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  THE MORNINGSTAR STRAIN

  A PERMUTED PRESS BOOK

  ISBN: 978-1-61868-649-7

  ISBN (eBook): 978-1-61868-648-0

  Healers:

  A Morningstar Strain Novel

  Z.A. Recht’s Morningstar Strain Book Four

  © 2016 by Brad Munson

  All Rights Reserved

  Cover art by Quincy Alivio

  This book is a work of fiction. People, places, events, and situations are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or historical events, is purely coincidental.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author and publisher.

  Permuted Press, LLC

  permutedpress.com

  Published in the United States of America

  CONTENTS

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Epilogue 1

  Epilogue 2

  About The Author

  Distributed in print, over shortwave, and over all AM, FM, and television channels that continue to function.

  My fellow Americans,

  This is a message from the rightfully elected President of the United States. I come to you from a secure location where the Vice President, most of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, and I have been headquartered since the outbreak, and where we are working tirelessly to restore this nation after the most devastating biological disaster in human history.

  If you remember only one thing from this message, if you pass along only a single sentence, make it this one: We are still here, and we will rise again.

  The world has changed completely in the last twelve months. Since the Morningstar Strain first appeared in Africa in December of 2006 and spread across the world, an estimated 95% of the planet’s population has died or been transformed. Every major city in the world has fallen. Power generation and communication networks around the world have failed. Most divisions of the U.S. Armed Forces have been lost, and though we control a small network of communications satellites, launched commercially before the outbreak, our defense and surveillance satellites, along with a significant amount of ordnance, has been seized by a traitorous and dangerous faction of brutal tyrants whose sole reason for existence is to finish the job that the Morningstar Strain began: the destruction of the world as we know it.

  We will not allow that to happen.

  Though our nation and our world is in great peril, there is good news. Communities are reforming, especially in rural and suburban areas. Military and humanitarian aid units are being recruited, trained, and equipped. We are working daily to end the threat of petty tyrants and take back the resources and technology that is rightfully yours. And most important of all:

  WE HAVE DEVELOPED A VACCINE FOR THE MORNINGSTAR STRAIN.

  I must emphasize: This is not a cure. Those who have been infected with the virus are tragically beyond our reach. But soon, every American, young and old, will have access to a one-time, lifelong vaccine that will guarantee protection from this hideous disease. After the vaccine has been administered, you will not turn. You will not rise. We will put the dead back into their graves. Forever.

  At this moment, the vaccine is being readied for distribution, free of charge, to every living citizen of the U.S. It will be available to all in a matter of months. Simultaneously, we are readying forces to destroy the warlords and traitors who have risen to threaten us all. And we will prevail. You will prevail. We will make the world safe from human threats and end the nightmare of the risen dead. That war has already begun.

  The foolish disagreements, the petty politics, the cynical manipulations that plagued us in the last half of the twentieth century are behind us now. Morningstar has burned away our weaknesses and left us stronger and more ready for the future than we have ever been. Soon, with your help and your prayers, the United States will be truly United once more.

  So spread the word. Watch for more communications and support. Help is on the way. And remember:

  We are still here, and we will rise again.

  God bless you, and God bless the United States of America.

  President of the United States.

  BEGIN INTERCEPT

  (Poor quality; note breakage and inaudibility)

  BASE: STATIC –orce Kappa Felix, this is Base. This is Base.

  KAPPA FELIX: This is Kappa Felix.

  BASE: Status?

  KAPPA FELIX: We are in position. Sentries have been doubled. Skies are clear, visibility is good. Too good.

  BASE: Well, shit.

  KAPPA FELIX: Copy that, Base.

  BASE: Has the convo started yet?

  KAPPA FELIX: About STATIC STATIC STATIC –nk we can attempt Beta test of breaching strategy.

  BASE: Fucking radios. Say again. Kappa Felix. You can attempt Beta test or you cannot?

  KAPPA FELIX: Affirmative, can. Will attempt when convo be— SIGNAL LOST

  BASE: Kappa? KAPPA? Goddamn it, Metzger, why can’t we even get this fucking – SIGNAL LOST

  END INTERCEPT

  CHAPTER ONE

  “This has to be a joke,” Mbutu Ngasy said to the new recruit.

  A sprinter, more than six feet tall and entirely hairless, pushed through a new breach in the outer perimeter fence and ran straight towards them. Spittle flew from its yammering mouth. Muscles twitched and writhed across its torso, shoulders, arms as it charged. Its filthy hands came up, fingers clutching like claws.

  Exactly one year ago, to the day, Mbutu Ngasy had been one of the first humans to see the infected – four of them, actually, stumbling straight out of the jungle. He saw them shot dead ... and soon, he saw them rise again. And now, on that bloody anniversary …

  Now it was happening again.

