Grunt Traitor (19 page)

I tracked you to Los Angeles, but then lost you.

Who is they?

What?

You said they got me. Who. Is. They?

They have a name for themselves that I can’t translate. We’re calling them Hypocrealiacs, named after the order of fungi to which Cordyceps belongs. Have the mycelia begun to grow?
Sensing my confusion, she added,
The spikes?

I can’t see my body
.

Then she was silent for a time. Later that night, after I’d been put to sleep, changed, then awoke, she returned as I stood waiting on something to capture my attention.

Do you want to see yourself?

How?

I’ve accessed the feeds to the cameras. This is from earlier today.

In the eerie quiet of the dark cell, I saw within my mind a hazy image of a man inside a cage. It was difficult to focus on the image in my mind and stare at the blinking red lights of the camera in front of me. The images bled into one other. Had I the ability, I would have closed my eyes to better concentrate. Still, I could see me in my diaper. My head had been shaved. Small mushrooms seemed to be growing out of my chest and neck. I looked pretty pathetic. I said as much.

As long as it doesn’t go to your brain, you can live like this for quite some time.

I didn’t need to ask what happened if it got to my brain. It seemed pretty obvious.

How do you know so much about them?

We’ve come a long way from just being able to interfere with the Sirens. Using the same frequency mapping, we can distinguish what frequency the Hypocrealiacs are using in their vectors.

Can you use small words? Remember, I’m just a dumb grunt.

There was a pause. She’d once responded to this by saying,
Yeah, but you’re
my
dumb grunt.
But that was back when we’d actually owned our own bodies, before—

You still own your body. They’re working to get you cleared and might just be close—

Did you just read my mind? How can you do that?

Only when we’re talking. When you concentrate on what you want to say to me and then think something, you tend to do it the same way.

How is this possible?

Before when you thought I was messing with your dreams, remember?

Yes.

I was. The theta waves you use when you’re waking broadcast between four to seven hertz. I can tap into it because of what I am. But now that you’re infected with Ophiocordyceps invasionalis, I can interact with you at 40 hertz, which is in the top end of your beta waves.

So it makes me like a UAV.

More like a manned-pedestrian vehicle, but that’s the idea. We have a range issue though.

Is that why they have Thompson in West Covina? To do what you do here?

When she next spoke, it was the middle of the day and I was trying to kill Ohirra. Or at least I would have, had the bars not been in the way. Still, she stared at me just out of reach, pity in her eyes. It was the first time I’d seen her since before the mission. She mouthed the words,
I’m sorry
. Clearly she knew I was behind those crazy eyes and could see. I mouthed
it’s okay
in return, only I didn’t because I couldn’t.

When she left, Michelle returned, as if she’d been politely waiting. I’d no doubt that she had.

How’d you know about Thompson?

He contacted me using my theta waves when I was on mission, only I thought it was just a dream. He’s in Los Angeles, isn’t he? Is he just like you?

He’s the new model—Generation II. I need an electronic grid to emulate an antenna so I can receive and transmit super low frequencies. He can piggy back off other transmission devices like walkie talkies and FM radios and satellite receiver-transmitters.

Is he okay?

Is he okay? Am I okay? This is how we chose to fight.

Only you asked me to kill you.

That I did. And you refused.

I should have done it.

You don’t have it in you. You’re a hero, not a killer.

I killed my own men.

You didn’t kill them. The enemy killed them.

Isn’t that the same?

Only if you’re feeling sorry for yourself.

Funeral pomp is more for the vanity of the living than for the honor of the dead.

Francois de La Rochefoucauld

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

D
AYS PASSED, MAYBE
weeks or months; I had no way of knowing. The team had started wearing positive pressure suits. I guess my fungal growths were getting pretty gnarly.

One day they introduced me to one of my own. They brought him up to the cage. I reached for them, but not him. He had a red halo around his fungi. They shot me with a dart.

When I awoke, he was in the cage with me. I ignored him and he ignored me. Was this what it was like to be in a zombie horde? I knew that two didn’t make a horde, but our total ambivalence towards each other and our violent reactions towards living, non-infected humans had to be similar.

We stood there.

We reacted to the non-infected.

We pooped our diapers.

Then they shot us with darts.

Oh the joys of my existence. At least Michelle and I were talking. She was hopeful that they might find a cure. They’d been exchanging notes with other OMBRA locations. The black alien vine was evidently coming out of every existing hive, as were the needle moths which were both pollinators and protectors. OMBRA was becoming aware of the dual nature of each of the alien species used in the invasion. Each invader had at least two abilities.

For the Sirens, it was to conduct reconnaissance and report back.

For the Cray it was to knock out the world’s power grid and establish a foothold using their hives.

For the black alien vine it was to spread the fungus and destroy the cities.

For the needle moth it was to pollinate and protect the vine so it could continue destroying the cities and hosting the fungus.

And for alien fungus it was to infect every living thing and rid the planet of its hosts and... what? Then it dawned on me. When I next spoke with Michelle, I asked her.

