The Void

CHAPTER 26

At dawn, pilot Luke Vincenzo hosed down the Chinook. He had a bucket of soapy water and he’d give the big bruiser a quick wash before heading home. There was nothing like flying over open countryside to pepper your cockpit window and underbelly with squashed bugs, and even the occasional bird that wasn’t paying attention.

The Chinook helicopter was a hundred foot of craft, so his job was just to get the large stuff off, and as it stood eighteen feet high, he’d wait until he could get a turn with the ladder truck to do the skin on the top.

It was still a big job, but Luke didn’t mind. For one thing, it was eighty degrees so throwing around a bit of water was welcome. And then as far as he was concerned it was like washing and tending to your horse — you kept your steed in shape, and it kept you alive when you needed it. Same went for your helo.

Hose and wash, hose and wash, and paying extra attention to any lumpy gunk he could see. The capture pole he’d used to grab Alex Hunter’s sample had been retracted, but the fork was just visible and it had some sludge stuck there that he washed and then rubbed with his cloth.

Ouch. Damned thing was sharp and pierced his rubber glove, scratching the back of his hand. He looked at it briefly, judged it minor, and ignored it, continuing with the wash.

It was still early morning when Luke flopped down in his chair, then groaned and lifted himself to remove a red rubber bone and toss it to Scruff, the overfed beagle, who caught it and scurried away, heading for the backyard in a blur of legs and whipping tail.

His head had started throbbing an hour back and he had a taste in his mouth that was like pure shit.

“How was the trip?” Jenny leaned around the living room door and smiled. The twinkle in her eye never failed to make him smile — it was love, and she still made his heart leap to this day.

“Fine, weird. You know I can’t talk about it, but the job was not something I’d want to try and do every day.” He lifted an eyebrow.

“That’s why they wanted you; you’re the best,” she said and crinkled her nose. “Hey handsome, coffee?”

“Yes, please. I love you.” He grinned.

She came and leaned close to him. “You love me or coffee?”

“You and coffee, in that order.”

“Yeah, I get that.” She laughed and bent forward to kiss him, but stopped. She waved a hand in front of her face. “Wow, Lukie, I’m not kissing you until you brush your teeth. What have you been eating?” She pulled back, holding her nose, and then headed to the kitchen.

Luke leaned his head back, hoping to ease the throb behind his eyes. He could hear kids yelling and laughing outside, and each decibel was like a dagger in his brain. The suburb was usually quiet this time of day; and as the entire town was only a little over six square miles comprising 23,000 people or so, spread out in pretty cottage housing, it usually remained quiet for at least another hour. He sighed.

“Moooooomeeeey.” The long drawn-out complaint was from Angelina, holding the body of a doll in one hand, and its head in another. “Her head keeps coming off.” She spotted Luke and held it out as evidence.

“Daaaadeeee, see?”

“Let me have a look?” He sat forward, frowning from his headache, and holding out his hand. The little girl plonked the doll’s body into his hand first, followed by its head.

“See?”

“Hmm.” He first pretended to try and put the head on the doll’s foot. “Does it go here?” Then over her hand. “There?”

“Daaadeeee.” She wore a scowl like thunder, resisting any and all of his attempts at humor.

“Okay, they were just a few test runs.” He positioned the head on the neck and pushed hard. It popped on. “Ta-daa.” He handed it back. “Good as new.”

Her smile reappeared, and she took the doll, one leg in each hand, her head nodding, but her eyes only on the doll. She went to turn away.

“What do you say?” he tilted his head.

She half turned back. “Thank you, Daddy. I love you.”

“Love you too, honey bunny.” He slumped back into his chair, and blinked. One of his eyes seemed to be a little blurry. And his head still throbbed mercilessly.

The patrol car drove slowly down the tomb-silent street. The late afternoon sunshine was warm, pleasant, and should have drawn car washers, dog walkers, and kids out onto the sidewalk or at least their front lawns.

Today, it was a ghost town.

“Something on we don’t know about?” Police officer Don Murphy turned, reading off the house numbers as they cruised. “Fifty-two, fifty-four, fifty-six… coming up.” They were looking for number sixty-two — the Vincenzo house.

