Earth's Survivors Settlement Earth: Book Two

By Wendell Watson

Andrea Zurita had been alive for the second time for more than three days. The men who had left her body had done so carefully: Senor Prescott would be very angry to find them on his land: Transgressions had been met with violence in the past, the bodies dumped into the ocean.
Andrea Ivanna Zurita had taken I'll three days before in the small village near to Prescott's property. She worked for Prescott, someone allowed on and off the property with ease. She had taken ill at work suddenly, no one knew the why of it and her family was poor: A doctor, other than the local clinic was out of the question. So she had been sent home to rest, but she had never made it to the local free clinic: She had lapsed into a coma a few hours later and while her family had still been reeling she had died: No rhyme, no reason.
Andrea Zurita was a young woman, there seemed no reason for her sudden illness and death, but there were things that should be done and so the local Mirukus, shaman had come. A few words, prayers, the shaman was a transplanted Haitian: They understood most of what he said, but not everything. He had left and they had prepared her for burial. She was washed and dressed in a plain white cotton dress. The second day came and the family came to call, leaving their wishes where she lay in her grandmother’s home. The third day came and the burial was coming. Cousins, men who worked in a neighboring village were on the way to open the grave. That was when Andrea had sat up and vomited blood.
Her eyes had rolled back into her head. Her body shook, but her chest did not rise. She had spoken no words, but she had tried to rise several times before one of the arriving cousins, crossing himself, had bound her with rope, hand and foot. They had sent for the Mirukus again.
The old Haitian had come quickly, taken one look at Andrea and then spoken cryptically, quickly. “Return her to the man that has cast this spell on her. He has bound her to him in life and that has followed her into death: Return her for she is yours no longer.”
The Mirukus believed the white man, Prescott had attempted to control the river spirit Pullujmu, to take control of the beautiful young woman for his own devices, but she had slipped over into death and was now controlled only by those who controlled the dead. He had left fearfully, quickly and had refused to come back for any reason. With nothing left to do for her they had taken her and left her bound body on the long drive that lead to the Prescott house. The white man may have her, but he would not have what he expected to have.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Writerz
• Release date: Sep 22, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301430277

Wendell Watson

ABOUTWendell Watson wrote his first fiction at age seventeen. He was honorably discharged from the service in 1974. He is a musician who writes his own music as well as lyrics. He is also an enthusiastic 3D modeler and game builder.

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EARTH'S SURVIVORS: SETTLEMENT EARTH BOOK TWO

Copyright 2010 W. W. Watson all rights reserved.

Cover Art © Copyright 2018 Dell Sweet

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LEGAL

This is a work of fiction. Any names, characters, places or incidents depicted are products of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual living person’s places, situations or events is purely coincidental.

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TABLE OF CONTENTS

ONE

TWO

THREE

FOUR

FIVE

SIX

SEVEN

EIGHT

ABOUT

BOOK TWO

ONE

Watertown, New York

Carlos and Gabe

The man moved more fully into the shadows. You Gabe? he asked in a near whisper.

The darker shadow nodded. You...? He started.

Now who in fuck else would I be? He asked.

The darker shadow said nothing. The other man passed him a small paper bag. Count it, he told him.

Gabe Kohlson moved out of the shadow, more fully into the light. "It's a lot; I can't stand here, out here counting it."

The man laughed. "You asked for this place. It's the middle of nowhere. I Googled it, it comes up marked as the middle of nowhere. Who in fuck will see you? He laughed and then choked it off with a harsh cough. Count it. No mistakes... You got the shit?"

Kohlson's head popped up fast from counting. Of course I don't... That wasn't the deal.

"Easy... Easy... Keep your panties on... I'm saying you got the shit... You got access to the shit?"

That I got... I can get it out this Thursday at shift end... He held up the paper bag. A lot of this goes to greasing the skids... You know, to get it out, Gabe told him. This stuff.

