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  ROTTERS

  By

  Carl R. Cart

  SPORE PRESS LLC

  LITTLE ROCK

  ROTTERS

  Carl R. Cart

  Copyright Carl R. Cart, 2013

  Published by Spore Press

  All rights reserved.

  eISBN:

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  SPORE PRESS LLC

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  PRINTING HISTORY

  Spore Press eBook/ August 2013

  Spore Press Paperback / August 2013

  For information, address: Spore Press Marketing,

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  Spore Press Books are published by Spore Press LLC

  SPORE PRESS and the “Spore” design are trademarks of Spore Press

  Edited by Mark Francis / Cover design by Alan Davidson

  Dedication

  This book is dedicated to Chris. I miss you brother.

  Acknowledgment

  I would like to thank all of my very knowledgeable friends, who contributed a great deal of technical advice during the writing of this book. My thanks to:

  Doctor David West Reynolds, whose enthusiasm inspired me to write a better manuscript.

  Jack A Bobo, a veteran traveler of Africa. Jack provided great insight to a place I have never visited.

  Former US Army Captain and helicopter pilot Matt Bliss.

  Mark Robinson, after whom the character Robinson is based. Mark is a former security specialist.

  Kelly Pitt, who reviewed ROTTERS.

  Doctor John Blatchford, who very generously allowed me to include his excellent articles on virally modified behavior.

  Barrett and Beretta Firearms Corporations, manufacturers of some of the world’s finest firearms.

  Tim Mills, who inspired me with his excellent zombie illustrations.

  Jamey Aebersold, who helped me with formatting and encouragement along the way.

  I would be remiss if I did not also thank my wife Jennifer. Jen is both my biggest fan and my most vocal critic. I guess that comes with the territory. We are cell mates.

  ROTTERS

  PROPERTY OF THE U.S. GOVERNMENT

  REWARD OFFERED FOR THE RETURN OF THIS PROPERTY

  Should this medical journal be found, call the number below immediately or return to the closest agent of the United States Government…

  Prologue

  10:14 p.m. Zulu

  Altitude 300 Meters

  Democratic Republic of Congo

  The Dolphin helicopter flew just over the treetops at top speed. Its turbine engine was close to redline; the rotor’s backwash left a swirling vortex amongst the broad-leafed canopy below. The sun was a faint glow on the far horizon; its last dying rays of light illuminated the aircraft’s windshield.

  The co-pilot spoke English with a French accent into his helmet’s microphone, his voice full of anxiety. “UN flight four to survey team, stand by for extraction. Do you copy ground?”

  The radio spit static, and then a man’s voice could be heard. He seemed close to panic. “What is your ETA flight four? I repeat what is your ETA?”

  The pilot looked at his instruments. “Tell them to hang on; we will be there in two minutes.”

  “ETA less than two minutes. Stand by for extraction. Have you completed quarantine procedure?” the co-pilot replied.

  “We cannot hold! You have to hurry!” came the broken reply.

  Gunfire could plainly be heard in the background of the radio transmission.

  “Please light flares and give us a safe landing perimeter,” instructed the co-pilot. “Do you copy, ground?” There was no reply this time, only static.

  The co-pilot looked at the pilot. “Faster Francis; we must reach them in time.”

  “The engine is redlined!” countered the pilot. “If I increase our speed one more knot they will have to send a rescue unit for us. I, for one, do not want to be on the ground! Get ready, Jean!” he shouted to the crew chief in the cargo bay behind him.

  A deafening rush of air filled the cabin as the side door was thrown open. The pilot pulled back slightly on the cyclic and slowed the helicopter. The helicopter dropped even lower and slowed to hover over a small clearing in the trees below.

  “We should be over them now!” the pilot shouted.

  All three men looked down into the impenetrable darkness below them.

  “There are no flares,” the co-pilot cursed. “This is four to ground, do you copy? We should be right over your position. Can you see us?” There was no reply.

  “Light a flare, damn it!” the co-pilot cursed into his microphone.

  “Stand by,” the pilot commanded. “I’m turning on the landing lights.” He flipped a switch on the aircraft’s console, and the jungle lit up beneath them.

  “Merde,” the pilot breathed.

  The three men stared in disbelief at the scene below. A writhing mass of humanity completely filled the clearing.

  “Mon Dieu, get us out of here, Francis!” the co-pilot shouted.

  The pilot slowly turned the aircraft, craning his head to search for any sign of survivors.

  “Francis, they’re all dead!” the co-pilot screamed hysterically.

  “Do you see any survivors Jean?” the pilot shouted over his shoulder to the crew chief.

  “What’s wrong with them?” the crew chief bellowed.

  “They’re all dead!” the co-pilot repeated brokenly.

  “I know!” the pilot barked back. He spoke into his microphone. “This is flight four to base. The medical survey team did not survive. I repeat; we have not extracted the ground team.”