“Yup.” Officer Cleveland Bennings ducked down to look out the windshield at the upper deck of a house — windows open, curtains billowing, but no one there.

“What’s with this guy anyway? How come Mister Suburbia is suddenly so important?” Bennings talked and kept watch for the house.

Murphy shrugged. “Meh. Seems NASA had been trying to contact him following some sort of fire or skirmish out at their labs. They didn’t say whether Mister Luke Vincenzo, a pilot, was a suspect or a witness, only that he needed to be located immediately.”

“A NASA pilot, huh?” Bennings’ brows went up. “Rockets?”

“Nah, helicopters I think, and he doesn’t work for NASA. But we’re only to find the guy. NASA will do the rest. In fact, the chief says we’re only to locate him and call it in. Then NASA will send one of their own medivac vans.”

“They have their own private medical vans?”

“Guess so. Heads up, here we go.” They pulled in at the sidewalk and stopped. Both men got out and Murphy stretched his back and thrust forward a portly stomach.

He looked up. A normal house in a normal street. The only thing a little out of the ordinary was there was some sort of mess on the front lawn — a pile of gray sludge that had a red, rubber dog bone sticking out of it. Oddly, there was a glistening slime trail of flattened grass leading from the front path, as though the mess had somehow slid across the bowling green smooth lawn before coming to a stop.

Murphy and Bennings approached the door, and slowed as they got to the stoop. There was smoke billowing from the door.

“It’s open.” Murphy turned side-on. “We’re only supposed to identify this guy and then call NASA’s Greenbelt labs, right?”

“Yep, Luke Vincenzo, aged thirty-six. Also in residence should be his wife, Jenny, thirty-four, and daughter, Angelina. Not expecting trouble, but…” Bennings also turned side-on and placed one hand on the butt of his gun.

Both men stood either side of the door and peered in. The late afternoon sun was waning and it was dim within the house. The smoke was thick, but didn’t smell like fire. More like compost or body odor.

“Phew, they cooking something in there?” Murphy asked.

“If they are, I’m not eating it.” Bennings rang the bell, and leaned around the frame. “Hello? Maryland PD. Anybody home?”

Murphy reached in and pushed the door. “Jezuz, that stinks. I don’t think that’s something cooking.” He rapped on the doorframe, and raised his voice. “Mister Vincenzo, police.” He waited a few seconds. “Mister Luke Vincenzo, we are entering your premises.” Murphy turned and nodded to his partner, and together they headed in.

Murphy found a light switch and flicked it. The room lit up, and the pair stood in the center of the living room with wrinkled noses. The stench was even more powerful inside — now, like someone had upended the compost pile over an open sewer.

“I can barely breathe,” Murphy said over his shoulder.

“Well, least it doesn’t smell like death,” Bennings added. “Maybe just a broken sewer line.” Bennings headed in a few dozen more feet and then passed the door to another room. He pulled up. “Hey, look.”

Murphy joined him. “What the hell is that shit?”

There was another pile of the greyish mucus-looking matter. This bigger one had what looked like a headless doll sticking from one side.

“Dunno, but it looks freaking disgusting. Maybe that’s where the smell is coming from.” Bennings grimaced and stopped at the bottom of the stairs. “You check out the back, I’ll take a quick look up here.” He took a single step and then heard something shift above them. Both men froze, waiting and staring up at the ceiling.

They stayed watching the ceiling as if their eyes could penetrate the plaster. After another moment, Bennings spoke softly out of the side of his mouth while keeping his eyes on the stairs.

“Hey buddy, why don’t we both have a little look-see up here first, huh?”

“Right with you.” Murphy pulled his revolver, held it in both hands but pointed at the ground.

Together the men headed up the stairs, Bennings taking the lead, Murphy one step behind.

Murphy was on his toes but was glad the steps were new and there were few creaks or complaints from the wood even for someone of his size. He tried to tell himself it was just a suburban house with an average family, but for some reason he wanted to be quieter than he’d ever been in his life. He could feel the hair on his neck rising from fear, and he didn’t know why.