Whoa right there, the man told him. Don't say shit about it. I don't know what it is and I don't want to know, see? I do a job. Take this thing there, that thing here. That's all I know. Keeps my head on my shoulders when all about are losing theirs.

Uh... Lost me, Gabe Kohlson told him.

Just shut up about the shit, man. I don't want to know anything past what I know, okay?

Okay, Kohlson agreed.

I do know you got to get it out and I will be here to get it... Hey, he waited until the kid looked up. You know who I work for, right? You fuck this up you'll wind up out at the county landfill... Gulls pecking out your fucking eyes let me tell you. I will meet you here next Thursday night... Seven... Don't be late... Don't fuck this up... Don't make me come looking for you... He faded back into the shadows more fully, turned and walked down the shadowed front of the building. A few minutes later he found his car in the darkness: He waited.

He heard the kid’s shit-box beater when it started. A few moments later he watched as it swept past him, heading out of the small park area toward the river road. He levered the handle on his own car, slipped inside, started it and drove slowly away.

Three months before:

Manhattan

It makes no sense to me, Carlos Jefferson said. How can you say there is no one when I know there is someone? When she talks about her lover to her friends? This man, or boy, or whatever he is, is so bold as to meet her right in my very own home... Not always, but she brags to her friends about it. I know I listen, but she never says his name: How can that be... It's like she is torturing me with this lover. He looked to Carlos Sanchez.

Carlos, you are like my son. I give you everything. Power, money, whatever you need. Whatever you ask, I give, Carlos, you know that...

Carlos nodded. I know, Mr. Prescott, I know, Carlos said.

So if you are as a son to me, I am like a father to you. How could you let someone do this to your father? It is as though I were naked; would you leave me naked and laugh about it as Hamm did with Noah? Or would you cover up my nakedness, as Shem and Japheth did? His eyes locked on Carlos' own.

I would cover you, Carlos said.

"This man has left me naked, Carlos: Exposed. So has she, and I will deal with that transgression too, but you must find this man: You, my son. You." He nodded firmly at Carlos and Carlos nodded back.

A few weeks later:

Esmeraldas, Ecuador

Tommy Murphy and Jefferson Prescott

Jefferson Prescott stood quietly and sipped at his coffee. The house in Esmeraldas was his private escape. He could sit and watch the ocean, or travel into the mountains in just a few hours time, and Ecuador was such an easy country to live in: The people so happy with so little.

He owned a building in Manhattan, he owned a house in the hills outside of L.A., but this was his favorite place. This was where he did his real business, entertained and spent time with the women in his life, besides his wife and daughters back in Manhattan. This was the place where he bought his associates. Those that another man might call friends: In Jefferson's world there was no place for friends. The luxury the concept didn't exist.

Tommy Murphy stood at the rail a few feet away and smoked a cigar, looking out over the ocean. He was probably the closest person he had to a friend. The two of them had a lucrative relationship. Jefferson's drugs and drug connections, Tommy's organized crime connections. Between the two of them, they controlled almost everything that moved on the East Coast. They had tentacles that stretched all the way to the west coast, and inroads into the south that we're starting to look like highways.

They both dealt in millions daily. Privately, they were probably two of the richest men in the world, but they were on no one's list of who's who, except a few specialized task forces within the world's governments: Even they couldn't touch them. They owned too many of their officials, too many of their agents were on their payrolls. They didn't fight the task forces or special government branches the way the old syndicates had, they simply bought them. Every man really did have his price. And if that was too high you simply bought the man beside him, or above him, it was just as effective.

With all the deals they had made, and the millions they had amassed, nothing came close to what they had on the burner right now. Tommy had fallen into a deal on a tip, a way to collect on a sizable gambling debt, and the two of them had decided to take the risk.

Tommy sipped at his drink and then raised his eyes to Prescott. Concerned? Tommy asked.

Unconcerned... It's only money, Jefferson assured him.

Good, Tommy said quietly. He reached into his pocket and retrieved a slim silver cylinder. A small red button, with a protective cap in the same cheap looking, red plastic covered the button.

