The Killing Floor Page 9

  In chambers carved into rock deep inside the earth, Travis would never know he has been buried alive. The leadership would never tell him. He and the other refugees would go on doing their jobs, cut off from the surface, until one day the food runs out. Then the competition for resources would begin.

  It won’t matter if you’re a Supreme Court Justice or the Secretary of State or the President of the United States. If we get cut off down here, we’ll end up eating each other.

  Travis believes it may be inevitable. One day, the Infected will migrate out of the cities. They will discover this complex. The electrified fence will not stop them. Human security systems provide deterrence based on an assumption of interest in self-preservation. The carriers of Wildfire do not understand that concept. Only the Wildfire Agent itself does, and it is all too happy—another homocentrism, as it does not feel anything—to sacrifice any of its hosts, like pawns, to win its never-ending game of dominance and survival.

  The question is whether Wildfire has Mind. Is it intelligent, or just blind programming? Another thought that keeps him up at night.

  The public address system bleats a muffled message about the cafeteria being open to second shift. The noise startles him, making him forget his fears and focus again on following the woman. A different cheerful automated voice announces the monorail is approaching the station.

  The woman walks away from the crowd, stepping onto the track platform and turning so he can see her face. Just as he remembered, she is a stunning creature, tall and frail and beautiful.

  Travis pauses, feeling breathless, wondering what he is going to say. How does one apologize for what happened to her? Perhaps that is all he should say: Forgive me.

  She stares straight at him, mouthing words he cannot hear but his brain translates as, Save me. Travis watches in horror as the monorail approaches. She spreads her arms as the train’s lights bathe her in white glare, swooning exactly as he remembered her standing in the door of the helicopter, just before the Secret Service agent shoved her into the crowd.

  A scream catches in Travis’s throat.

  The train passes through the woman, who disappears as if she were a ghost.

  ♦

  The bulletin board is plastered with orange public notices advising the denizens of the Special Facility on everything from dormitory schedules to daycare options to personal hygiene to general propaganda.

  Travis scans the notices hungrily, searching for psychiatric help.

  He has a choice. The Special Facility offers individual counseling for claustrophobia and depression as well as group grief counseling. He writes down the exchange number for both, hedging his bets. It doesn’t matter whether claustrophobia or loneliness or survivor’s guilt is driving him mad; he is seeing ghosts. He needs as much help as he can get.

  This task done, he hurries off to work. He is not afraid of being late, as nobody cares about his hours. The fact is he spends far more time at work than he does in his overcrowded dormitory. Work takes his mind off things, steadies him.

  His office building is set up like a Russian nesting doll, with various levels of workers authorized access to certain floors or zones. As an assistant director with the Office of Science and Technology Policy, Travis is Level Seven, enjoying broad access to both his office building and a special Biosafety Level 4 laboratory in another building buried farther west.

  That’s where the scientists keep the specimens and experiment on them in ways that would make the Nazis blush. Travis has to remind himself the Infected are not people anymore. In any case, it’s the end of the world. If ever was a time when the ends justified the means, he reasons, this would be it. Recently, the scientists received a shipment of bodies of strange monsters for autopsy, sending rumors buzzing throughout Area B. Travis, of course, knows about these strange creatures that recently started to appear, as he now specializes in studying them. He has seen photos of the bodies, shaky video from the field. He has read countless reports, most of which sounded like folklore. He personally has not yet seen one of the creatures. Perhaps today he will take the time to enter the Lab and view the bodies up close. It is difficult to believe they are real. In the photos, they look like Photoshopped monsters from an Internet hoax. It feels like he is studying the Loch Ness Monster. Looking for a cure to Bigfoot.

  In particular, he hopes one day they can catch the big monster commonly called the Screamer, King Monster, Rex, Godzilla, Demon. This rare and powerful beast shows up frequently in reports but has rarely been seen and as far as he knows has never been killed or captured. He believes the Demon has some sort of special role in the monsters’ ecosystem, but he does not know what it is. Many of the monsters appear to be sickly and struggling to survive. They eat constantly but exhibit signs of starvation. Entire species born just days ago seem to be dying out already. The survivors are adapting, however. Growing stronger. The Demon is one of these survivors. Another fact that keeps Travis up at night.

  He runs his ID card through another access control, glaring at the door as it pauses for the usual three seconds before opening with a loud beep, as if reminding him that it alone decides whether he is allowed to enter. He remembers when he used to consider this kind of thing exciting. Just a few weeks ago, he craved access. Now each entry feels like walking deeper into a prison.

  The ID card reads, THE PERSON DESCRIBED ON THIS CARD HAS ESSENTIAL EMERGENCY DUTIES WITH THE FEDERAL GOVERNMENT.

  The officials constituting what is left of the Office of Science and Technology Policy work in tiny offices ringing a room where a clerical pool works a reception desk around the clock. This is where Travis Price, PhD, an atomic scientist specializing in nonproliferation, came to study monsters. Scientific and policy journals and texts fill shelving against one of the walls. A soldier, helmetless in bulky black body armor, sits on the edge of the desk, flirting with the secretaries. Travis blinks at this uncommon sight, but has no energy for questions.