  A voice replied through the radio. “Repeat flight four. Did you say the ground team did not survive?”

  “Affirmative,” the pilot answered calmly. “The ground team is lost.”

  There was silence, and then the voice replied again. “Abort mission. Return to base, flight four.”

  The pilot calmly reached up and switched off the landing lights. Darkness reclaimed the jungle below. Slowly he throttled the engine and pushed the cyclic forward. The helicopter banked away from the jungle and flew into the night.

  Chapter 1

  2:36 a.m. Standard

  ProGen Corporation

  Franklin, Tennessee

  I rubbed my eyes and drank the last of my coffee. It had been cold for hours. The research level of ProGen Corporation was three-floors underground, and cold as a tomb. It was a tomb in a sense, because the research performed there involved dead tissues.

  I signed my name, Peter Barry, to the report I had just finished and shut down the computer. Then I copied my notes into a medical journal, and closed that too. I didn’t really trust computers, or any electronic media to permanently record my research, so I kept journals. Good old ink and paper.

  I worked odd hours, but I did odd work. I specialized in the study of necrotic tissues, the mortal remains of things now dead. I was one of a very few necrologists who worked in the United States, and was deemed to be one of the best researchers in my field.

  A considerable
amount of my work involved forensics. I did that labor grudgingly, but it paid the bills.

  My true work at ProGen involved the cellular mechanics of death itself. By truly understanding the processes of death and cellular decay, I hoped to someday learn how to stop those processes completely.

  I was searching for Ponce De Leon’s fountain of youth. Most people thought I was nuts. Everyone considered me strange, and perhaps the nature of my work had made me that way. My co-workers often called me Scary Barry.

  I was a dedicated bachelor, and had no close friends. I didn’t wear a wristwatch, or even own a working clock. I came and went at ProGen as I pleased. I could do most of my regular work-load in a day or two each week, and often stayed away from the lab for long periods of time. Most of my co-workers despised me. I considered it petty jealousy.

  I liked to sleep late. I loved professional basketball. The Celtics were my team. I liked to watch old horror movies and read books. I had always been brilliant, and it made me lazy. I had my research, didn’t need much else. The things that motivated most people bored me. As a medical researcher I made more money than I really needed. Life was good.

  I stretched, shuffled through the lab and out to the elevator. I pushed the button for the ground floor. As I made my way through the main lab towards the lobby one of my co-workers, Bob Roberts, stopped me.

  “You had a phone call, earlier,” he laughed.

  “What’s so funny?” I asked.

  “They asked for Dr. Barry,” he replied. It was a running joke at ProGen that I had never finished my dissertation and gotten my doctorate. I considered it unnecessary.

  Bob handed me a number scribbled on a Post-it note. “They said it was urgent,” he added.

  “Thanks for being so prompt.” I growled.

  “You’re welcome, Doctor.” he shot back.

  I didn’t recognize the number, but then again not many people called me. I pulled out my cell phone and dialed it. After several rings a sleepy voice answered on the other end.

  “Peter, is that you?” I vaguely recognized the voice. “It’s David. Do you know what time it is?”

  “Yea, it’s late,” I replied. “They said it was urgent. What’s wrong?” I asked. David and I had done research together in grad school.

  “The government contacted me,” he stated. “They wanted me for some project they have going on. I passed on it, but I suggested you.”

  “Me?” I uttered. “Why did you suggest me?”

  “They want a necrologist.” David replied. “Whatever is going on, it’s pretty important. I told them you were the best man for the job.”

  “I’m not interested,” I said flatly.

  “Hold on, Pete,” David retorted. “I think you should contact them. I can’t talk about this on the phone, but you will be interested. If you play your cards right you could get your doctorate out of this. It’s pretty important.”

  I didn’t answer for a few seconds. “Peter, are you still there?” David asked.

  “Yea, I’m still here,” I replied. “Give me the number.”

  I was starving so I stopped in an all-night diner and ordered breakfast. As I ate I thought about what David had told me. Finally, my curiosity got the better of me so I dialed the number he had given me.

  A female voice answered almost immediately. “Hold on Dr. Barry, I am putting you through to Colonel Goldman now.”

  After two rings a man’s voice spoke into the phone. “Dr. Barry, thank you for calling. I am Col. Goldman, the officer in charge.”

  “What’s this all about?” I asked.

  “I am arranging a private flight to pick you up at Clark Airfield. That’s about twenty minutes from Franklin. Are you familiar with the location?” he asked.

  “Yes, I know where Clark is,” I replied.

  “If you will proceed there immediately you can be in Washington by six, and make the morning briefing,” the colonel concluded.

  I didn’t reply for a moment. “You want me to just jump on a plane and come to a briefing in Washington?” I asked dubiously.

  “Yes, Dr. Barry. We will have cleared this with your employer by the time you arrive. This is a matter of national security.”

