"A volcanologist. What if you wanted to blow up a mountain?"
"Cap? Huh? What mountain?"
For a smart guy, Sawicki sometimes played a little dumb. Of course that irritated Campion, particular when he was standing on a stretch of land that felt like one giant hot plate.
Instead of answering, he thrust his finger toward the cone-like mountain that bore the blame for the extreme heat.
"Oh. Geez, I don't know. You mean the whole mountain? I don't know, Cap. I mean, I don't know volcanoes. But back home in West Virginia I've seen the coal companies do something like, well, wait, it was called mountaintop removal mining."
Campion could no longer stand the choking smoke, so he put his mask back on and conceded the loss of clarity of words in exchange for breathing again.
"What does that have to do with this?"
"Dunno, Cap. You asked about blowing up mountains and that's the nearest I can think of. They would drill down into the mountaintop and then blow the shit up. I mean the whole top of the mountain. They'd take out something like a thousand feet of dirt and rock right off the top. When they were done, there really wouldn't be a mountain left."
"And then what? They'd scoop up the coal?"
"Yeah, something like that."
One of the older UH-N1 Iroquois helicopters from the Peleliu flew overhead, causing a pillar of smoke to swirl.
Campion asked, "You think someone could use that technique to crack open the side of a mountain? Maybe a mountain like that one?" he asked, pointed toward the volcano again. "A big enough hole to let all the hot stuff inside come pouring out?"
"Captain," Sawicki answered, "with enough explosives there isn't anything you can't crack open."
Before he could continue the conversation, the Iroquois returned overhead, apparently now interested in picking up the passengers it had let off a few minutes before. As the chopper descended, Campion's radio crackled to life.
"Peleliu actual to Captain Campion."
"This is Campion. Go ahead, sir."
"Recon reports a surface contact two hundred miles southwest of Tioga. Ship is a small freighter with no markings, no flag. Does not respond to hails. I'm supposed to ask you what to do, isn't that right?"
Again Campion regretted the snide tone in the skipper's voice. Still, he had to live with it and the truth was that the Pentagon had given him — an army grunt — authority over a small naval task force. So, yes, the skipper was supposed to ask him what to do.
"Sounds close enough to send a helicopter."
"Target does not seem to be making speed," the Peleliu's commanding officer reported. "We should be able to reach it with a Sea Knight."
"Tell Sergeant Franco to chopper out with a boarding party. If that's the ship Wells saw on this island, then we want to catch it."
Dr. Stacy screamed. She screamed with as much energy as her lungs could muster. She screamed in pure terror. It seemed she would not even be afforded the fighting chance that Costa had received.
"Let me out! Please! I'll tell you anything!"
While she knew that screaming for mercy and agreeing to tell them whatever secrets they might desire was not the most courageous way to meet her fate, she had seen these creatures tear people apart. Annabelle Stacy did not want to feel teeth biting into her flesh or jagged fingernails digging into her belly.
With her arms stretched high above and her feet dangling below, she figured the zombies would go straight for her abdomen, slicing open her guts while she watched and met a slow, agonizing death.
She tried to yell "please" again and to promise full disclosure but those words deteriorated into sobs as the four creatures closed to a few feet. Each of them appeared to be suffering from advanced decomposition, suggesting that they were older cadavers. Cheek bones were exposed, eye sockets were sunken, and the skin was nearly dripping from their limbs. Three wore what appeared to be prison jumpsuits, another the green camouflage of a soldier.
The quartet of creatures closed on the helpless doctor.
Stacy shut her eyes, and memories of her father filled her mind. Dad teaching her to ride a bike. Dad hugging her on gradation day. Sitting on her father's lap and listening to stories from his childhood, from his work, or just casual conversation about the day's headlines.
But no pain came. No claws. No bites.
Dr. Stacy opened her eyes. The zombies milled about the room, one approaching the observation window, another bumping into the wall, a third walking around in circles, and the fourth just standing still, its white eyes staring up at the ceiling.
"Perfect," came Pearl's voice over the microphone, seemingly by accident. "The blocking serum works."
Annabelle's breath came in and out in heaves so deep it felt like her ribs might crack from the compression. The fear did not subside — not with the things still filling the room around her. But as her mental state stepped down from hysterical she managed to piece together a theory.
They injected me with some kind of drug that keeps the zombies from attacking.
Makes sense, she realized. If you're going to launch a biological weapon, it is nice to be able to inoculate your friends.
She had seen Waters's men on the island use chemicals sprayed from canisters to knock out — or possible destroy — the reanimated bodies. Combining that control mechanism with this "blocking serum" would mean one would be able to survive the coming zombie apocalypse with few worries.
Pearl's voice came over the microphone, again either by accident or because she simply did not care if the test subject heard: "I will want to expose her to the newer units infected yesterday afternoon. Give me a few minutes to make the arrangements, then take her over to Specimen Control. Say, in half an hour. Do not bother Dr. Waters with this; I'll inform him shortly."
"Yes, Doctor. Right away."
A few moments later the interior door opened. Two soldiers in hazmat suits led the way, carrying the silver containers that resembled fire extinguishers. The young dark-haired man dressed in a lab coat followed the two from a few steps back.
Of course the infected corpses noticed the newcomers, but the guards seemed unfazed. They soaked the first two creatures with clouds of some kind of aerosol, just as she had witnessed at the health club back at the resort. The zombies retreated as the guards continued to spray. A cloud of dusty white smoke filled the chamber.
"It's your lucky day," the assistant researcher said, but she did not like the way he stared at her; something akin to a wolf sizing up prey.
Still, her first concern was the pain in her wrists. The cuffs had nearly cut off circulation at the same time they had cut into her skin.
"Please, could you let me down? This really hurts."
More spray from the guards' canisters.
"Oh, yeah, you're coming down here, alright," the young man — apparently American — said to her as he reached up and undid her restraints. "Hold still."
With her hands free, Dr. Stacy dropped to the floor, nearly twisting her ankle.
She probably should have considered escape at that moment, but the pain in her wrists, along with a trickle of blood, drew her immediate attention.
"Help!"
The muffled cry came from one of the soldiers. A zombie clawed at his face mask, ignoring the cloud of repellent he furiously sprayed directly into its face.
In response, the second guard moved to assist, but a pair of hands from a skinny guy with dreadlocks grabbed his shoulders.
"Christ! The PX isn't working!"
Despite her fear, despite the quiver still reverberating through her entire body, she saw a window of opportunity.