He turned back momentarily to peer over his shoulder. He frowned in confusion. The pile of sludge he had seen in the room they had just passed was now visible in the doorway — was it that close before?

Murphy licked dry lips and swallowed hard in an even dryer throat. Damn it — focus, he demanded of himself. He faced forward to the landing and stepped up. It was hot on the second floor as the heat had risen, and thankfully there weren’t any piles of that creepy shit up here. But unfortunately, the weird spotty smoke was thickest on the upper floor, and now was more like a summer fog. It swirled in and out of the rooms, and stung his nose, throat and eyes.

“Fucking haunted house, man,” Bennings said over his shoulder.

“Happy Halloween,” Murphy retorted and chuckled nervously. He edged toward the first bedroom, Bennings now right on his shoulder. The policemen went in quick.

A woman, arms and legs spread wide, was laid out on the bed, the sheets a glistening red. Even more horrifying was that the cavity of the stomach and chest had been prised open, and the contents of the torso was missing. Murphy could only guess what that meant.

“Oh, my fucking god.” Bennings fell back out the door.

Murphy held his breath and took a couple of shaking steps forward — he didn’t know why, as there was no reason to check for a pulse or even investigate cause of death.

“Mur-Murphy!”

He spun at Bennings’ high and tremulous voice as he felt the man coming up behind him.

But when he turned, he saw it wasn’t Bennings behind him at all, but instead some hulking mottled monstrosity with soulless black eyes that must have been hiding behind the door.

Murphy’s mouth dropped open, and his mind fizzed with indecision and fear. He vaguely heard his partner’s voice.

“No shot, no shot.”

Fuck, I’m in the way. Take it anyway, his mind screamed. Pleeeease.

One large, three-taloned hand came up and then swiped down, scraping deep gouges from his forehead to his groin. He suddenly felt ice cold and something warmly wet plopped at his feet.

He thought he heard his partner scream as he sank to his knees. There was the sound of running feet — away.

Bennings is getting help. He hoped. Nah, running for his life. He knew.

Hammerson paced, his jaw jutting and glaring up at the wall screen as if it was a hated enemy. It showed the Greenbelt, Maryland suburb where the Vincenzo house was located, and the quarantine perimeters that had been erected.

The first was a mile-wide radius around the family house and everything inside that ring was colored red. Then a larger five-mile radius in orange, followed by a final twenty-mile ring, colored brilliant yellow.

Everyone they could find and identify in the red zone had been evacuated and was being held in isolation. Everyone else who refused to identify themselves was regarded as infected, and that went for every man, woman, dog or squirrel still in there. Everything unidentified or hostile was subject to a burn-on-sight order. The plumbing was cut off, and all drains sealed — nothing, not even a goddamn housefly, was getting in or out.

Luckily there was no breeze that evening and the air was heavy. The house and cloud of spore-laden gas was contained and was designated ground zero. Initial confusion as to what to do about the toxic environment was solved by Hammerson in ten seconds — he’d seen what worked in at NASA’s lab-45. He recommended an immediate burn using a volumetric weapon. His order was carried out instantaneously.

From the air, a laser-guided thermobaric device had been deployed. It was at the bottom end of the scale, and usually used on hidden or deeper sites that were only between twenty and fifty feet below ground.

The high-temperature incendiary weapon was ideal against chemical and biological facilities or environments — which was what Hammerson knew they were dealing with now.

Hammerson had watched dispassionately as fifty houses had been vaporized in the 4,000-degree heat it generated. In a thermobaric weapon, the fuel consisted of a monopropellant and energetic particles that detonated similar to TNT while the particles burned in the surrounding air. The result was an intense and irresistible fireball. All that was left was a giant pit of bubbling magma.

Outside the inner-contamination zone, the next rings were a stop and detain quarantine, and atmosphere sniffers had been deployed. If the biological material that had been found free-floating in the house had become airborne, and crossed into the next outer ring, then it to would be classed as a red zone and the ring perimeters would geometrically broaden as appropriate, with the same evacuation, isolation, and burn protocols in place.

