The Vaccine

Chapter 1: The Fortress

Z

Written by
Alan Green

Book I
Z-Vac

Chapter 2
Vaccine

First things first, make sure nobody else is here. He flashes the penlight around the room.

Furnishings are strictly utilitarian. Desk with computer and tattered office chair, research studies stacked on concrete floor, small cot, hotplate, microwave, freezer.

In the only other piece of furniture, a cushioned easy chair, sits a man. Older, thin white hair, wearing a white lab coat, eyes closed. Russell levels the pistol.

'Sorry. The door was unlocked. It's getting dark. I need a place for the night.' No response. 'Cold at night this time of year.' The man doesn't move. Russell takes a step, eyes steady, keeping him pinned with the light. 'I can trade for it. I have goods. Sir? Are you all right?'

It's becoming clear the man isn't asleep, but Russell can't sure yet. He takes another step. If you're sick I can help.' If you're dead there's nothing I can do, Russell thinks as he closes.

'I'm a doctor.' A little white lie couldn't do any harm. Having quit during his third year at Johns Hopkins School of Medicine made it close enough. He was more of a doctor than most people saw in ten years these days. Since the collapse health care consisted of rudimentary first aid, health insurance was hoping you didn't get sick.

Russell stands over the man. On the coat is a name tag: Doc. 'Doc?' He places the muzzle against the man's temple and pushes. The man leans over in the chair coming to a stop on its arm, eyes still closed. Russell leans close. No pulse, cool skin, a fine coat of dust on the face. Dead. No rigor mortis. Fresh, less than twenty-four hours.

On the desk is a kerosene lantern. Russell lights it, turning the wick high. Warm light fills the room, which looks the same fully lit as it did in the penlight's thin beam. No personal effects, no color, no life. Russell holsters the pistol, covers the man with a sheet taken from a cardboard box marked 'Bedding'. 'Sorry, pal.'

A buzzing behind him, he whirls, his hand landing on the butt of the pistol. The freezer has kicked in, its compressor humming. Amused, he goes to it, lifts the lid. Stacks of frozen dinners. Just what he needed. Open carton, poke holes, pop lasagna in microwave, press 'Popcorn' and 'Start'.

He takes a large flashlight off the charging unit and heads out the back door. In the back yard there are two sheds. Inside the larger one are large steel vats topped with piping, valves, and digital thermometers that measure tenths of degrees. Each vat sits atop a heating unit and is connected by shiny steel tubes to canisters of viscous fluid. An electron microscope and two optical scopes on a desk in the corner. Beakers, stacks of Petri dishes, incubators with forced-draft circulation, centrifuge, sterilization devices, saline solution. Freezer full of vacuum packed egg protein. Shelves and drawers stuffed with expected accoutrement: 99% alcohol, tongs, tweezers, clips, swabs, notepads filled with timings and temperatures next to corresponding dates. A vaccine production facility.

He leaves, makes his way across the rocky backyard to the smaller shed, opens the door. A generator purrs, fed air through a snorkel in the ceiling. Flex tubing dispenses exhaust to the outside. Several cans of gasoline. He tops off the tank and leaves. When he closes the door, soundproofing silences the rumble of the genny's engine -- a necessary precaution with infected around.

He peels back wrapping paper, cuts lasagna, still frozen in the middle, into pieces and returns it to the microwave, presses 'Popcorn' again. He was looking forward to eating, but that smell... What's causing it? Can't be the man's body -- too fresh. Russell scans the room. Cages of rats. Test animals, maybe dead a week. He takes the cages out back, covers them with a tarp.

Washes his hands. The microwave beeps. He retrieves dinner. Nice. Booze, your choice. Nice. Whiskey, Gin, Vodka? Scotch will do. Single malt, five years old. Rare these days. Smooth. Nice.

He sits at the desk and digs in. The note on the keyboard reads 'Please play the video'. He chews, sips Scotch. 'I can do that.'

He wiggles the mouse, the screen comes to life. On the computer screen only one icon, a video player. 'Movie time,' he whispers. Click.

