The surgeon general sighed. “General Malloy, when will you understand that this is not an attack by some foreign power. It is the Black Death, the Bubonic Plague. It’s here, and we need to deal with it. Stop chasing mythical terrorists, you’re barking up the wrong tree. We need to concentrate the military on taking care of the good folk of Florida—”
“Don’t worry, doc,” he sneered. “We’re taking care of the Floridians, and you can trust me on that.”
04:00 AM
Sophie turned around and was shocked and delighted to see Luke. He put his finger to his lips, and she nodded. He took his hand away, and they backed into the darkness of the bushes. He explained that he’d come to find her, claiming he thought it a good idea to be with the expert on the disease, and that for some reason they seemed to be immune to the Bubonic Plague, he paused then said with a grin. “And I wanted to see you, again.”
They moved northward, then ducked into a doorway as a patrol zoomed past them tracking down a young girl on a scooter, the gunner on top of the Humvee aimed, fired, and hit her square between the shoulder blades, the bullet exited her chest in a cloud of red blood. She fell forward onto the handlebars, and then slumped from the scooter, which carried on down the street before toppling over.
Sophie gasped in shock. Although Luke had told her what had been happening, it still jolted her to see American troops murdering American citizens. She told him about General Malloy killing President Burgess and his plans to annihilate the residents of Florida. He explained that it had already started, he told her of the execution squads and of the mass gassing at the refugee camp. They moved north along Biscayne Boulevard and were fast becoming immune to the atrocities. They kept to the shadows as they saw looters shot, their bodies joining the many others littering the streets, left to rot.
04:15 AM
“Hello?” Submariner Pete Williams called out aboard the nuclear-powered submarine, the USS Amarillo. It’d been over an hour since he last found someone alive, albeit only for several minutes as that sailor too, succumbed, noisily and painfully to the virus. He made his way around the narrow metal tube. Claustrophobia overwhelmed him. He’d never known he’d suffered from it until now, but he had become aware that the tight metal coffin had him trapped. Everywhere he went the sailors were dead, strangely turning black first, some appeared to have died almost instantly. Dying sat at their posts. Friends he’d seen alive and healthy an hour or two earlier, now stone-cold dead, sat upright in front of their work stations, staring at their computer screens too frightened of their superiors to ask to be dismissed, with what they had perceived a bug, thinking a good night’s sleep would see them alright.
He made his way down to a lower deck where the thrum of the engine got louder. “Hello… anybody?” He felt fear rise in him and tears streaked his cheeks. He didn’t care who would see them. He wished there would be someone alive to see his obvious cowardice. He wondered what would happen if the nuclear reactor overheated? He did not have a clue what to do to stop it overheating. He was the last man standing and had been found wanting.
A more heroic sailor would save the day, and possibly the nearby population, for that matter, whereas he contemplated suicide, thinking it preferable to a slow lingering death. He thought the air had warmed up, and that he sucked in the deadly microbes with every breath. He only wanted to get to the surface, to breathe clean air his only ambition now. He didn’t care if no one found him he just needed clean fresh air. However, he didn’t know how to surface the vessel and his despair worsened.
He found himself in the communications sector, and thought of the radio, there must be a link to the mainland. Someone there would know where he was and rescue him. He felt elated and sat before the microphone, he’d seen the guys making calls enough times, he pressed the button, and spoke. “Mayday, mayday, mayday! Hello, can anybody hear me, this is Submariner Peter Williams on board the USS Amarillo, please respond…” He heard his voice echoing around his metallic hellhole. “Hello, can anybody hear me, this is Submariner Peter Williams on board the USS Amarillo, please respond…”
Fort Jenkins, a short squat building near Key West was a facility big enough to dock submarines for servicing and repairs. It was also responsible for communications between submarines and HQ. However because the USS Amarillo was on a top-secret mission, no messages were expected. The captain of the submarine knew better than to break radio silence, it would cost him his job to do so.
The Submariner did not know how many violations he broke, nor would he have cared, his thin, reedy voice, tinged with hysteria rattled around the room. The message came through loud and clear, sadly there was not one human left alive in the room. The sailors were dead at their posts, and the ever-present rats, greedily devoured the human flesh.
04:15 AM
“We’re pulling the plug on southern Florida,” said Hamilton Parker the incumbent President. He addressed the War Room via a video-link from his desk within the Oval Office at the White House.
General Jack Malloy spoke via the video-link from the ex-President’s summer residence. Quinn Martell was with the chiefs of Staff at the Pentagon’s War Room.
“You can’t be serious,” Quinn Martell said.
“We’re pulling the plug on Florida, all the way to the outskirts of Orlando.”
“That’s inhumane?” spluttered Quinn.
“Wouldn’t it be more inhumane to the rest of the population to expose them to the deadly virus? Wouldn’t that be morally wrong?”
“Of course, but we haven’t finished our studies. If we could isolate—”
“We don’t have the luxury of time for your flapping around, Quinn. All our evidence is that we cannot wait. It would be too late. Our men on the ground can only do so much.”
“So we quit, just like that, on millions of US citizens?” Quinn asked in disbelief.
“Most are dead or dying, we’re talking about a handful of survivors that are resistant to the bacteria, but they may still succumb.”
“That’s why we must do the tests, we need—”
“It’s too late, doctor,” said the new President. “To be frank, there are too small a number to risk the safety of the rest of us. It’s unlucky for them, sure, but if the shoe was on the other foot, who's to say…”
The men around the table murmured their agreement. “It’s time for bold decisions for the sake of the future of our great nation and I’m the man to do it. We’ve already cut all communication to and from the exclusion zone, we’ve got the ports, airport and roads blocked, and patrols mopping up the darkies—”
“The what?” Quinn asked appalled.
“The “darkies”, it’s what the troop’s are calling the plague carriers, their skin darkens in the latter stages of the disease.”
“And if a person is African-American?” Quinn asked. “How do we distinguish between them and a plague carrier?”
“Again, it’s too bad. In all likelihood, they are going to die anyhow. As I said, we’re talking about a handful of people.”
“May God forgive us,” Quinn mumbled in defeat.
“We’re controlling the information, and when the danger is over, and enough time has passed, our actions will be vindicated. We may even be hailed for our bold, brave decisions, that have not only saved the country, but more likely the world, we’ll go down in history—”
“We’ll go down in history all right,” Quinn scoffed.
“You’re comments are duly noted,” Hamilton Parker said not meaning it for a second. “Now, we have key people in the zone, manning nuclear installations, and other highly sensitive organizations, but they are being stretched thin.”