"Easy, easy does it." Replacing his commander's voice came a tone far more fatherly. She wondered how he could maintain his sanity enough to worry about hers.
"Stop for a second and take a breath."
She did, but not until a dozen steps clear of the bodies. Stacy leaned against a banyan tree. Even though it had been hours since she had devoured a sandwich in the cargo hold of the C-17, the contents of her stomach threatened to heave.
While Stacy struggled to maintain control of her lungs and her gut, Wells took a knee and dealt with the layers of sweat that had slipped under his goggles and stung his eyes.
Once her stomach calmed, Stacy craned her neck back and drank in as much of the heavy, humid air as her body allowed, first in fast gulps, then slower, then in a deep inhale. She shut down her thoughts about what had just happened and concentrated on little things, like the sound of insects chirping and the flutter of a very soft breeze through the branches overhead.
"Take a drink," Gant said, offering her a small water pouch.
She accepted the package, ripped it open, and gulped down about four ounces of water.
Gant pulled off his night vision goggles and shared the tree with her, leaning alongside. To her eye, he appeared unfazed by what they had just endured.
"How can you remain so calm?"
He took a moment and then answered, "I am not calm. To be honest, my entire body feels like a bowl of Jell-O, I've got about a gallon of perspiration rolling down my back, and I realized I have not spoken with my brother in months and I would hate to die without seeing him and his kids at least one more time."
Wells broke in from his kneeling position with a gloved hand still trying to work sweat from his eyes, "Personally speaking, I think I need to change my underwear after that one."
Stacy told Gant, "You don't look it. You look completely in control, as if this type of thing happens all the time."
"I have to appear in control. I am the officer in charge. It is part of the job description. As for this type of thing, it most certainly does not happen all the time. I can assure you, Dr. Stacy, we run up against our share of unusual situations. The type of thing that could drive a person a little crazy if he were to think about it. But this was a rather extreme case."
"Okay, so, what's your secret?"
"I try not to think about it. I let the training take over and keep my attention focused on immediate concerns."
"So it doesn't bother you that there are walking dead — zombies — on this island?"
"That is the secret," he answered. "Do not think of them as zombies or walking dead. Think of them only as a hostile force. Focus on the best technique to stop that hostile force, and then search for the reason behind their presence on this island. That is our mission."
"Excuse me, Major," Wells said, standing after finally clearing his eyes, "but it kind of looked to me like there wasn't any way of stopping this particular force."
"Something did," Gant said, pointing at the ring of motionless cadavers.
Stacy perked up.
"Damn, I almost forgot. Come on."
She returned to the spot where they had first observed the bungalow, found the blue and black enhanced chemical agent monitor, and waved it through the air.
"Okay, okay, there's something here now," she said as she walked around the rim of the tall grass. A casualness returned to her demeanor as she tried to take Gant's advice. Instead of thinking about walking dead bodies with pasty white eyes, she focused on finding answers.
"What do you mean, 'something'?" Gant asked.
"There's an agent in the air. A chemical agent. The ECAM can't peg it but there's definitely something in the air. All around us. Some kind of complex chemical compound."
"Oh shit." Wells searched around for his gas mask before realizing he had left it in the bungalow.
"If it were lethal to us we'd be dead by now," Stacy told him dryly. "Whatever it is—"
"Whatever it is," Gant finished for her, "it is knocking these things over. Not us. And if I were to guess how that chemical agent got here …"
"The plane? Yeah, well, remind me to thank whoever was flying that bird," Wells said.
"Thank them?" Gant repeated and approached Wells. He stuck a finger in the soldier's chest. "Now I may not have multiple PhD's like Dr. Stacy here, but I have it in my mind that whoever knew the right cocktail to knock these things over is probably the same person responsible for them being here in the first place."
Wells followed his line of thinking. His eyes widened and he nodded.
"You don't know that," Stacy said. "We don't have enough information to know that," she continued, finally taking her eyes away from the scanner.
"Yes, you are right," the major agreed. "We do not have enough information. So you and I are heading inland to find some answers. Wells—" he turned to the specialist. "Return to the insertion point and establish satellite communications with theater command. Give them a Sitrep."
"Excuse me," Stacy interrupted, waving a hand and approaching the men. "We need to examine these … these …" she eyed the inanimate bodies, tilted her head, and went on, "… these hostiles. I mean, I don't even know if they are dead. Or if they were alive in the first place."
"Great idea," Gant replied. "We'll just set you up in a laboratory and you can start dissecting them. How does that sound?"
She returned his gaze for a moment, then conceded, "Okay, I didn't exactly pack a laboratory in my gear."
"Well, then, we had better go with my idea. I think we can learn a lot more if we meet whoever was flying that plane. Besides, they might stand up again at any minute and I would prefer not to be here if that happens."
Gant did a quick safety and function check on his M4, then stooped and grabbed his own sack of gear.
"Wait a sec," Stacy said. "There's just the three of us. I vote we get out of here or call for a lot more backup."
Gant turned to Wells and said with a half smile, "And you said she was awake during the briefing."
Jupiter Wells reminded Dr. Stacy, "No backup. No extraction. We're stuck here for a while. All on our own."
"Oh … yeah, I forgot that part."
"Think of it this way," Major Gant led them into the woods. "You are spending some time at one of the world's most exclusive resorts."
"Yeah," Wells said as he split away on his path toward the shoreline. "Problem is, the pool boy is a zombie."
Gant and Stacy rebuked in unison, "Hostile."
The helicopter descended into the center of a circle of spotlights, coming to rest atop a weathered white "H" on pale concrete. It might have been the brightest and loudest activity for hundreds of miles around at that moment on that night.
Before the Seahawk's rotors could even begin to slow, Captain Campion exited the transport and followed a path of much smaller lights away from the helipad. A pair of technicians ignored him and approached the pilot.
As he moved he rolled up the sleeves on his black BDUs; what would seem a small gesture for most was a rather dramatic concession to the heat for the captain; he did not usually show any signs of sweat or make any concessions whatsoever on any front.
A man in an Air Force uniform met him on the stoop of a stucco building.
"Captain Campion? We have General Friez on the link, waiting."
The two men entered the building and passed a vacant reception area. The Air Force lieutenant motioned toward an open office door. Campion stepped in, turned about, and held a hand to the lieutenant's chest, halting his pursuit. Then he shut the office door. the A laptop rested on the desk, but the thickness and number of cables running into the ports hinted at far more sophistication than the typical computer.
Waiting for him on the screen was a flickering video image of a man with a well-groomed mustache, sharp eyes, and the markings of a two-star general.