The video starts. It's the man in the chair. Blue eyes burn with intelligence, as if he knows a secret. They hold his audience, but his demeanor is sickly. He says:

My name is Walter Timman. I am a scientist. A researcher. Whoever you are, thank you for playing this. Please help yourself to anything you need. I hope my modest home meets your needs. Stay as long as you see fit.

I've been sick for a long time. I expect to die very soon. That's why I'm recording this.

As you may have noticed this is not only a place of shelter it is a research facility. For the last ten years I have worked, away from the distractions of society, or what's left of it, to find a cure for the horrible plague so many millions suffer from. 'Great Plague' as people call it. I am very happy to say that I have found an answer. A vaccine. The average person would call it...a 'Zombie vaccine'. I don't approve of such names, but that's another matter. I have found the Z-Vac.

Timman leans back, something of a showman, to let this sink in.

I hope you're the right person for what I propose. I pray you are. Many travelers today would have no part of it. They're desperate, half-crazed, many of them. They would simply take what they need and move on. I hope you're not that kind. I'm offering you a chance to do something more important and meaningful than most could dream of accomplishing. It won't be easy, but, as a traveler I'm sure you're well acquainted with the vicissitudes of the open road.

He pauses, grins.

Yes, it will be difficult. However, the results of my research must be made known to the scientific community around the world. There is no uplink out here in the desert, so the data must be hand-delivered. I have--

Russell stops the video, slack jawed, drains the Scotch, gets up, pours another. 'No fucking way,' with a chuckle. Back to the desk, hits play.

--conducted extensive lab and animal tests--

There is insert video of Timman administering the vaccine to rats, and a dog, a short-hair mutt.

--but not human tests. Yet. I regret not living long enough to test the vaccine using myself as the first human subject.

Several hundred doses of the vaccine are in the case to your right, on the floor under the desk. Please take it, along with the data next to the computer, to The International Center for Health Studies in San Francisco. To my daughter, Elise Timman.

His eyes fill with pride and regret.

She is the head of the I.R.D. I'm sorry. Acronyms. No way to talk to people. She is the lead geneticist of the Immunology Research Division. Quite a success, my little girl. I'm very proud. I guess you can tell.

Elise. Take my notes and the samples that have been delivered to you and replicate my results. I don't know how many times I told you that as a child... 'The first step in research is to replicate results'. Once you've done that and see that the virus works in animal tests, move on to human testing. Then, if the results are good, start manufacturing the vaccine on a wide scale. Send it out to the world.

He leans close to the camera, fills with emotion.

Elise, I hope this might make up for my not being there when you were growing up. We can't change the past, but perhaps we can put those feelings behind us. As father and daughter we were not close, but as scientists we have been of like mind. I have found the answer. Millions may be saved. Society rebuilt. It will be a new start.

Timman regains a professional bearing, sits upright, looks directly into the camera another moment, then the image goes black.

Inside the case are thirty vials of clear liquid seated in a styrofoam block packed around the edges with dry ice. He reaches through the evaporating carbon dioxide, pulls a vial, eyes it. Could this really be it? Could one researcher have found what the best scientists in the world had failed to find in thirty years? Russell gazes into the liquid. Timman could be a nutcase, or this could be the foundation of a new world. He replaces the vial, closes the lid with a puff of frozen air, snaps the metal clasps.

Leaning back in the chair, he looks at Dr. Timman's body. 'Doc', he says raising his glass, 'I accept your proposition.' He drains the Scotch, eying the old man.

He drags himself out of the chair, gets another drink, peruses the collection of audio tapes on the shelf. Old cassette-type. Mostly rock from the 1970s. Probably when Timman was a young stud, if that was ever the case. Russell selects a promising tape, puts it in the old machine, presses 'Play'. Beast of Burden, The Rolling Stones. Nice.

Russell lays on the cot, finishes the drink, listens to the music. That was a great group. The Stones. He wishes he could have seen them in concert.

