Omega Plague: Collapse (2 page)

At last, Bruno exited the Quartieri, the street opening up
into a large square. He stayed in the shadows, making sure the square was
clear, before covering the distance. He realized he had come further southwest
than he’d intended. He found himself on the edge of a large open space covered
in cobblestone, the Piazza del Plebiscito. He skirted the piazza, hugging the
wall of the old Royal Palace, and emerged near a small park.

Bruno picked his way through the tall grasses and bushes
that had grown up between the palm trees until he reached the edge of the park.
He knew he was not far from where he had left his motorboat. He squatted down
and slung his pack behind a palm tree; it hit the ground with a metallic clank.
Bruno cursed his own carelessness. Though it was built to mil-spec standards,
it could still break. And if it did, this trip would be for nothing.

He pushed himself into a thicket of bushes from where he
could survey the scene. The street was flat, with three lanes; the outside
lanes were for cars, while the middle lane bore the long scar of trolley
tracks. He could see a long, narrow pier stretching into the sea, and just
beyond it, the Beverello Pier. His motorboat was on the other side of some
buildings on that pier, a relatively short and square wharf compared to some of
the others that stretched hundreds of meters into the bay.

Bruno took some deep breaths, forcing himself to calm down,
but as he did he saw a pair of figures walking the
lungomare
, the street
that hugged the shore behind the piers. They had just emerged from around the
building on the Beverello Pier. Beyond them, he thought he could see movement,
maybe two or three more figures. They must have realized that they would never
find him in the remnants of the city; there were simply too many places to
hide. So, they made the gamble that he had come in by sea, and tried to cut off
the most logical escape route. He prayed that they hadn’t noticed his
motorboat, pulled up on some rocks just below an overhang.

He was able to get a better look at the pair closest to him.
Two men. Their clothes were loose, everything greens, blacks, and greys. Each
wore netting around their head that obscured their features, and each carried
weapons. The rifles they carried stood out above all: they weren’t automatic
weapons, but looked like scavenged long guns, made for game hunting.

The two figures were moving down the street towards his
position. He crouched low, leaning his left shoulder against the tree. The sun
was in descent behind him, and with luck, he’d be lost in the glare and
vegetation. Slowly he retrieved his pistol from its holster with his right
hand.

The first time he had ever fired a pistol, the instructor
had told him the exact moment of the shot should surprise, so you don’t
anticipate the recoil and pull the shot off the target.

They were getting closer . . . one hundred meters . . .
fifty meters . . .

He tried to slow his breathing.

 . . . Thirty meters . . .

He brought the pistol to bear, holding it with both hands,
trained on the slightly farther of the approaching figures.

 . . . Twenty meters . . .

If he made a mistake he would be dead, or worse than dead.

He squeezed the trigger in a slow, even motion, and was
amazed at the amount of blood and brains. The man died before he hit the
ground. The second man froze, and Bruno fired twice; the man dropped, clutching
his gut, and began to scream.

Bruno snatched his backpack and ran towards the screaming
man, who was writhing now on the ground. He fired one more shot, and suddenly
everything was silent. There was no time to linger. Bruno grabbed a rifle and
ran towards the square pier, rounding the squat buildings and reaching the far
corner. Before taking the stairs down to the water, he peered over the side of
the cement railing, onto the rocks below where he had left the motorboat.

But the boat was no longer there.

Part I

Chapter 1

September 19

Bruno leaned against the doorway, captivated by the scene on
the flat screen above the bar. He wore a light-blue shirt with epaulettes and
dark slacks with a brash scarlet stripe down the side of each leg. A white
leather bandolier lay across his chest, and his gun belt was weighted with the
usual law-enforcement gear: pistol, handcuffs, and baton. His uniform marked
him as a member of the
Carabinieri
, an arm of Italian national law
enforcement with both military and police duties. Many of its members had been
deployed abroad for missions that straddled peacekeeping and the fighting of
wars. There were fewer of them than local cops. They were better paid, and they
unquestionably held more prestige than many of the other overlapping national
law enforcement agencies. None of that, however, kept the telling of irreverent
Carabinieri jokes from being a national pastime.

A taller, lanky man wearing the same uniform appeared in the
doorway. “Why the hell are you watching this crap?” said Cristian Di Cassio.
Cristian swallowed off the end of his words, typical for someone born and
raised in Rome. He was angular, with a hawk-like nose and a sparse beard
running along his jawline.

On the television, throngs of people followed a procession
of priests and bishops into a cathedral. One of the priests, in red and white
vestments, carried what looked like a thick mirror on a long, silver handle.
Upon closer inspection, however, it was clear the object was not a mirror;
rather it was a round container, a sandwich of glass, and between the glass was
suspended a clear phial of what looked like black powder. After arriving at the
altar of the cathedral, the priest turned toward the crowd and thrust the
object into the air. The audience erupted into applause and the perspective on
the screen shifted, focusing on the phial within. The substance did not seem to
move, and a murmur went up from the crowd. The priest began to pray. Two
grey-haired men sat at the bar, laughing together, paying no mind to what was
going on over their heads.

“It’s the festival of San Gennaro,” said Bruno.