  It had been sweltering that day, a humid and ugly December morning at the Mombasa Airport. He remembered it vividly: the air was so thick from a morning rain you could almost drink it. And every day since, as Mbutu had made his strange and violent journey across the world, he remembered those first four shamblers stumbling onto the airfield. He remembered the moment that the world changed forever.

  “It never ends,” he muttered. And he told himself: Maybe it never will.

  He unlimbered his M-16 and brought it up with a smooth, practiced movement. He sighted on the sprinter’s wobbling head as it approached. And he waited.

  His companion, a newbie named Chatsworth, made a noise in his throat. “Uh ...”

  Mbutu waited. The sprinter’s face, clearly visible in the cold winter Nebraska sun, was distorted with anger and hunger. It jerked and wobbled through the three-day-old remains of the last snowfall, moaning with the need to kill
and eat. It looks healthy, he thought. Stronger and thicker than the wasted bags of bones that he and the other survivors of Omaha had seen in the last few weeks. Almost ... fresh?

  Still: He waited, studying it through the telescopic sight on his rifle.

  “Hey,” Chatsworth said, sounding truly alarmed now. “Aren’t you going to ...?”

  He was in no hurry. There was still twenty yards and the solid barrier of the second perimeter fence between them. There was something special about this one. Something worth examining.

  Two more of the infected, shamblers this time, had pawed their way through the new opening in the outer perimeter. “You take care of those two,” he told Chatsworth. His words made puffs of vapor in the freezing air. Even though it was past noon, the temperature was barely above thirty degrees. That was the one thing Mbutu missed more about Africa than anything else: The warmth. “You know the drill,” he said. “Get them up against the fence and use your bayonet. Save the ammunition for the sprinters.” He knew they were well-supplied at the moment – the U.S. Government had seen to that – but there was no reason to be wasteful. “Good practice.”

  Chatsworth took a deep breath. “Right,” he said. Mbutu could sense how nervous he was. There was a sheen of sweat on the young blonde’s forehead despite the frigid weather.

  As the young man carefully moved closer to the fence, Mbutu squared up his shot, centered on the sprinter’s naked forehead, and squeezed off a single round. The head exploded like an overripe melon, just as he intended. A gush of dark liquid, too thick and clotted to be human blood, spurted from the top of the skull and speckled the cold air for an instant. Just for a moment, Mbutu mourned the memory of that gentle air traffic controller, the man he had been a scant year ago.

  He was not that man anymore.

  He joined Chatsworth at the fence line as the shamblers approached, keeping an eye on the fence-breach fifty yards behind them. No other sprinters or shamblers had found it yet; he hoped to get to it before any did.

  The first shambler, desiccated and unsteady, stumbled to the fence. Its skin was yellow and pockmarked, so dry and tight that a cheekbone poked through just below its right eye. An old one, Mbutu thought. That’s more like it.

  Chatsworth raised his rifle. Mbutu saw he had already affixed the gleaming M7 bayonet to the underside of its barrel. He could see the slight trembling in the young man’s grip, but he admired how practiced and determined the recruit was. He had learned his training well. Not bad for a twenty-year-old.

  One deep, sure thrust through the diamond-shaped gap in the chain link pierced the infected’s clouded left pupil. The squelching, meaty ripping sound was unmistakable. The shambler dropped in an instant, a puppet without strings, dead for the second and final time.

  The shambler’s partner seemed energized by its sudden disappearance. It had been a female once; half its head was matted with filthy, clotted hair; the other half was scorched to the bone by some long-ago fire that left flaps of skin dangling from the exposed skull. But it still moved with terrible speed, lunging forward, hissing and gnashing its broken teeth.

  Chatsworth adjusted his aim and thrust again. The second shambler collapsed.

  Mbutu was through the double-locked gate and into the No Man’s Land between the second and third perimeter fences almost before the second infected hit the icy ground. Chatsworth, breathing heavily, was only two steps behind. Mbutu could see he was doing his best to keep his bile down.

  They reached the breach in the fence at almost the same instant, eyes roaming, looking for other intruders. They were safe, at least for the moment.

  “Stand watch,” Mbutu ordered. “Let me look at this.”

  He fingered the broken wires of the fence. From a distance, he had assumed rust or a bad weld had made it give way. But up close, he could see the truth: the breaks were clean and sharp; he could actually see fresh metal gleaming on the end-points.

  Someone had cut the barrier. And judging from the angle of the cut, they had cut it from the outside.