Timman in the easy chair, draped with a sheet. The lantern's light warm and low. The music droning. The warmth, booze, and food relax him. He closes his eyes.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Marie LaBeque had wanted to be a neurologist since she was twelve. That was when her sister Becky, four years younger, was diagnosed with Acquired Epileptiform Aphasia, also known as Landau-Kleffner Syndrome.

Becky started having trouble saying certain words when she was seven. Lots of kids, mouth full of new teeth, have trouble saying big words. Nothing was thought of it. At her eighth birthday party she had quite a bit of trouble. A couple times kids laughed. It was attributed to the excitement and gobs of sugary cake and ice cream. Barely noticed. After the party, when everyone had gone, Becky went to her mom, crying.

'What's wrong,' mom asked. Becky's face puckered, she points to her mouth. Alarmed, mom asks her to open her mouth. Indignant, Becky pushes her away, making a strange noise. 'What is it!' mom demands. 'Honey!' she yells for dad. 'Becky, tell me what's wrong.'

Becky could only point at her mouth, eyes red and swollen from a private bout of crying. Dad comes in, terrified at once. 'What is it!' Mom shushes him. 'Honey, calm down. You have to tell us what happened,' she urged.

Becky opens her mouth, issuing a garbled mewling. Dad kneels. 'Are you choking?' Becky shakes her head. 'Did you bite something? Hurt your teeth?' She shakes her head. 'Honey, please. Calm down and tell us what happened.'

With visible effort Becky speaks three sounds that are incomprehensible. Mom and dad exchange frightened looks. Becky tries again, one word at a time. 'Aaay! C-c-c-caahnt! T-ta-uulk!' she manages before succumbing to panicked sobs.

For the next three weeks Marie sat in waiting areas of various specialists, flipping through magazines, glancing at doctors and nurses who passed. She admired them. Their bearing, economy of movement, sober aware expressions. They looked competent even when doing mundane things. She was thankful they were trying to help Becky.

At the conference the doctor told Marie and her family Landau-Kleffner responded in varying degrees to treatment. Some children recovered much of their ability to speak, others did not.  Becky and mom and dad listened intently but Marie could not take anymore. Her eyes wandered to the diplomas and certificates on the wall. She felt helpless. What could she do?

The next day Marie and Becky went to the library. Marie said she was going to learn as much as she could about Becky's problem. Together they would find a cure. They checked out all the books they could find that might help. Anatomy, great doctors in history, a book about Marie Curie, which both Becky and her sister liked for the physicist's first name.

Back home Marie poured over the material. Becky pretended to be interested for a couple hours to be polite then went off to play. Marie read them all front to back. They were woefully inadequate. Too basic. She asked her parents where she could find books that dealt with medicine from a scientific perspective. They told her she was just a little girl, she shouldn't worry about such matters. Let the doctors worry about it. They were trained professionals. They'll cure Becky. 'I'm going to be a doctor,' Marie replied. 'There is no cure for Acquired Epileptiform Aphasia,' she told them with the bearing of a trial lawyer. 'So being a trained professional has nothing to do with it. What's needed is a treatment. I'm going to find one. I need proper materials to study if I'm going to do that.' Mom and dad stare at her, slack-jawed. They referred her to Johns Hopkins. She wouldn't be able to check out books, they told her, since she wasn't a student, but it was an excellent resource. The school was one of the most respected in the country, they assured her. 'Let's go,' Marie said. Now? Now.

They took her to the Welch Medical Library of Johns Hopkins University School of Medicine. A ten-minute drive. A librarian located a few books that might help. Mom and dad left Marie in a study area, agreeing to pick her up in a couple hours.

It was summer. School was out. Marie canceled tennis and violin lessons so she could spend more time studying. Her parents objected. Those lessons were important. For her future. 'This is what I'm doing. This is my future. I'm not going to be a tennis star or concert violinist. I'm going to be a neurologist and genetic researcher,' came the reply. 'I'm going to find a treatment for Becky's condition.' They didn't argue.

Marie's favorite study carrel was in a corner next to a window on the third floor. She liked the spot because there was a giant oak tree just outside. In the afternoon sunlight would pour through the window and she would take a break for a few minutes and watch squirrels scamper and birds come and go, then go back to reading.