Jefferson pulled a deep breath, audible in the sudden silence. From somewhere deep in the jungle of a forest that surrounded them a big cat screamed.

Looks like nothing, Jefferson said.

I told the kid it reminded me of these little refill cylinders I used to have for my BB gun when I was a kid, Tommy said.

Jefferson laughed. I can't imagine that you played with anything that didn't have a silencer and at least a ten round clip."

Tommy laughed and then fell silent. This is it, Jeff. Strip off the protective cap, push the button... The kid said it doesn't matter after that... How close, how far, it will protect us.

"Infect us, Jefferson corrected. There is a difference."

Infect us, Tommy agreed. I figure, why not... We paid the big bucks for the rest of it, but this will start us down that path... Why not do it.

Why not, Prescott agreed. A sample? Just enough for two?

Tommy shrugged. He didn't say... I depended upon the reports he smuggled out more than the first hand knowledge he has. He knows what he has seen, but he has not witnessed anyone come back... The reports detail exactly that.

Jefferson laughed and shook his head. Immortality.

Immortality, Tommy agreed. He paused, stripped the small red cover from the slim, silver tube and pressed the button before he could change his mind. Nothing: He turned the silver tube back and forth.

Maybe there should be no sound, Jefferson said. He had braced for what he expected: A small cloud of vapor, a hiss, something to impart that magic the tube was supposed to contain.

Tommy raised the tube to his nose, but there was no detectable odor. But did it do its job, Tommy said so low it might almost have been to himself if he had not raised his eyes and asked of Prescott.

The million dollar question, Prescott said quietly.

"Multi-million dollar question, Tommy corrected. He stared at the container a few seconds longer and then slipped it into his pocket. In for a penny," he said.

In for a pound, Prescott agreed.

You know Ben Neo? Tommy asked after a few moments of silence, changing the subject to private business.

Your best, Jefferson said.

Tommy nodded and turned back to the rail. When you find out who it is tell me. I'll have him take care of it for you. He's good. Discreet. Fast. He turned and looked at Jefferson. Yeah? he asked.

Jefferson nodded. Yeah, I appreciate it. I've got Carlos on it. I'll know soon. When I know, you will know. From my lips to yours, he said.

Tommy nodded. He sipped at his drink again.

I have that young woman you like so much coming over in just a little while, Jefferson said.

Tommy turned away from the rail and smiled. I could use the diversion, he said.

Jefferson shrugged. It's what we do for each other, he said as he got to his feet. Enjoy yourself, Tommy. I am about to head back... Take care of a few things. I will see you at your place up in the Catskills next week? he asked.

Absolutely, Jeff, absolutely, Tommy said. The two men embraced and Jefferson left the warm night air of the deck and followed his driver who was waiting to take him to the helicopter pad. Tommy watched him go and then turned back to the rail, watching the waves out in the sea, rolling under the moonlight.

Sir? a voice said from the doorway.

Tommy turned from the rail to look at Andrea Ivanna Zurita, the beautiful young woman who stood in the doorway smiling.

The Lita Situation

Manhattan

Lita... Lita, stop, Lita: What are you doing?

I want you... I want you... I know what I'm doing, Lita said. Her lips fell on his, her body pressed up against his own. He had been okay until he felt the softness of her breasts pressing against him: The firmness of her thighs as they moved against his own thigh. Whatever he had held back: Whatever resolve he had, had, he lost. He felt it fall away as he pulled her to him: Tasting her; feeling her hands on his body.

Lita? he tried again, but without much resolve. He breathed it against her cheek as she kissed his neck, ran her hands over his chest, squatted and came level with his belt line. Her fingernails pressed against the fabric of his shirt, ticking downward, and she ran her hands across to stomach and found the catch to his pants, and then worked the zipper down.

"Lita... Think, Lita," he said.

She took him in her mouth and everything flew away. Everything he had fought to say. Everything he had been afraid of. All of it gone. There was only the warm night, the girl, and the darkness.