The aliens... the Hypocrealiacs, they can use the infected too, can’t they? They can be their eyes and ears.

You figured it out faster than OMBRA did.

It’s why I’m in a room with no windows. It’s why they put a black bag over my head.

We don’t want them to know what we’re planning.

But can’t they hear us, like right now?

No, we don’t think so. They seem to process things differently. I can key into their communications and it’s more light and numbers than any recognizable language.

We talked about our lives in the Army before the Turn, when our enemies were merely people with different belief systems.

Days or weeks later, Mr. Pink finally showed himself again. He had Malrimple in tow. They wore positive pressure suits much like the ones the others were wearing. I had the feeling something important was about to happen.

Mr. Pink didn’t let me down. He spoke to me even as we tried to get him through the bars. “We think we have a possible cure. It’s mostly worked on the dogs and cats we’ve tried it on, although I’m told that the morphology of the fungus that infects humans is slightly different from the fungus that infects animals.”

I noted that he said
mostly
, which meant there was a margin of error. I wonder what happened then. Did the cure just not work, or did it kill? I guess I was about to find out.

Phillips jointed in the conversation, talking to me as though he believed I could understand him. “It’s all in the streptomyces within the fungus. Pre-invasion streptomyces produced over two-thirds of the clinically useful antibiotics of natural origin, such as neomycin and streptomycin.”

Okay, well, I knew what an antibiotic was, which made for one word in that sentence.

“But it’s a totally different matter with this fungus. In
Ophiocordyceps invasionalis
, the streptomyces have the characteristics of
Parastreptomyces abscessus
, which was a novel organism not yet studied but almost always fatal. So instead of providing benefits, the streptomyces of the invading fungal agents bind with white blood cells by replicating phosphatidylserine-binding proteins found in the blood cells. By binding, they inhibit the white blood cell function, thus allowing the spores to grow unabated within the host.”

Alright, I was pretty much lost in the Latin there, but I knew what a white blood cell was, so I was more or less on top of the explanation. The fungus cripples white blood cells, so the white blood cells can’t attack the fungus. I didn’t even know white blood cells
worked
against fungus—I thought they were just for viruses and bacteria and stuff—but there you go.

“We’ve found a way to attack the streptomyces using a combination of invermectin, ZMAPP and broad spectrum antibiotics. If we can stop the immunosuppression, then your own body can fight the infection. So we’re going to dart you up and get you into a medical suite we’ve created.”

About damn time. Whatever all those things were.

But wait a moment. Did that mean that I’d lose my ability to communicate with Michelle?

Michelle, are you still there?

I am.

I never did tell you that I love you.

Don’t get mushy on me, soldier.

Do you... can you still feel?

Yes. I can still feel.

And what do you feel?

That I’ve been robbed of a time when we could be together. But it wasn’t Mr. Pink who robbed us. It was the Hypocrealiacs.
She paused for a moment, and in the silence I could hear so much unspoken sentiment.
Listen, Ben. I have to tell you before they dart you. Sebring is creating more of us. No one knows but me and you. He’s captured Sandi and he’s looking to capture you. It’s the PTSD. It’s always been the PTSD. The chemistry in our brains makes being an HMID easier. Don’t go back to Los Angeles. He’ll know and he’ll get you and make you into something like me.

If it means we can be togeth—

Now you
are
being a stupid grunt. You fight your way, I’ll fight mine. And Mason?

Yes.

I do—

I felt the dart hit me.

Fade to black.

The earth is attempting to rid itself of an infection by human parasite.

Richard Preston,

The Hot Zone: A Terrifying True Story

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

M
Y BODY SHUDDERED
and fought. I’d wake for brief periods where pain ruled every haggard breath, then thankfully fall back into blissful, dreamless darkness. Cold and hot. Hot and cold. Twice I woke screaming, only to have arms push me down, voices speak to me as I fell a thousand miles into my fever. Then just as suddenly as the dart had put me out, I was awake, shivering on a narrow bed as light streamed through a high, barred window. When I reached down to pull up the sheets I’d kicked away, pain jabbed across my shoulders and neck. I craned my head and saw several sets of stitches on my left shoulder, probably where they’d removed the ascocarps.

It struck me that I could once again control my body. I held out my right hand and stared at it as I wiggled my fingers. Then I touched my shoulders and my neck, feeling stitches that even now hurt deliciously. I touched my face, feeling the stubble there.

“Hello,” I said to no one at all, grinning as my voice filled the small space. Then I sang, “I’m a little tea pot, short and stout. This is my handle, this is my spout.”

My voice was back.

I sat up in bed, wrapping the sheet around my midsection as I stared out the window. Never had the desert of Death Valley looked so good as at that moment. I tried to get up and sat down again as a sudden wave of dizziness gripped me. I let it subside, before standing more slowly this time, letting my legs and head come to a better understanding. I examined my room. It was a regular private hospital room, most likely in the base hospital. It had a bathroom and a locker. Beside the bed was a chair.