At first, every sentence was an obstacle. Most of Marie's time was spent looking up words. Ten, twenty a day. She became frustrated when she realized she was looking up words more than once. She wrote down definitions, looking up words contained therein which she didn't know.

She made flash-cards with technical terms on one side, the definitions on the other. She reviewed them incessantly. On the way home in the car, at dinner, while the family watched TV, while brushing her teeth. One day mom glanced over at a stop light, thinks the dedication is adorable, cute. 'What did you learn today?' she asks with a sing-song voice. 'Viral binding between capsid proteins. Vulnerable receptor sites on cellular surfaces,' Marie answers flatly, without looking up from the cards. A honk from behind jolts mom from a stupor. The light is green. She takes a deep breath, drives.

Marie became known as 'The Library Girl'. Staff brought her medical journals and research bulletins that had been digitized into the library's collection and would be discarded otherwise. Marie took them home, read them cover to cover.

Her parents waited for it to pass. Weeks of reading became months of research. She was on a mission. It was her calling. It was no passing mood.

A couple years went by. Marie was perhaps the only teenage girl in the world with a comprehensive neurological library in her room. Becky's condition worsened until she could not thank Marie with words anymore, so she simply hugged her every night before going to bed. Marie kissed Becky and her Teddy bear goodnight.

When Marie was sixteen she took the GED, returning a perfect score, which allowed her to start pre-med at Johns Hopkins the next semester, where as was usual, she returned perfect grades. She enrolled as a regular student the next year with enough advanced placement credits to get her out most of the fundamental classes.

Her study habits did not change. She read constantly, making notes and following up on them. She reviewed clinical studies, sometimes contacting doctors and researchers who conducted them to ask about specific results.

She studied at her seat in the few minutes before class, on the bus, while eating.

That was how Russell first saw her. In the cafeteria, eating a soupy spaghetti while reading an obscure article in the Journal of Cellular and Molecular Medicine. She lifted a forkful of pasta, all the spaghetti spooled off, she didn't notice until she put the empty fork in her mouth, her eyes following the text of the journal. She retwirled the fork mindlessly, while reading, getting nothing to stick to the tines for maybe a minute before committing her full attention to having lunch. To Russell, she was too cute.

He finally asked her out. A movie on a Friday night. The pull between them was palpable. They stood too close. Their fingers touched over shared popcorn seemingly of their own accord. Slippery butter. The first kiss came while walking from the theater. They were waiting for the light to change. Nobody was around so she slipped her arm through his. He turned, and without the usual awkwardness, they kissed.

After a few dates he spent the night. The bonding was emotional. Intense.

She had the larger apartment so he spent most evenings there. Sauntering conversation wove its way through lingering dinners. Dishes were left for the morning. Evenings spent on the couch or in bed. Within months they realized they were to be together always. For the rest of their lives. Less than a year after meeting Marie, Russell proposed. She accepted and they moved in at the start of the next quarter.

It was the happiest Russell had ever been. They clicked without working at it. Neither had shared a space with even a roommate, let alone lived with a lover. It added a sense of adventure. Newness.

At night they studied, she more than him. She had better grades, but, as Russell was fond of pointing out, she wanted to be a researcher while he was going into practice. She needed excellent grades, he needed good grades. They cuddled on the couch. The TV on, but not watched. Then to bed and the slow burn of passion that filled waking moments, sleeping moments spent in each other's arms. Russell would get up first, well before dawn, cook breakfast. Marie studied while eating, he caught up on news.

Nights, she volunteered at the medical center. She is working there now. Helping an infected patient into bed. He is advanced, mentally addled, one of the violent ones, usually handled with help, but nobody told Marie. She isn't even wearing a mask. She puts her hand on his shoulder, his face contorts with rage and he spits, hitting the center of the face. She reels, he advances, she holds him back. He bites her arm. She screams, pushing him away, cradling her arm. He falls, hitting his head on the bed frame, sits there staring, already having forgotten the event. The Charge Nurse arrives first, applying a gauze to the wound.

