Then he placed the folder with the words “Top Secret” in front of Hong.
Over the next half hour, Hong learned more about the TSJ virus. TSJ was a laboratory mutation of the Ebola virus combined with elements of other viral strains. It spread very rapidly and was so highly contagious that there were documented cases of people infected just by coming into contact with the Undead’s saliva. But TSJ had a weak spot. Simply put, it was too good at its job.
The researchers who wrote the report estimated that only about thirty million people had survived worldwide, twenty-three million of them within North Korea’s borders. The TSJ virus had wiped out six billion human beings in less than thirty days. As viruses went, it was hugely successful.
The problem was that TSJ eventually colonized virtually all the available humans, its only carriers. Since it could only survive outside a human body for a few minutes before it turned into protein soup, the virus was effectively trapped inside the Undead.
The Undead’s bodies had no blood circulation, no way to breathe, and very little electrical or neuronal activity. The clever TSJ virus inhibited the bacteria responsible for putrefaction, preserving dead bodies as if they were in a freezer. It could stay in those bodies for years or centuries, waiting to pounce on another host. But in a strange twist, nature complicated matters. Even though TSJ nullified the action of bacteria, it was defenseless against fungus, one of the oldest multicellular structures on earth. Those fungi found a perfect breeding ground in the billions of Undead roaming the world. The huge slabs of walking flesh became the fungi’s new homes.
The secret report included dozens of photos of Undead in various stages of fungal invasion. Over seventy percent of TSJ infections occurred within the first four weeks of the pandemic, so most of the Undead were likely to deteriorate along the same time line. At first, the fungal colonies weren’t visible, except for some small patches of yellow or green fuzz in the corner of an Undead’s mouth or eyes sockets. As the months went by, though, those fungal colonies expanded. Hong saw images of Undead so covered in fungi they looked like something out of a horror movie.
The report estimated that, in two years, most of the Undead would be so consumed by the fungi they’d collapse under their own weight and rot where they fell, reduced to piles of yellow bones. In fewer than four years, the report said, there would be no Undead left on earth.
Then it will be our turn, Hong deduced. Without the Undead, the whole world would be at the mercy of the People’s Republic of North Korea. The estimated six million survivors scattered across the globe outside of North Korea wouldn’t pose a serious threat to the glorious North Korean army.
He and his countrymen just had to tough it out for another four years, but without oil, they’d never make it. How ironic to survive the Undead only to starve to death.
Hong walked past a dozing soldier whose protective headphones had slipped down around his neck. He carefully placed the headphones back over the man’s ears and headed to the cockpit. His men were afraid, of course, but they knew that he was the best officer to serve under and that he’d zealously take care of them. The colonel had handpicked all three hundred soldiers in his company. They’d follow him to the gates of hell, if he ordered them to.
When he walked through the cockpit door, a peaceful silence engulfed him, isolating him from all the noise. The Soviets clearly had their priorities straight when they designed the Ilyushin-62 back in the seventies.
“Colonel.” The pilot saluted as Hong lowered himself into the empty navigator’s seat. Only one of the six Ilyushin-62 on that expedition had a navigator. The rest were following his lead to the west coast of the United States.
This was a one-way trip, no return planned. None of the Korean People’s Air Force planes was authorized to fly back to North Korea, so additional navigators weren’t necessary. Of course, there was the remote chance they’d locate enough fuel for a return trip. That option had been studied for weeks, but finally discarded. The available information was very sketchy, obtained months or years before the pandemic had begun. The commanders knew there were oil reserves near their objective, but they had no idea what condition they were in—if they even still existed. In the end, it was too risky and uncertain to count on refueling, so the colonel’s orders outlined an even riskier alternate plan.
“How long till we get there?” Hong asked.
“We’ll reach our first destination in less than an hour. Twenty minutes after that, we could make it to destinations two, three, and four. Destination five… well… ” The pilot swallowed.
Hong nodded as he did some mental calculations. The Ilyushin-62 was the longest-range aircraft in the North Korean air force, but it could only make it as far as the West Coast. The plan was to land at any airport where the runway wasn’t obstructed or occupied by Undead. From there, he and his men were on their own.
When Hong heard all this for the first time, he protested loudly. They were asking him and his men to cross the United States with no backup plan. “That’s madness! We don’t even know what condition the roads are in. We’ll be driving blind for thousands of miles through an infested country.”
“We know, Colonel,” one of the generals responded patiently.
“I think we can be more practical,” Hong proposed. “Let’s load extra fuel into a couple of the aircrafts’ holds. Then, once we land, we can transfer it to the fuel tanks and fly to Gulfport without risking our lives. Plus it would be much faster.”
“That’s impossible, Colonel,” replied the minister. “I already told you that our reserves are critically low, but I don’t think you grasp how desperate the situation is. We only have two percent of the fuel our Air Force needs under normal conditions. We’ve already diverted most of the fuel from industry and the civilian population, but our reserves have almost dried up. We can provide you with enough fuel to fly to the West Coast, not one liter more.”
“But we’re only talking about a few thousand liters!” Hong implored.
“There’s nothing we can do.” The minister stood firm. “Our Dear Leader Kim Jong-Un, in his eternal wisdom, has ordered us to reserve enough fuel to keep our fighter planes in the air for at least two consecutive days, in case of attack. We need every last drop of fuel, Colonel. Do not insist.”
Hong shook his head. Had he heard correctly? Keep our fighter planes in the air? Who would they be fighting? That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard. His mind was racing, but he kept his mouth shut. A direct order from Kim Jong-Un, no matter how absurd, could not be debated under any circumstances.
He made one last stab. “It will take weeks to reach Gulfport on the ground, and the journey will be exceedingly difficult.”
“That’s why we chose you, Colonel. Complete your mission successfully and, upon your return, you will be rewarded in ways you can’t even imagine.”
Now Colonel Hong and his elite soldiers were flying over the US in six Ilyushin-62s, their fuel tanks nearly empty.
“Red light!” exclaimed the pilot. “We now have a range of only thirty minutes.”
“How far to the first destination?” Hong asked anxiously.
“We should see it in… There it is!” the pilot shouted in excitement.
The backwater airport had just one runway. Sprawled across it was the charred skeleton of a large commercial jet, making it impossible to land. The six aircraft circled around, then continued to the next airport on the list.
They couldn’t land at destinations two, three, or four. The runways were blocked either by the remains of crashed planes or dozens of Undead.
“Land in the middle of them,” Hong ordered.
“Impossible, sir,” said the pilot. “If one of the Undead got sucked into the turbines, the engine could explode and we’d go up in flames.