many gang members were themselves Mexican ex-military. This meant that what the senseless criminal enterprise lacked in rational leadership, it more than made up for with the skills and knowledge to wage asymmetrical war.
Despite being hobbled by thousands of refugees, evacuation efforts, and desertion, the U.S. Navy still managed to crush each raid with brutal efficiency — inflicting grossly disproportional casualties on their attackers. At this point, it was pure desperation that drove the Mexican military to continue to throw themselves against the implacable might of a far superior force. The absurdity of the war was a bloody waste in almost every conceivable way, but hopelessness drove men to do reckless things.
“Pass?” A marine dressed in fatigues holding a shotgun stood between the doctor and the entrance to the ships hospital. The young soldier attempted to express a demeanor of authority, but Henry could see within his eyes, the same fear that everyone else wore on their sleeve. The marine’s duty as hospital security included some nightmarishly unthinkable things that made a part of Henry long for the luxury of ignorance. Would this soldier have to kill a doctor who had been trying to save the life of a wounded fighter pilot, only to be rewarded with an infected bite? Would he have to put his shotgun to the head of a patient — perhaps a fellow serviceman — who couldn’t come to terms with their own infection and pleaded desperately for mercy? Or would he have to give an order to quarantine the entire hospital, as a swarm of living dead rose up to attack the doctors and civilians who were only there to help? If history was any indication, every one of those things was a distinct possibility.
“Pass?” The marine asked again.
Henry was indistinct from any of the other civilians that rushed through the corridors — middle-aged, out of shape, dark-haired. The only thing that set him apart in any way was the fact that he was moving against traffic — into the mouth of danger, not away. He had gotten used to how the bridge security recognized him as an advisor to the Admiral and waved him into restricted areas with a smile and a nod. Here, in the bowels of a ship crewed by over four thousand men and women, he was just another civilian that the military had asked to help in a desperate time. It took a moment for Henry to comprehend the soldier’s question. “Uh, pass…” he fumbled around through his pockets, “here it is.”
The marine glanced over the card that identified Henry as a civilian military advisor and cocked his head. He had, no doubt, noted the top-level security clearance on the identification card that would most certainly stand out from the rest of the medical staff. He handed the pass back to Henry, nodded, and stepped aside.
Henry entered the hospital, which had an atmosphere that sharply contrasted with the rest of the ship. Within the steel corridors, military personnel and crewmen bustled to their posts amidst refugees who scurried back to their housing accommodations. Here, there was absolute silence and a tension that hung like a fog. Medical staff stood rigidly with a thousand-yard stare that would give even the most grizzled veteran the chills. They stood waiting by ER equipment and empty beds with fear rising in their gut for the first casualty to arrive. Each of them was anticipating horrifically wounded men and women that they would attempt to save amidst a commotion of screaming, crying, and begging. Undoubtedly, someone would rise from the dead and the marine security force would spring into action — maybe just in time, or maybe a little too late — and a doctor or nurse would get bitten.
Henry made his way to the front desk and a short, red-haired woman in a Navy uniform greeted him. She recognized him from his numerous information requests and his assistance during times like this. Without a word, she handed him a small plastic bag of markers, pens, and lipstick, then took him by the arm and escorted him to a large area blocked off by white curtains.
“Triage,” she said, as she made eye contact that was meant to convey both her need that he perform his assigned duty and her apology that he had been assigned that duty. She then turned around sharply and headed directly back to the desk from which she originated. Dr. Damico lifted a curtain to enter the small square room.
He looked around. Security presence was strong in the triage area. While the main hospital had perhaps one armed marine for every ten medical staff, here stood merely a dozen marines… each conveying the same quiet intensity of the man who had checked Henry’s identification. Each one of them was armed with a shotgun, but for practical purposes—would be using a suppressed pistol to do the dirty work of ensuring the dead didn’t become the living dead.
The eerie stillness was broken only by muted explosions outside the ship’s hull and the murmurs of a civilian nurse who stood next to him. Henry looked over to the woman — or perhaps girl, would better describe the thin, blonde-haired figure that stood penetrating the wall with a wide-eyed stare. She was far too young to have completed any serious medical training, and would have likely been a first or second year student had her education not been interrupted by the undead.
She gripped the plastic bag of writing implements tightly in her hands and tears poured down her beet-red face. “X can’t be saved,” She shook her head subtly. “O is priority,” she nodded. “W can wait,” she nodded again. “B is bitten,” she shook her head again before reciting the triage prioritization system to herself over and over again.
A nearby army medic jumped at the sound of a blast outside. He closed his eyes enduring a silent anxiety, as a gentle shockwave sent vibrations through the entire carrier. Henry looked over to the man, who appeared to be around the same age as the young woman. He too stared at the wall… but in complete silence. His uniform indicated that he had been trained to deal with some extremely bloody things, but his nerves had gotten the better of him. He clutched a red marker in his shaking white knuckles.
Henry turned to the young girl. “I’m Doctor Damico,” he said placing his hand on her shoulder. “If you have any questions or need any help, you just ask me okay? What’s your name?”
“I won’t remember the letters! What if I give someone an X who should be an O? What if I give someone a W who should be a B?” Her voice was shaking and eyeliner ran down her face in a wet mess.
“You’ll do fine. You just ask me if you aren’t sure. What’s your name?” Dr. Damico asked again.
“Audrey,” she answered.
“I’m Doctor Damico,” he repeated, in case she hadn’t heard him. “You’ll do fine, okay?”
Audrey nodded.
Henry smiled, and then turned to the Army medic. “How are you doing, son?”
“I’m okay,” he said with staged confidence.
“What’s your name?”
“I’m…” the sound of another explosion outside vibrated the ship and the young man’s eyes fluttered “I’m Private Tobias, sir.”