She stood and lifted her dress, she was bare beneath: He picked her up and her thighs parted, coming around his hips and locking together as he slid into her. Her lips fell on his neck once more; his hands pulled her closer, drove deeper into her. He stumbled forward until the wall was at her back. She thrust her hips harder, and the last vestige of doubt, the last small piece of resolve, melted away: She came alive under his hands.

Watertown

Project Bluechip

Complex C: Patient Ward

Test Subject: Clayton Hunter

Compound SS-V2765

Gabe Kohlson moved away from the monitors. Heart rate is dropping, don't you think... He stopped as the monitor began to chime softly: Before he could get fully turned around the chiming turned into a strident alarm that rose and fell. Dammit, Kohlson said as he finished his turn.

What is it, David Johns wheeled his chair across the short space of the control room. His outstretched hands caught him at the counter top and slowed him at Kohlson's monitor.

Flat lined, Kohlson said as he pushed a button on the wall to confirm what the doctor’s one level up already knew. Clayton Hunter was dead.

I see it, Doctor Ed Adams replied over the ceiling speakers. The staff called him Doctor Christmas for his long white beard and oversize belly. Berty and I are on the way.

Lot of good that will do, Johns muttered.

Kohlson turned to him. Go on in... Do CPR if you want... They don't pay me enough to do it. I don't know what that shit is. Look at the way the Doc suits up. Clayton Hunter will be in rigor before anyone gets in there at all.

No argument, Johns said. He wheeled back to his own monitor, called up an incident sheet and began to type.

Me too, Kohlson agreed. Preserve the video, med and monitor data. He punched a few buttons on his console and an interface for the medical equipment came up. He saved the last 48 hours of data, and then began to fill out his own incident report. These reports might never be seen by more than one person, maybe two if you counted the person that wrote it, Kohlson thought, but it would always be there. Classified: Top secret for the next hundred years or so, and he wondered about that too. Would it even be released after a long period? He doubted it. The shit they were doing here was bad. Shit you didn't ever want the American public to know about. He had made his delivery a few weeks before. Whatever this shit was, bad people had not only come to know about it, but had come to have a need for what it did. It didn't matter to him, not really. There were rumors, a few things he had seen while monitoring test subjects. Nothing he considered concrete. Maybe it extended life that was the strongest rumor. From what he had seen though, as far as test subjects, it did its fair share of ending life pretty effectively too. And here was another one to add to the growing number of failures... If that's what they were.

This incident report, along with the one Johns was doing, would probably get buried deep under some program listing that no one would ever suspect to look into. Or maybe it would get burned right along with Clayton Hunter's body. He glanced up at the clock and then went back to typing.

Uh... Call it 4:32 PM? He asked.

Works for me, Johns agreed. I got 94 for the body, Johns said.

Yeah... Yeah, me too: That's a fast drop, but we both got the same thing. 94 it is... No heart, no respiratory, dead as dog shit.

Dog shit, Johns agreed. They both fell silent as they typed. A few moments later the doors to the observation room chimed, the air purifiers kicked on with a high pitched whine, and they could both feel the air as it dragged past them and into the air ducts. The entire volume would be replaced and the room depressurized and then re-pressurized before the doors would open. And that would only happen after the air was tested and retested. A good twenty minutes away before anyone would step foot into the room with Clayton Hunter.

Complex C, Autopsy Room

Ed Adams and Roberta Summers had dissected Clayton Hunter's body methodically. The autopsy had been painstaking. It had to be, it was recorded in detail and some General somewhere, hell maybe even the president, would be looking that video over in the next few days. Maybe even watching live now, Ed Adams thought. They had that capability. There was nothing to see. He had suffered a major heart attack. The heart had a defect. No history: Just one of those things that just came along and fucked up your two billion dollar research project all at once.

