“When a lot of remedies are suggested for a disease...that means it can’t be cured.” Anton Chekov

  Malcolm sifted through the classified documents as he sat on a bunk with his company commanders across from him. His eyes were growing heavy, for it seemed like every paragraph was littered with medical jargon. He spoke without taking his eyes off, “…it’s swimming through the blood until it’s completely burrowed in the brain…”

  His captains sat or paced the storage unit; Kemper looked annoyed. “You’re reminding us of the headshot rule, which we all figured out in Korea.”

  Malcolm tapped the folder. “But this is explaining why, which matters. It says the Incubation Period is maxed at three or four days, and those have been rare.”

  “So?” One of them asked.

  Malcolm answered. “Unless you destroy the brain, killing the person doesn’t kill the Amoeba. They could reanimate within seconds or a dozen minutes. Moral of the story? Don’t trust any random corpse.”

  Thompson spoke up. “What I’m hearing is more about these people being Dead.”

  “Didn’t need this to tell me that.” Malcolm continued. “Variations in intelligence between different Berserkers has been documented. CDC thinks it has everything to do with the symptom stage the infected person is in.”

  “Ugh…Sir?” Kemper quipped.

  Malcolm looked up. “Yes?”

  “I really need you to tell me if the World has ended out there, not these ‘Infection Stages’. Because some of us have wives we haven’t talked to since Korea.”

  Malcolm gave a slow nod. “Nothing’s fallen apart yet, otherwise we wouldn’t be here. Hell, Command is even considering new quarantine zones beyond the city.”

  Liam, sitting against the back of a chair, finally spoke up. “Quarantine Zones aren’t going to stop the Amoeba from spreading.”

  Malcolm looked back at the files. “Nothing on the cure so far, though there’s a ton of elaboration on the Amoeba being a mutation from a lesser strain. China named it after one of their plague gods, but the rest of the medical community has taken to calling it ‘Naegleria’. Good news is that Humans are the only carriers.”

  Thompson guffawed. “How the fuck is that good news?”

  Malcolm bulged his eyes. “You want zombie cats and dogs running around?!”

  “The man is correct.” Kemper said, “There’s only several billion people to deal with. The whole fucking ecosystem getting infected would be an Endgame.”

  “Indeed.” Malcolm felt validated. “Bad news is that nothing says how it spread so quickly; Detroit fell on the first day, as did L.A. The California Outbreaks make sense; migrants from Asia brought the plague over…”

  There was a collective silence.

  Malcolm checked his watch and saw the time had just passed six in the morning. “Bannon needs to know this shit too. Is he coming?”

  Everyone shrugged.

  “Goddammit.” Malcolm stood, leaving the folder on his bunk as he put boots on. “Those are for my eyes only so no one reads it. I’m gonna drag Bannon in here by his foot.”

  The group said nothing as Malcolm equipped his holster, along with a knife sheath, and exited the unit. After closing the shutter, Malcolm took a moment to breathe in the beautiful silence of the morning May air. He then pulled out a cigarette and lit it, deciding he’d walk leisurely to Bannon’s unit.

  The nicotine gave Malcolm the rush of lightheadedness he was beginning to deeply cherish and the tingles down his limbs felt moderately exciting. Malcolm looked to the east where the sun was hardly visible on the horizon, yet it still reflected off the puddles which had remained since the heavy rain had passed. Malcolm passed by the chow area, where hundreds of soldiers were gathered around wooden or plastic benches to enjoy a hardy breakfast. Eggs, toast, fried hams, sausage and bacon were displayed as a buffet beneath a large Camouflage tarp. It was the smell of Coffee which Malcolm found alluring.

  Malcolm slowly finished his cigarette as he observed the Soldiers; some noticed Malcolm, they would point him out to the comrades they ate with. As Malcolm crossed for a cup of coffee, some of them had budged eyes like Malcolm was a Hollywood star gracing them with his presence.

  Malcolm gave a slight grin with one side of his mouth as he dropped the butt. A squad turned the corner and a private accidentally bumped into Malcolm’s shoulder, spilling some of his fresh cup to the ground as the squad realized he was a Major.

  “Sorry Sir!” The draftee named Dillan stood at attention.

  Malcolm nodded while refilling the cup. “We’re not at attention; you’re good.”