  The soldier stares at him with cold gray eyes and says, “You don’t remember me, do you, Doc?”

  The woman fought the Secret Service agent, only to be tossed like a doll at the desperate crowd screaming into the powerful wash of the rotors. Sitting on the helicopter sobbing into his hands, Travis looked up and met Fielding’s glare with his own.

  That’s right, I did it, he thought. And I’d do it again. I’m alive.

  Fielding nodded slightly as Travis turned away to regard the city they were abandoning. Without its government, Washington seemed drained of its power, an empty shell.

  There is no right or wrong anymore, he thought. There is only living and dead.

  The flashback dissipates, leaving Travis feeling exhausted.

  “Fielding,” he says. “You’re Fielding. So you’re a soldier now?”

  “Something like that.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Most of the Secret Service was lost during the evacuation. The President, the Cabinet, the Supreme Court, the Congress; everyone wants a security detail. I’m ex-military. I was recruited.”

  “So the government has a paramilitary organization now.”

  “We’re more like the Praetorian Guard, Doc.”

  The secretaries pointedly ignore the exchange, sensing the tension between the men. Travis hears one of them typing randomly.

  “Quis custodiet ipsos custodes?” he wonders aloud. Who will guard us from the guards?

  Fielding laughs. “Who indeed?”

  Travis is already tired of the sparring. A few weeks ago, he would have been terrified of a man like Fielding, and in fact was at their first meeting. Now Travis has real problems that make Fielding seem like small fish.

  “So why are you here?”

  “I’m here for you.”

  “Let’s go into my office, then. Do you want some coffee?”

  Fielding gets off the desk and stands erect, an imposing figure. “No time, Doc,” he says. “Do you still have your suit? The one you wore the day you came here?
”

  The suit is neatly folded in Travis’s locker. It still smells like fear.

  “What’s this about?”

  “Doc,” Fielding says, grinning, “you’re going to meet the President of the United States.”

  ♦

  Travis remembers the first time he entered the White House. He tingled as he presented his credentials. A young, attractive aide led him to where he would be working. He glanced into private offices as he followed the woman down the hall and was surprised to see average people hunched over computers in tiny offices, hacking away at keyboards. Phones chirped discordantly, the sound muffled by the carpeted floor. File cabinets bulged with yellowing paper. If he didn’t know where he was, he would have guessed he was in some kind of old, regal, shabby hotel converted into offices for law clerks paid to make deals. And yet that breathless 9/11 feeling permeated the building; the White House was a massive zeitgeist generator. Travis felt connected to mighty levers that turned the world. Even on days the President was traveling and not much was happening, each day felt like the cusp of history.

  Travis never met the President, however. Not for two years. The closest he came was when the White House needed some warm bodies for a press photo.

  Now, it seems, President Andrew Walker wants to meet him.

  He remembers how strange it was. Often one meets a famous actor and later remarks at how much smaller he is in real life than he appears to be in his films. But the President seemed even larger to Travis. He is a giant of a man, making everyone around him appear insubstantial.

  Fielding studies him with an expression of subtle amusement. The secretaries stare. One takes off her glasses and squints as if trying to see something in Travis she hadn’t seen before, something she’d missed.

  “I don’t understand,” Travis says.

  Fielding acknowledges the women with a nod and gestures toward the door.

  “Let’s get a move on, Doc.”

  Outside in the corridor, Fielding walks a step behind Travis, his eyes never leaving him.

  “Am I under arrest or something?”

  “No,” Fielding tells him. “You would know if you were.”

  “Then why do I feel like I’m under arrest?”

  “I’ve seen you in action, Doc. You’re a slippery one. I’m going to keep an eye on you.”

  “Slippery,” Travis says, the word bitter on his tongue. It’s not my fault she got left behind, he wants to scream. There wasn’t enough transport for everyone. The agent pushed her off. It wasn’t me. “If you’re the good guy, what are you doing down here? Why aren’t you out there saving the world?”

  “That’s what Roberts did—remember him? Stayed behind to look for his wife. Haven’t seen him since. There’s plenty of work around here for a guy like me, Doc.”

  “The fact is that the only person who’s going to save the world is someone like me.”

  “God help us, then.”

  “I’m not joking. You know the military is in Washington. But do you know how many buildings there are in the city? How many people lived there who became infected? We’re throwing what’s left of our military into a meat grinder. There aren’t enough bullets, Fielding. There aren’t enough soldiers. We’re going to lose.”

  Fielding says nothing, regarding Travis with narrowed eyes.

  “Bullets can’t fix this,” Travis says. “Only science can. We just have to figure it out.”

  “All right, Doc,” Fielding says, ending the conversation.

  They enter the mass transit station, Travis glancing at the spot where the girl mouthed Save me before dissipating in the path of the train. Fielding sees him shudder but says nothing. They board an outgoing monorail, which drops them off near the dormitories. Travis’s dorm is a large open space packed with cots on which men sleep in the dull glow of a few red light bulbs and exit signs hanging from the ceiling. So few cots are available that people use them in shifts. In four hours, according to the clock set to military time, Travis will be able to use his cot again for sleep, first brushing the other man’s dandruff off the pillow they share.