Coronary Thrombosis, He spoke in a measured voice. Appears to be after the fact. The artery looks to be mildly occluded... The myocardial infarction appears to be caused from a congenital defect... Specifically an Atrial Septal Defect... Berty?

I concur; easily overlooked. The lack of sustenance put a higher demand on the subject's heart; the defect became a major player at that point... Bad luck for us.

"Uh, bad luck for Clayton Hunter," Ed Adams added.

Of course, bad luck for the subject, Clayton Hunter. I simply meant bad luck for a research volunteer to be defective in such a way that in effect it would compromise a project of this magnitude so badly. She turned her eyes up to one of the cameras she knew to be there. This in no way paints a true picture of V2765. We should proceed, unsatisfying as these circumstances might be, we should proceed with subjects 1120F and 1119X... Same compound. She turned back to the corpse on the table. You want me to do the brain biopsy, She asked Ed.

Ed frowned as he made eye contact with her. They had decided, at least he had thought they had decided, not to mention brain biopsies. Three times now he had discussed the importance of not focusing on the changes that V2765 made to the brain. Anything that altered the brain could alter financing, funding, lab time. Even the government didn't like changes to brain matter.

Are you thinking there could have been an embolism? He asked.

Well I, she sputtered away for a second before Ed rescued her.

I think all we would see is evidence of the embolism that occurred near the heart. We could search out areas of the body and most likely find more than one occurrence of embolism. Well thought, Berty, but I believe we will take a look at the brain later in the week. Right now I want to focus on the enzymes, proteins, blood work and readying the other two for a conclusion of this trial.

Yes. I agree entirely, Doctor Adams.

You have your samples?

"Yes of course, Doctor... Rex?"

Ed frowned hard and shrugged his shoulders in the direction of the thick glass. He lowered his voice to a whisper. None in here... That was stupid, Berty.

What was that, Kohlson asked Johns in the control room.

What? Johns asked.

"That... Whisper, I guess," Kohlson said.

"Oh... That. You know those two got it bad for each other. Probably making little remarks you don't want to hear. Besides which, you make a report on that and we all have to deal with it: Them, sure, but us too because the bosses will be pissed off about it. Best to let that shit slide: If the boss wants to know, he will. He looks at all of this shit in depth."

Kohlson looked about to say more when Doctor Christmas began talking once more in the autopsy room.

Let's close him up, Ed Adams said. He stepped on a switch set into the floor, paused, and then spoke again. Lower the air temperature in here. We intend to keep him a few hours while we attend to other parts of the autopsy... No one in here for any reason.

Out in the control room Johns keyed his mic button. Will do... How low, Doc.?

I guess about 34 Fahrenheit will do... Just to slow it all down for a while.

Done, Johns agreed. He adjusted a temperature graphic on a nearby monitor via his mouse.

Kohlson leaned over across the short distance. So we got to look at that shit for a while? Great.

They're gonna sew him up, so it won't be so bad.

Yeah... That's like; I got a mild case of flu. It's still gonna suck, because every time I look anywhere I'm gonna feel compelled to look at it.

Yeah. Me too. It's there. Draws you to it. Like the Bunny on the Playboy Cover. You look at the rest of the magazine, but you know you're gonna end up looking at her. She's the reason you bought the magazine after all.

Kohlson nodded and smiled. And I'd rather look at Miss January than a dead guy with big stitches across his belly and over his chest, sewing him back up again. That is some ugly shit.

Johns laughed. But you look anyway... Human nature. Why do you think people slow down and look at accidents?

Because we're morbid mother-fuckers, Kohlson agreed.

Well, that too, but it is that fascination with death we have. Look, He pointed at the monitor. Do you think Clayton Hunter knew he'd be laying on a steel slab this afternoon, dick hanging out, with Doctor Christmas shoving his guts back in and stitching him up with his nursey assisting?" They both laughed and turned away.

She ain't half...

A scream cut off the conversation and both men turned quickly back to the monitor.