Russell stands there, does nothing. It's the same every time.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

He wakes with a gasp. Dark. The lantern very low. Silence. Then a click. He jumps. The cassette player auto-reverses. 'Hotel California' by The Eagles. Russell catches his breath, shaken by the nightmare and amused by the music. He was, after all, staying in a hotel of sorts. In the middle of the desert. Under the music, though, is another sound. Something on the tape? The technology was ancient. The equipment probably out of adjustment. An acoustic rumble maybe. No. A growl. He is sure. His eyes widen, hand falls to the pistol on the pillow. Another growl. An infected animal? This time he is able to place it. From under his head. He scrambles to his feet, whirls, levels the automatic at the bed.

His jacket is draped over the back of the chair. He reaches, eyes on the bed, gets the penlight, clicks it on. Squats, pistol held low, parallel to the floor, flashlight aligned with the barrel. A short-haired mutt, curled in the corner, eyes wide, teeth bared, voice defiant. The one from Timman's video, survivor of vaccine animal tests.

'Hey boy,' Russell's index finger slides down the side of the weapon coming to rest lightly on the trigger. The dog growls bravely, defending its territory, but it's clear he's scared, probably starving. The thing is, infected animals snarl the same way. Just shoot it. Something in the dog's eyes stops him.

'Hungry, pal?'

Russell moves to the desk, staying low, eyes on the dog. Switching the pistol to his left hand, penlight to his mouth, he feels the top of the desk finding the lantern, and turns the wick up. The room brightens. He feels the top of the desk for the left-over lasagna, putting his fingers right in the pasta. He juggles gun, light, and plate of pasta.

'Here you go boy,' he says offering the dog the food, pushing the plate on the floor to the edge of the bed. The dog stares at Russell.

'Come on, pal. Don't make me come in there after you,' smooching to the dog. He moves back, still squatting, and waits. 'I know it's not much, but you're starving. Gimme a break.' He bends to see the dog. 'Buddy?'

The dog licks his chops and whimpers. 'Come on.' Russell coaxes, fingers tapping the floor. The dog crawls out, stands next to the food, eyes the man. You could always tell an infected animal by the way it ate. Slow and mindless, without enjoyment. The dog looks at the food, then at Russell. 'Go ahead, buddy,' his finger sliding inside the trigger housing again. The dog nibbles, slow at first, then with enthusiasm, eyes flashing guilt and gratitude. Not infected. Russell smiles, holsters the forty-five. 'Guess you're not sick.'

He gets a bowl of water, puts more food in the microwave. Beef teriyaki ought to do the trick.

He holds out his hand, the mutt sniffs, then licks it. It's one part Russell Terrier, two or three parts anybody's guess. Pure bred dogs didn't exist anymore except as an extravagance for the extremely rich. 'You're part Russell, aren't you? My name is Russell,' he makes a big deal of the silly coincidence. 'You're a Russell, I'm a Russell.' The dog stares at him warily.

Minutes later they're both eating beef swimming in caramelized soy sauce with veggies over chalky rice, but now the dog isn't eying the man. 'They're going to want to have a look at you, buddy. Hope you like having blood drawn. You're a first.' He looks at Timman, under the sheet in the easy chair. 'Nice work.'

Pale gray light in the window. The tape auto-reverses again. Russell takes a shower, then goes out to the back to dig a grave. With a shovel from the genny shack, he digs through a couple inches of pebbles and rocks before hitting bigger rocks. A few feet away warning signs indicate mine locations. One has tipped over. He decides not to try another spot, goes back inside.

He packs for the road, loading supplies onto a wheeled lab cart. Looks at Timman under the sheet. 'Sorry, buddy. Too rocky to bury you. Not to mention the mines. It's winter. At this altitude you'll just dry out. Smell won't be too bad,' he says stacking frozen dinners in dry ice. He brings two gas cans from the genny shack, puts them in the lower shelf of the cart. Takes liquor, some for drinking, most for barter. Frozen loose tobacco, bottles of drinking water, a can of motor oil, a battery powered drill, nuts and bolts, a small flat piece of plexiglass shelving from the lab, a roll of tape, tweezers, four rolls of gauze, scissors, alcohol, the old man's razors, toothpaste and brushes. He pockets the data disks next to the computer.