  In the locker room, Travis changes into his suit, shirt and tie, still wrinkled and smelling a bit gamey. It will have to do. One does not visit the President of the United States wearing an orange coverall like a penitentiary inmate.

  “Very presentable, Doc,” Fielding says, inspecting his nails.

  Travis unravels his tie and tries again, eyeing his reflection in a small mirror. Women often told him he was good looking, even though his social awkwardness and general lack of interest otherwise kept them at bay. Now he appears downright frightening. His stubbled face is pale and his eyes look dead.

  “Can you at least tell me what this is about?” he asks.

  Fielding shrugs. “Don’t know, actually. Policy is your field. But I would suspect it’s not a social call. Whatever you’re working on regarding Wildfire, the Boss thinks it’s important.”

  Travis experiences a sudden flash of panic. Does the President expect me to make a presentation on my research now? Why didn’t the Director tell me about this?

  Outside the dormitory, the two men walk east along the crowded sidewalks framing a main road leading into the heart of Area B. People come here to stroll because of the high ceiling and extra lighting. Travis wonders if he should take the President’s interest as a good sign. His theories are controversial and have not been accepted by what passes for the scientific establishment down here. Maybe they’re ready to hear him out and give him some real resources.

  Earth is being colonized. Not just colonized, but terraformed. The Earth is, to put it plainly, infected. And humans, other life forms? Fertile soil.

  The prevailing theory is humans did this to themselves. People tinkering with nanotechnology. Bioweapons designers creating a beast they could not control. The beast escaped its cage, replicated using resources in the natural environment, and covered the planet within days. Once the nano reached a critical mass, one out of five people fell down screaming within hours of each other. The Wildfire contagion descended from this original nano. End of theory.

  The problem is they can’t find it. For that matter, they can’t find evidence of whether Wildfire is a molecular engine or virus or a bacterium. They keep testing and cutting open bodies looking for it, without result. The theory also does not explain the monsters.

  Travis has been championing an alien colonization theory. Earth has been seeded with biological software that responds differently to various genetic markers. Spores, in other words. A bit of seemingly harmless organic matter clinging to a falling meteor that thrived and spread and entered the global food chain and, eventually, its resident species. Some people fell down screaming while others did not. Some life forms were transformed into monsters, others not.

  This is not to say evil humanoids with big gray heads are flying around in spaceships, manipulating these tragic events. Travis suspects Wildfire is not intelligent in the way most people would define it. He believes it may simply be an adaptive, self-designing but otherwise mindless extraterrestrial life form. Not quite colonization, not an invasion as it would typically be defined, but instead a viral entity, one that infects planets. In people and animals, it disguises itself as a normal virus or bacteria and is only triggered by certain genetic markers.

  What this means, of course, is that everyone is infected in one form or another.

  It also means the only way to unmask the Wildfire Agent is to examine a huge number of cells. This would take many months even if Travis had the resources he wanted.

  What he really needs is a pure sample of Wildfire. If they could get that, they would have a solid chance to win this fight.

  An electric jeep whirs up to the curb, driven by a soldier dressed similarly to Fielding, and parks.

  “Good afternoon, Captain,” the soldier says, addressing Fielding.

  Fielding gestures to the backseat. “Hop in, Doc. Mustn’t keep POTUS waiting.”

  �
�

  Wearing his old suit and riding in a car makes him feel normal again after weeks of living like an inmate in a dystopian prison. The breeze on his face raises his spirits.

  The jeep halts in front of a wide, bright passage leading to a gleaming vault door guarded by more soldiers in black body armor. One of them, a tall, athletic woman wearing a black beret and a large handgun on her hip, approaches the vehicle.

  “End of the line, Doc,” Fielding says.

  “What’s this place?” Travis says, trying to control his sudden panic.

  “This,” Fielding says with a grand gesture, “is the Executive Branch.”

  “Dr. Price,” the woman says. “I am Lieutenant Lateesha Sanchez.”

  She extends her gloved hand and helps him from the jeep.

  “Good luck with that saving the world thing,” Fielding tells him.

  Looking at Sanchez’s phony smile, Travis is a little sorry to see Fielding go. They may hate each other, but at least everything between them is out in the open.

  Before he can say a word, the jeep lurches back onto the street.

  “Come with me, please,” Sanchez says, motioning toward the massive door, which the soldiers are pulling open, their machine guns slung over their shoulders.

  They enter a long white corridor, dim but regularly cleaned; the floor glistens from a recent waxing. The air is fresher here, with no random pockets of hot or cold air, no sudden blasts from a filthy ventilation duct. Portraits of past presidents, liberated from the White House, adorn the otherwise blank walls, like placeholders for ghosts.

  “What’s behind these doors?” he asks, his voice loud in his ears. He pictures large control centers like the bridge of a starship or the set of the old TV show 24, with lots of people hunched over various stations.