  “Thank-”

  “M-Major Nelson?” The Sergeant of the squad interrupted. “From November Company?”

  “Indeed.” Malcolm nodded, taking his first sip of a dark black roast.

  The Sergeant, a man named Bundy. seemed starstruck, “...My brother was at Camp Stanley guarding the H.Q...I know you were just doing your job but he made it because...”

  The Sergeant trailed off as Malcolm smiled; he grabbed the Sergeant’s hand and shook it. “Your brother made it because he kept his cool, and I took charge because I’d want anyone else to do the same.”

  “You're a fucking hero sir!” one of the soldiers blurted with a salute as they turned to the chow area.

  Suddenly, Malcolm felt his heart rate accelerate and he felt that sensation one gets before falling. He caught his breath, unsure of what exactly was happening. Malcolm took a deep sip of his coffee while he turned around to find Bannon.

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  Since the troops had gathered for breakfast, there was an eyrie silence as Malcolm crossed the seemingly deserted storage yard. The only activity was the humming motors of an armored convoy seen through the fence; they were moving away from the Wall construction, which was almost complete except for the battlements.

  A series of helicopters were flying overhead, entering the zone from the walls.

  Malcolm found Bannon’s storage unit and pounded a fist against the shutter. “BANNON!” Malcolm shouted.

  He lifted the shutter and could hardly see anything inside; the sun was too low on the horizon. Malcolm tugged the chord, and the lights came on. Bannon was laying on his bunk with his back facing Malcolm.

  “Sleeping in like the last day of camp?” Malcolm berated. “HEY!”

  A gasp, followed by a deep breath, broke Bannon’s sleep. He turned over on his back, letting out a violent wheeze with his eyes puffed, causing Malcolm to pause.

  Bannon looked at him, finally attempting to stand, only to keel off his bunk. He was dry heaving on the floor, unable to vomit any more into the bucket.

  “…Nelson…” Bannon whimpered. “…Something’s wrong...”

  Malcolm dropped his coffee cup. “...Tell me your hungover.”

  Bannon was now sitting with a hand behind his neck. He was twisting around to pop a tension. “…Can’t even keep food down…” Bannon said.

  “W-when did this start?” Malcolm demanded.

  “…Last night…got worse as I slept…bones feel hollow…”

  Gradually, Malcolm stepped over. “Stay. Fucking. Still.”

  Bannon complied and Malcolm delicately put a palm on Bannon’s forehead; his paling skin was cold to the touch. Malcolm’s trembling hand rose, and he took a few steps back. “…Stay right there and don’t move…I’m coming back with the medics.”

  Bannon coughed. “Sir…”

  “…Don’t talk. Just stay awake…and stay right there.”

  Bannon’s eyes seemed to roll as his head lay back, followed by deeper breaths. Malcolm took the final step out of the storage unit; he closed the shutter without blinking. He looked but found no way to lock it. Malcolm then looked around for some kind of help, yet everyone was at the Chow area. Malcolm realized his wireless earpiece was still in his storage unit; with no way to make an emergency call, Malcolm began shouting.

  “SOMEONE! ANYONE!!” It took repeated shouts before Malcolm spotted two sentries turning the nearest corner. “Get the Medics NOW!”

  One of them immediately tapped his wireless piece and began calling for a medical team as another wave of helicopters passed overhead.

  “Get over here!” Malcolm ordered, to which they obeyed and took positions beside him. Malcolm drew his pistol, Dominic, and waited on the patter of footsteps followed by red-crossed helmets.

  “What’s happening?” one of the soldiers asked.

  “We got a fever.” Malcolm answered.

  “How?” The other trembled.

  “I don’t know!” Malcolm stammered.

  It had been long moments since the call was made and there was still no medic to be seen. The row of units seemed to be empty.

  “Check the coms.” Malcolm demanded. “Find out where they are.”

  It was the moment the sentry nodded and tapped his earpiece that a reverberation of automatic rifles echoed in the distance. With a bead of sweat breaking, Malcolm slowly cranked the hammer of his pistol and looked at the sentries, their names being Privates Norris and Christy. Taking in the two people beside him, Malcolm saw the fear in their eyes as they darted to the sky above.

  Another recoil of gunfire echoed.