  “What’s all of this about?” I probed.

  “I am not at liberty to discuss this further,” the colonel replied. “All of your concerns will be addressed in the briefing. Please proceed to Clark,” he concluded. The call ended.

  I didn’t like being pushed around. But I was very curious. I reminded myself that curiosity had killed the cat.

  I paid my tab, and walked out to my car. I got in and turned the key in the ignition. For a moment I sat and let the engine idle. I was tired and I really just wanted to go home and crawl into bed. Finally, I put the car into drive and turned onto the highway that led to Clark.

  There was almost no traffic on the road, and I made it to the airfield in fifteen minutes. I pulled up to the security gate and stopped. The guard checked my driver’s license, then directed me to a hanger nearby.

  As I parked my car, a small private jet taxied up to the hanger. The ground crew pushed a ladder up and the plane’s door opened. I grabbed my jacket and my medical journal, got out of my car and locked it. I walked over to the hanger’s front door, uncertain what to do.

  An Air Force officer climbed down the stairs and walked directly over to me. He held out his hand and introduced himself. “I’m Major Smith,” he said, “If you will come with me.”

  “What about my car?” I asked.

  “It’s fine right there,” he replied.

  He led me onto the plane, and directed me to one of the four seats in the rear. He spoke to the pilot and then joined me.

  “Coffee?” he inquired.

  “Yes, please,” I replied.

  The major went forward and poured each of us a cup. He handed me mine, and then strapped himself into his seat. The plane taxied onto the runway and took off.

  I steadied my cup until the plane’s wheels left the runway and we began to climb.

  The major looked at me and smiled. “You must have a few questions,” he suggested.

  “Yes,” I replied. “But somehow I don’t think you are going to answer any of them.”

  “You’re pretty sharp,” he quipped back. “If I can just count on your patience for another hour or so, we’ll be at the briefing, and then you will know as much as I do.”

  The flight was extremely brief, yet I found myself dozing off. The air conditioning on airplanes always did that to me. We touched down on a military runway. The major and I disembarked from the plane and walked directly to a waiting limousine.

  The sun was just coming up as we pulled onto the Beltway. The traffic was already bad, but the driver got us through to the Pentagon quickly.

  We were cleared through security and entered through a back entrance. As we moved from the outer ring of the Pentagon to the inner-most ring, the security increased exponentially. The major led me through a maze of busy corridors and finally opened an unmarked door for me.

  I entered and looked around. Two Army officers were standing near a table, and a civilian in a business suit was talking on a cell phone nearby.

  Maj. Smith nodded to me. “Good luck, Doctor.” He closed the door behind him.

  “He just arrived,” the suit spoke into his phone. He put it into his pocket and approached me. “Dr. Barry, I am Mr. Carmine. These gentlemen are Generals Jotter and Davidson.” The two officers stepped over and shook hands with me.

  I was just about out of patience. “What’s going on?” I asked.

  “Dr. Barry, you have been brought here to act as a consultant,” Mr. Carmine began. “We have a situation that requires absolute discretion, and I will not be able to give you all the details until such time as you have decided to accept our offer of temporary employment.”

  “You want me to work for you, but I won’t know what the work entails until after I’ve accepted the job?” I asked.

&nb
sp; “This is a matter of national security,” Gen. Jotter injected.

  “You specialize in necrotic research, Barry. You will be very interested in our problem,” Mr. Carmine offered.

  We were all silent for a moment. I didn’t say anything as I considered his words.

  “I’m already involved in the only research that interests me. You need to contact Dr. Vogan,” I suggested.

  “Dr. Vogan is no longer available,” Mr. Carmine replied drily.

  “Well, try Taylor or Heff, then,” I countered.

  “Doctors Taylor and Heff have already declined our offer. There were overriding considerations,” Mr. Carmine explained. “We need you.”

  I frowned. This was sounding fishy. “I’m going to pass also,” I decided.

  “Look Barry,” Gen. Davidson broke in. “Those men have families, children. You’re a bachelor with no dependents. This mission is somewhat dangerous. The others had valid reasons to decline. At least consider our offer.”

  “You haven’t offered me anything yet,” I retorted.

  “I am authorized to certify you with a full PhD accreditation from the school of your choice, if you can solve our problem,” Mr. Carmine stated.

  “I am not going to agree to anything until you give me some basic information. What the hell is going on?” I demanded.

  The generals looked at each other. Mr. Carmine shook his head.

  Finally, Gen. Davidson spoke. “There is a viral outbreak in Central Africa, something entirely new, very dangerous. They have named it the Haet-Mombou virus. We need you to travel there and assess the situation on the ground.”

  “You guys want me to go to Africa, and it’s a viral problem?” I asked incredulously.

  Mr. Carmine was obviously displeased. “There is research that involves your field of expertise. You won’t get any more details until you accept the mission.”