  Mbutu punched the recessed button of his shoulder-mounted walkie-talkie with one gloved thumb. “Patrol Three,” he said.

  The command voice answered almost immediately. “Patrol Three, go ahead.”

  “Breach at —” He looked quickly to his left and right and saw the markers wired high up on the fence supports. “—328 and 328. Send a team. We’ll wait.”

  “Contact?”

  “Taken care of,” he said. “Just send the breach team.” He knew they would be there in under three minutes. They were even more highly trained and efficient than the new border patrol recruits like Chatsworth. After all, it was the fence, more than anything else, that was keeping Omaha safe.

  The talkie buzzed. “On their way,” the dispatcher said. “With armed support. You’re authorized to head back as soon as they arrive. The party’s about to start.”

  Mbutu couldn’t help but smile. In the grim excitement of the moment, he’d almost forgotten. “Ah, yes,” he said, and looked again at the dead infected, the hard blue sky, the bright young man with the bloodied rifle. “Happy anniversary.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  General Francis Sherman waited until the tea and juice had been passed out to everyone, the announcements had been made, and the new arrivals had all been introduced. The half-dozen new citizens had arrived almost a week earlier, but it had taken that long to interview, interrogate, and clear them. They represented a bit of a milestone, he knew: their inclusion brought the non-military population of Omaha to almost exactly five hundred. That alone was reason to celebrate.

  He looked high to low, left to right, and surveyed the new Town Hall. Not bad, he thought. They had all been disappointed when they realized the city’s real town hall and convention center were both beyond their reach at the moment, but this converted industrial space in the recently reclaimed North Side was more than adequate. He was particularly, surprisingly, pleased that all the chairs looked the same and all the glassware matched. It was just a small thing, he knew, but it represented another step forward: We’re not all about salvage and mere survival. Not anymore.

  Sherman stood up and raised his glass. Conversation in the room immediately tapered off, then stopped entirely. He was not a huge man physically – a hair under six feet tall and of moderate build – but he carried an air of command that couldn’t be ignored. Even after half a century of leadership, he still stood ramrod-straight and held his shoulders high; his blue eyes were still clear and could pierce an adversary like an edged weapon. His steel-gray hair was close-cropped, as it had always been, and he smiled more easily than one would have imagined. When he stood, all eyes turned to him. They always had.

  “I just wanted to welcome everyone,” he said in a calm, warm voice that didn’t need amplification. “And wish you all Happy Anniversary.”

  Every voice in the room boomed back at him in perfect unison, as if they’d practice a call-and-response: “HAPPY ANNIVERSARY!”

  They all drank together. As they refilled their cups, Sherman thought briefly about the ‘secret’ still he knew was in operation not two blocks away, and privately wished for just a little bit of its output in his mug right now. Then he swept away that thought away and spoke again. “It has been – almost literally – a hell of a year,” he said, and smiled grimly at the quiet chuckles. “But I don’t want to dwell on that, or on the world we were part of ... before. Each of us can mourn our own, as we always have. As we always will.” There were nods and averted looks all around, as the lost, the loved ones, the world itself, was remembered.

  Then he shrugged and squared his shoulders all over again. “No,” he said firmly. “I want to talk to you about where we are now, and who we are now.” He scanned the faces and found what he was looking for: strength, calm. Even a little hope. “Just last week,” he told them, “we recovered another six square blocks of the city
and expanded the perimeter fences. There has not been a single successful breach of our community in more than two months.” And nobody has to know about today’s little incident, he told himself, and cast a glance at Mbutu Ngasy in the front row. The statuesque African gave him half a smile. “You all know about the vaccine. Many of you are working on the deployment, or will be soon. Right now, for the first time in months, you can actually believe that tomorrow will be better than today, and next anniversary far better than this one.” There was applause – surprisingly strong, he thought, accompanied by smiles and nodding heads.

  He took another quick swallow of his iced tea and looked to his right, at the beautiful woman who had saved the world. For the most part, the general hated public speaking, but for once he was happy to give a little credit where it was due.

  “We have some important people here,” he said. “Important to our whole world. I want to introduce a few of them, even if they don’t want me to.” There was some laughter and grumbling, but he pushed forward. “Don’t worry,” he assured them, “I’ll make it quick.”

  He put a hand on the shoulder of the woman sitting next to him. “I don’t have to introduce Dr. Anna Demilio. Everyone knows her. Soon she’ll be as famous as Albert Schweitzer or George Washington himself: she was the one who developed the Morningstar vaccine that we’re working with today. Without that … well, this would be a much darker world.” Anna smiled and looked at her lap, embarrassed at the attention. Sherman knew he’d have to talk to her later, but he secretly enjoyed looking at her right now.