  “Norris.” Malcolm calmly stated. “Get in touch with-”

  Suddenly, the shutter in front of them started to bang repeatedly with a bloodcurdling moan winding to a louder pitch. Norris and Christy flinched beside Malcolm as he raised his pistol to the shutter.

  Suddenly, the shutter was grabbed with paling fingers; it was flung open and Bannon screamed with ferocity in his blue eyes which now turned grey. As the Berserker took its first step forward, Malcolm fired two rounds which popped blackened blood out the back of its head.

  More automatic gunfire was sounding off from the direction inside the Port Quarantine Zone as an emergency siren immediately erupted from the city, growing to the intensity of a jet.

  The barrack was suddenly springing to life as soldiers began to rush from the Chow area. In haste, Malcolm took several steps backward to see the buildings above the units. A loud boom ruptured an orange glow between the distant complexes.

  A collage of shouts from platoon leaders signaled the hustling of boots. Grunts of every rank were springing for their rifles. A collage officers screamed for every soldier to gather by the fence beside the main road.

  Malcolm looked at Norris and Christy, “On me!” and led them back to his company commanders. As the three of them weaved around scores of clamoring boots and shouts from the entire barrack, more watchtowers were unloading their magazines in the direction of the inner Zone. Malcolm’s mind was racing to navigate through the maze. Soon, Malcolm led them to the opposite side of the Storage Yard, yet there was an estimate of thirty soldiers lined up at the right-side fence.

  When Malcolm looked, he could see groups of Berserkers in civilian clothes clawing at the fence while the platoons free fired at anything that moved. The Dead were running people down as they fled in the open streets.

  The Blood, both black and crimson, was spraying and pooling everywhere Malcolm looked; from the bullets flaying skulls by the fence and the flesh ripping teeth of the Living Dead.

  Malcolm grabbed both soldiers and led them the other direction, but after turned the corner, Malcolm saw a squad of three unloading their magazines into the shutter they fled.

  Suddenly, it came from the unit; a blood-drenched private howled as he tackled one of the squad mates from behind. The other two immediately emptied their magazines into both, even as their friend begged through his mutilation.

  From several shutters ahead, two bullet riddled berserkers came charging. They spotted Malcolm and the other soldiers, roaring as they bolted. Malcolm’s pistol was in hand and the next instant, he fired it through a berserker’s face; it dropped as Norris killed the final one.

  Malcolm took a deep breath. The scene before them was a mess of runners; the Dead were mostly wearing civilian clothing as they targeted soldiers. Malcolm looked at his men and nodded before they sprint directly through the chaos.

  A soldier running the other direction knocked into and fell atop a berserker; the subsequent envelopment was gnawing his eyes out. Two squad members pulled a friend being mangled at the legs into their shutter; as a third soldier stepped forward to shoot their attackers, more came howling into the shutter as booms of sonic jets rumbled in the sky.

  Malcolm found his Company Commanders guarding their shutter; at least a score was huddling inside with their rifles aimed outward.

  “SEAL IT SEAL IT!” Malcolm screamed before anyone could suspect him infected. Both he and the four soldiers he brought nearly rammed into a group as Malcolm skidded to a halt. Everyone scrambled to close the shutter, despite being packed tighter than sardines; they now had only the ceiling light and the ambience of warfare outside.

  As Malcolm gathered his breath, he focused on the piercing sound of aircraft rather than the deep breaths of his people. Malcolm made way to his bunk where he opened his duffle bag, retrieving his wireless com . Every frequency Malcolm heard was garbled yells of panicking checkpoints underscored by gunfire.

  “THIS IS MAJOR NELSON AT THE SOUTH GATE CHECKPOINT! WE ARE BEING OVERRUN! REQUESTING AIR SUPPORT NOW!”

  He switched to the middle of a coordinated sequence of digits being recited. “…Cavalry Regiments are moving into position…”

  “Uh…sir? The zones are swarming. We can’t…”

  “All on the ground are expendable. Weapons Free! Weapons Free!”

  Malcolm nearly dropped his walkie when a dozen propeller blades battered the air outside. “EVERYBODY DOWN!” He screamed, to which everyone obeyed. The subsequent barrage of automatic fire thundered like a storm outside, drowning out the dying screams.