'I'll be right back dog.' He pushes the cart out closing the door behind him, zigs and zags his way down the walkway to the trail, parks the cart then goes back into the house. 'Okay. Let's go.' He picks the dog up, cradles him under one arm. Sees the Scotch. 'Almost forgot this,' he says grabbing the bottle. 'Say goodbye to your old home.' Russell leaves without closing the door, sets the dog down next to the cart.

As soon as the his feet hit the ground the dog runs into the house. Russell yells, 'No!' Too late, the dog is almost on the walkway. Russell dives behind the cart, hands over head. The bottle of Scotch sails through the air, lands in soft sand with a puff of dust. Nothing. He peeks. The dog navigates the zig-zags perfectly, without touching a tripwire, trots into the house. 'God damn it,' he whispers.

'Dog!' He gets up, brushing dust off himself, goes into the house.

The dog is sitting at Timman's feet looking back and forth between his former and current owners. 'He's gone, pal.' Russell goes over, picks the dog up. He pulls the sheet back from Timman's face. 'See?' Russell pauses. 'Dog?' He puts the dog close to the dead man's face. It sniffs then licks. 'Dead, buddy' Russell says. He looks for signs of comprehension from the animal. Silly thing to do. 'Dog?'

'You need a name.' Russell takes the name tag off Timman's lab coat, goes to the chest of drawers, finds a red bandanna, ties it around the dog's neck, pins the tag to the bandanna. 'There. You're Doc now.' They exchange looks. 'Doc the dog. Okay? That's you.' He sets the dog down. Doc mouths the bandanna then accepts its presence, looking up at Russell for approval. 'Good boy, Doc.'

Russell goes to the door, looks back. 'You're going to have to make a decision.' He waits. 'Coming?' Doc looks at the dead man then trots to Russell. They leave, Russell closes the door. Down the zig-zag walkway, Russell watching Doc's every step. The dog makes each turn perfectly, though his tail brushes a wire once, stopping Russell's breath. They get to the trail, Russell loops a leash through the bandanna, tying Doc to the cart. 'Wait here,' with a pat to the head.

After all these decades Claymore mines were still the most effective anti-personnel weapon. Front Toward Enemy was the terribly direct instruction. Times called for specialized skills and Russell had learned how to handle the 'People Poppers' as they were called. He disconnects wires and battery packs from triggers and collects his new, now inert, perimeter guards, wraps each and packs them.

He picks up the Scotch, stows it. Unclips the leash from Doc's bandanna. 'Come on,' he says, rolling the unsteady load down the trail. Doc takes a last look at the corrugated house then follows Russell.

He needed to fashion a riding area for Doc. A converted saddlebag was the only answer. Russell had seen ones that were commercially made. They consisted of modified saddlebags with a windshield and hard cover or netting to make sure the dog or cat or whatever didn't blow away at highway speeds. With the battery operated drill, Russell makes holes in the front of the left side saddlebag, bolts the plexiglass shelving on forming a workable windshield. He removes the plastic lid, lines the bottom with a blanket, and affixes heavy netting over the top, leaving a few inches space at the front so the dog could pop his head up and have a look around.

He transfers supplies from the cart to the bike. It's rigged to carry extra supplies over long hauls. There's plenty room, the load fairly secure, but he figures it might be best to stay under eighty for a while. Russell tops off the gas tank. He places Doc inside his new jump seat. The dog sniffs around and settles quietly. 'Enjoy the ride. Don't jump out.'

Russell puts sunglasses on, starts the Gold Wing, takes the road gently, slowly accelerates. Doc sticks his head up sniffing something in the desert and barks, tongue flopping in the wind, smiling ear to ear. Russell works through the gears, popping into fifth and settling down on a comfortable seventy-five.

The morning sun warm on their backs, Russell and Doc head west.

Chapter 3 will be posted soon