So far so good, but the bottom line was they contained it in the first three rings. And if, god forbid, there was a significant breakout, then…

Hammerson didn’t want to think about the then. It was what every military man dreaded — seeing some form of weapon of mass destruction deployed on home soil.

There were over 23,000 people in Greenbelt. From the inner ring, they’d evacuated 900 of a potential 1,200 residents that were on record as living in there. That meant within a few hours, the infection had spread and claimed three hundred souls. Though some of these were brutally killed and cannibalized by things that were once people, but now were about as far from human as was physiologically possible. One of them took seven slugs to the chest before it turned and fled, not being scared off, but only pushed back.

The rest of the missing people seemed to have been turned into piles of sludge. He didn’t know which was worse.

No, fuck it, that’d be worse.

His secure phone lit up with an incoming call. He already knew who it would be. He gritted his teeth as he lifted it.

“Hammerson.”

“Jack.”

Yep — General Marcus Chilton.

“You’ve contained the outbreak?” Chilton’s voice was basement deep.

“We think so, sir. But we have the Airforce on standby… just in case,” he said slowly.

“Bad business.” Chilton sounded tense. “My reports say we’ve got infected civilians being converted into monsters?”

Hammerson cleared his throat. “The first responder, police officer Cleveland Bennings, was infected and converted. We captured him and several others, and euthanized them with chlorine gas. We’re performing autopsies now, and we’ll know more soon, sir. We should just be thankful the shuttle didn’t crash in downtown New York, or it’d be game over,” Hammerson said.

“Small mercies,” Chilton added. “How infectious is it?”

“Bad news is one hundred percent of entities coming into contact with it will be changed in some way,” Hammerson replied.

“There’s good news?” Chilton’s voice lifted.

“The good news is the Orlando came down in a low-temperature, remote geography that has the contagion self-contained… for now.”

“And high-intensity heat totally destroys it?” Chilton asked.

“Yes, sir. Nothing remains.”

“Good, because in just a few hours we lost a good chunk of American neighborhood.” Chilton growled. “This biological contaminant must be eradicated, full stop.” Chilton’s voice rose in timbre. “It takes heat, then we’ll goddamn bring the heat. We need to hit the source.”

“Agreed,” Hammerson said. “We cleanse the Orlando site as soon as our team is out.”

“Jack, I know it’s your people up there.” Chilton sounded weary. “And I know what they were trying to recover — it was my damn order. But frankly, I don’t give a shit about missile-silo data anymore. I know you’ve seen the science team’s extrapolation on what happens if it does get out into a high-density urban area.”

Hammerson closed his eyes. He’d seen the theoretical time line. It was aggressive, and it would all be over in a matter of months — an extinction event for all life on the planet.

“Yes, Jack, I’ve also read the report.” Chilton seemed to growl. “A new form of life would rise from the ashes to rule; a form of life far more monstrous than anything that existed now. Jack, the one advantage, the only advantage, we have right now is time.”

“Sir, we…” Hammerson got to his feet.

Chilton cut across him. “Colonel, I’ve seen the Sabers data, and I know you have too.”

Hammerson looked at his computer screen. It showed the Saber satellite image of the crater top, and how the mist was rising closer to the jagged, rocky brim. There was no getting around it, that atmosphere bubble and its airborne spore-loaded environment were growing geometrically, and soon it would spill out of the mountaintop basin.

Chilton’s voice dropped a few octaves. “While it’s inside that rim it’s containable. But that crater cannot be allowed to spill over. If that shit gets into the global atmosphere, or anywhere that’s warm, then it’ll be the end. You will not let that happen, soldier. Am I clear?”

Jack Hammerson knew he was right. “Yes, sir. Crystal, sir.”

“The wound must be and will be cauterized, Jack. I’ve already authorized a drop. You will coordinate it. In six hours, I want nothing left on that mountaintop but ash. Sorry Colonel; the greater good, you know that.”

“Yes, sir.” Hammerson sat down, his mind already working frantically on options.