Clayton Hunter was sitting up on the steel table: Arms drooping at his side; mouth yawning. Doctor Christmas had backed away until he had met the wall behind him. Nurse Berty was nowhere to be seen.

"What the fuck... What the fuck. Get a camera on the floor... Maybe she fainted," Kohlson said.

Got it, Johns agreed. He stabbed at the keys on his keyboard and a view of the table at an angle appeared. Nurse Bertie's leg could be seen, angled away from the table, skirt hiked high. The camera paused briefly and then the view began to shift as Johns manipulated the camera angle. Her face came into view: Mouth open, blood seeping from one corner.

Doctor, Kohlson called over the speaker system. Outside the airlocks had clicked on and the air was cycling. Good, he thought, in twenty minutes the Calvary would be here. Doctor Adams?

The doctor finally took his eyes off Clayton Hunter and turned toward one of the cameras. On the table Clayton Hunter leaned forward and tumbled off the edge of the table. At the same instant the air purifier quit cycling and three armed men in gas masks stepped into the airlock.

Jesus, Johns sputtered into his headset microphone, You guys can't do that shit. That air has to be worked! Three more men stepped through the lock and the door to the autopsy room opened as well as the door to the control room. A split second later the rifles in their hands began to roar. The sound was louder than Kohlson expected in the enclosed space. He clasped his hands over his ears, but it did little good. The soldiers, he saw, were wearing ear protection of some sort: Noise canceling headgear. The remaining three soldiers had stepped into the control room he saw as he looked back up from the floor: They had their rifles leveled at them; the others were still firing within the confines of the small autopsy room. A small gray cloud was creeping along the floor and rolling slowly into the control room. The stench of gunpowder was strong in the enclosed space. The air purifiers were off. Kohlson knew there was another control room outside this one that controlled this space, and possibly another outside of that space that controlled that space: Built in redundant protection; it was clear that they were in a very bad place.

Kohlson saw Clayton Hunter lurch to his feet and stumble into the soldiers who were firing at point blank range in the tight confines. A series of bullets finally tore across his chest and then into his head and he fell from view. A second later the firing dropped off and then stopped completely.

Johns was listening to the sound of his own heart hammering for a space of seconds before he figured out it was his own. The smell of gunpowder was nauseating, and he suddenly lunged forward and vomited on his shoes. As he was lifting his head he saw that the soldiers were retreating back through the airlocks and into the outer spaces of the compound.

Jesus, Kohlson managed before he also bent forward and vomited. They heard the air filtering kick back on as both of them rolled away from the puddles of vomit and quickly disappearing low, gray vapor from the gunfire. The doors into the autopsy room suddenly banged shut and then their own door whispered closed as well: Once again they were isolated in their small space.

They both sat silent for a moment and then Kohlson left and returned from the small bathroom with a mop and bucket from the utility closet there. He left again and returned with a bottle of disinfectant and sprayed down the vomit and the balance of the small room.

That won't do shit, Johns said solemnly. "We're infected. Whatever they infected that guy Hunter with, we got it now.

Kohlson ignored him, waited the ten minutes for the disinfectant to work and then cleaned up the mess. Neither spoke while he returned the equipment to the small closet and then came back and sat down.

You heard me, right?

I heard you, Kohlson admitted. I just don't give a fuck... It's too fresh... I can't believe it right now. He looked up at the clock. Mother fucker... I was off duty in twenty minutes... Twenty goddamn minutes! He spun and looked at Johns, but Johns was looking up at the monitors that were still on in the autopsy room. The smoke was being drawn out by the air exchange, and the horror of the room was slowly coming into focus.

Doctor Adams lay sprawled in one corner, a line of bullet holes stitched across his back. The back portion of his skull was missing, jagged bone and gray-black hair clumped wildly around the fractured bone. Johns gagged and looked away.

Jesus... They killed everybody, Kohlson said as he continued to watch. Nurse Bertie lay where she had fallen. Only her legs visible in the shot they could see. Clayton Hunter lay against the end of the stainless slab, his head a shapeless mass.