Cristian laughed. “Of course, your patron saint! You
Neapolitans love your pagan rituals, don’t you? The ancient blood becomes
liquid again!”

Bruno looked up at the screen. “Doesn’t look like it turned
to liquid this year. And I’m from Nusco, not Naples.”

“Well, if it didn’t turn to liquid, then bad luck for
Naples. Guess they’ll lose their next five games against Roma,” said Cristian.
“Forgot you were from Nusco. Isn’t that a little piss-hole of a town outside
the city? You bang sheep there, no?”

Bruno had met Cristian his first day on duty on the island
last year, after his assignment from their regional headquarters in Naples.
Cristian was the type who had no problem telling you what he had for lunch and
what it looked like coming out the other end. A few minutes after they’d first
met, Bruno discovered far more than he wanted to about Cristian’s divorce (it
was her fault), his seven-year-old daughter (now living with Cristian’s
parents), and how many foreign tourists he’d bedded since being stationed on
the island (a lot). Nevertheless, Cristian had a malicious charm. He’d only
slightly toned down his self-aggrandizing profanity since he’d started dating
Bruno’s older sister, Carla, a few weeks ago. But that didn’t deceive Bruno; he
knew Cristian was still full of shit.

“Come on, Bruno. If you watch too much of this stuff, you’ll
go, from this,” Cristian held his finger up, “to this.” Cristian dropped his
finger down, limp and lifeless.

Bruno smiled and gestured with head. “All right, let’s go,”
he said.

Though he was happy to joke with Cristian, Bruno in fact
took no solace from the feast days of the Church’s beloved saints. The death of
his mother and little brother seven years ago had left him cold. In fact, in
the months following their deaths, he had ceased to believe in God at all. He
had even toyed with joining a group that had paid for slogans on the side of
city buses in Milan that read: “Bad News is, God doesn’t Exist—Good News is,
You Don’t Need Him.” It had caused quite a stir. But while he may have agreed
with the sentiment, Bruno realized that associating with those mildly
subversive types would invite heightened scrutiny from his superiors. Not to
mention what he knew his mother would have thought. So, mostly, he kept his
opinions on religion to himself. Following their mother’s and brother’s death,
Carla had returned to Naples from her teaching position at San Raffaele
Hospital in Milan, and had just a few months ago taken a position at the
hospital on Capri. Carla and Bruno were already planning a surprise visit to
their father at Christmas. Bruno turned and walked back into the square, and
Cristian followed.

The late-afternoon sun shone brightly, and they squinted
their eyes on emerging from the bar into Capri’s main square. They had spent
the better part of the morning reviewing intelligence on a gang in Naples
running drugs and arms to Serbia, so they were happy to be outside now enjoying
the sun. Their boss told them that after they signed off on the reports, they
could patrol until the end of their shift. Taking full advantage of the
opportunity, Bruno and Cristian wandered about, nominally on patrol, but in
reality simply taking in the beauty of the scenes before them. It was the
middle of September, but on Capri, the promise of many warm fall nights
lingered well into November.

From just off the main square the view was spectacular. The
marina rested at the bottom of rocky slopes, dotted with rich, verdant
vegetation and orange terracotta roofs on whitewashed houses. Figures below
bustled along piers where boats were coming and going. Beyond the marina lay
the semi-circular Bay of Naples, and beyond that, looming over the shore in
grey haze and terrible splendor, stood the cone of Vesuvius. The volcano served
as a reminder that Naples lay under a delayed death sentence. Someday it would
erupt again, and hundreds of thousands would face evacuation or suffocation.
Bruno had heard a scientist on the news mention an increase in tremors over the
last few months, enough to raise some concerns among volcanologists. He had
even read on a British website once that if an eruption from Vesuvius were
large enough, it might devastate the climate around the world for decades, even
centuries. It had happened before in prehistory, long before there had been
people to bear witness. Now the same event might cause civilization to crumble.
If there were ever a serious eruption, Bruno had heard that the government’s
evacuation plans called for cities and towns all over Italy to take in
refugees. But in an emergency like that, what were the chances anything would
go as planned? Zero, he thought.

Out in the bay, Bruno could see vessels steaming towards the
city. He noted the massive bulk of an aircraft carrier with another vessel
behind it. From this distance, they looked the size of children’s toys. Ships
from the US Navy’s Sixth Fleet, headquartered in Naples, were probably coming
back now from a deployment on the open sea. No doubt the sailors would be happy
to hit the streets of Naples, causing more work for his colleagues tonight.
Bruno smiled to himself. The only crime they saw on Capri was the occasional
inebriated tourist pissing in some alleyway. And anyway, on the island, the
municipal police handled the drunks. There hadn’t been a serious crime in
years. Even then it had been jewel theft, nothing violent. Bruno had plenty of
time for musing while on patrol.

The contrast between Naples and the island of Capri, the
jewel in the bay, always amazed Bruno. Less than an hour’s ride by hydrofoil
from Naples, Capri seemed worlds away from the city’s chaos, noise, and
delinquency. He wondered if it was the same when the Romans had built their
villas on Capri. Had Naples been hot and sullied then, as now?

Cristian had wandered back into the main part of the square,
packed with foreigners, and Bruno quickened his pace to catch up. This time of
year, the island was still teeming with tourists from Europe and Asia. Lately,
Bruno noticed more Chinese than Americans roaming in the piazza; the Great
American Debt Crisis a few years back and subsequent Chinese bailout had taken
their toll on America’s economy, and the United States was still digging itself
out of the hole it had dug for itself. Bruno and Cristian picked their way
through the crowd. Tables and chairs from the restaurants were set out in the
square, and waiters buzzed back and forth. Though it was late afternoon, many
patrons were still lingering over the remnants of lunch. Cristian nudged Bruno
when he spotted a woman walking through the square.

“She’s taken, I think,” said Bruno, as the woman gave a
decidedly non-daughterly hug to a man who was old enough to be her father.

“Who cares?” said Cristian. “I’m just looking. He’s just
some rich old fart.” Cristian’s voice took on a longing tone. “She’s a dark
angel, for sure; good to look at, but maybe dangerous to touch.” Then as if
realizing the ridiculousness of his own serious tone, he chuckled.

“You’re dating my sister, remember.”

“Don’t worry! I said I’m just looking!” laughed Cristian.
“Actually, I prefer older women doctors like your sister. And president of the
hospital, too. A rich older woman—I
really
like those!”

Bruno said nothing.

“Oh, come on! I’m just joking, Bruno. You’re so uptight! You
need another woman.”

“How much longer will I be the only one who has to listen to
your shit? When do you think Marco will arrive?” asked Bruno, changing the
subject.

“Il Maresciallo said he’d be here in about two weeks. Could
be longer. You know how slow they can be at headquarters.” Bruno knew exactly who
Cristian meant by “il Maresciallo.” There was only one Marshal with the
Carabinieri on the island: Bernardo Veri, their boss.

“Maybe we should dump all our shit cases on Marco when he
gets here,” laughed Bruno.

“I’m sure Veri would get a kick out of that,” said Cristian.
“What about that shit case of yours, that weird pirate radio thing? Wasn’t the
broadcaster some kind of conspiracy nut?”

“Oh yeah, that guy was transmitting all sorts of tinfoil hat
shit, then just stopped. I talked to a few amateur radio geeks, but they’re
pretty tight-lipped. Not many of them on the island. If they know anything,
they’re not telling. Fucking nutters, the lot of them.”

“What a waste of time.”

“Yeah, whoever it was hasn’t broadcast for months. I’ll
probably just recommend closing the case,” said Bruno.

“How did you end up with it?”

Bruno shrugged. “Dunno. I guess when they referred this case
to us, someone at the Provincial Command remembered I spent six months working
as a communications tech.”

“Well, I’ll tell you how to find out who’s broadcasting,”
said Cristian. “Find the geekiest ham radio guy, the kind who couldn’t get laid
in a bordello. That’ll be your man.”

“What a brilliant strategy. Clever aren’t, you? Like
Sherlock Holmes.”

“Nah, I’m more like that TV cop—what’s his name?” Cristian
paused, then snapped his fingers. “Commissario Montalbano! Smart
and
sexy.”

“You’re a bloody idiot,” said Bruno.

Their meanderings had brought them full circle, and they
were standing in the entrance to the bar again. The same two old men were
lounging about, still paying no mind to the screen overhead. It was a few
minutes after the hour, and the voice of a female news presenter caught Bruno’s
ear. “In other news, the Minister of Health in Rome will honor a group of ten
doctors, including three Italians, from the charitable group Médecins à l’aide
des autres, who are returning from West Africa today after a twenty-one day
quarantine. The honors are in recognition of their assistance in containing the
latest outbreak of Ebola, as well as fighting mosquito-borne diseases. They
will continue on to . . .” the news presenter’s downy voice faded into the
background as a group of bustling Japanese tourists led by an Italian guide
carrying a sign on a stick moved past them. Bruno found it curious that the
Japanese still liked to have a live tour guide, unlike most of the English
speakers, whose various devices constantly droned on wherever they went.

Cristian looked up from his phone. “Hey! Carla just texted
me. She’s got a friend who wants to meet you.”

“Really?”

“Oh yeah! She’s a nurse—works at the hospital with Carla. I
think Carla’s her supervisor, actually. And I bet she’s hot!” Cristian laughed.
“Come on, you want to meet up tonight?”

Bruno shrugged. “Why not?”

Cristian clapped him around the shoulder. “Now that’s what I
like to hear! Don’t worry, after tonight, you won’t even remember your
ex—what’s her name? See, I can’t even remember!”

“Good. You watching the game tomorrow?”

“Napoli-Roma? Of course, we’re going to kick your asses!”

“Did you hear what happened to your captain?”

“Manelli? Is he injured?” Cristian’s face grew dark with
concern.

“While he was driving around Paris in his Porsche, a bunch
of thieves busted his window and stole his girlfriend’s purse, right in front
of him. You know how sensitive he is. That’ll wreck his game for sure.”

“Good thing he wasn’t in Naples,” said Cristian with a
smirk. “In Naples they’d steal the Porsche, but leave the purse.”