The Ebola Wall (2 page)

The move was due in part to international pressure. Ebola-B cases were soon discovered in Moscow, Beijing, Tokyo, and capitals all over the globe. All of the carriers were traced back to Houston. Overnight, America became the new West Africa, quickly isolated and scorned by the rest of mankind. The city’s fate was sealed. Literally.

Russia demanded the quarantine, publically declaring that either the US government do the dirty deed, or she would consider nuking the city. Always a nation vulnerable to paranoia, her leaders made widely televised speeches that identified Ebola-B as a threat to global civilization. This hyped-up rhetoric only served to further damage the ongoing effort in Houston.

China wasn’t far behind, the world’s most populated nation banning all travel, imports and contact with the now-soiled West. The Chinese ambassador to the United Nations actually agreed with his Russian counterpart, advising the U.S.A. to wipe Houston off the face of the earth before the epidemic spread, and all was lost.

For the first time in history, Mexico actually managed to close its entire northern border… the irony being that the effort was initiated to keep Americans out.

A hasty plan was implemented, the Department of Homeland Security ordering regional law enforcement to create an impenetrable ring around the stricken city. One quick glance at a map was all it took to identify the newly constructed Grand Parkway as the perfect line in the epidemic-sand.

Completed only a short time before the outbreak, the multi-million dollar freeway encircled the entire city, roughly 30 miles from the center of downtown. Like a giant prison fence over 200 miles in circumference, it was the perfect piece of infrastructure to contain what would soon become the world’s largest internment camp. Local and federal law enforcement were directed to “close down all access, in or out of metropolitan Houston, Texas.” It was a tall order.

Outrage and desperation erupted in H-town. Everyone from the city’s mayor to the chief of police protested the plan. In the end, it didn’t matter. No one was going to be allowed to leave.

The federal government promised to supply the city its basic needs. National politicians appeared on countless news broadcasts, reminding the country of President Truman’s Berlin airlift after the Soviet Union had isolated the city and their intent to provide similarly for Houston. Opponents countered with a more contemporary example, citing the enormously ineffective response to Hurricane Katrina as the basis for their skepticism.

In the end, the naysayers were right. Over four million people were sheltered inside the confines of the Grand Parkway. The government estimated 9,000 tons of food, fuel, paper, medical supplies, and other necessities of life would be required - per day. Without open interstates, rail lines, and the port of Houston, it was a nearly impossible task to deliver even the essentials.

The first convoy of trucks to arrive from Austin wasn’t allowed inside the barricade for almost 24 hours. No one had considered how to decontaminate the semi-trailers once the goods were unloaded. The drivers had no training on how to don or operate while wearing haz-mat suits.

When military units were finally ordered to the task of de-lousing the semis, it was soon discovered that the entire U.S. Army could only spray down about 80 trucks per day. That number was a mere 10% of what the confined population required.   

Even that limited effort met with difficulties. The CDC shut down the decontamination operations the following day, worries being generated of virus surviving in the massive pools of wastewater. Projections of mass starvation soon outweighed the death-toll predicted by Ebola.

And then an odd event occurred. Most people called it “the backlash.”

Stories and video began to surface, images of life in the Bayou City that were nothing short of horrific. Camera phone footage of empty store shelves, wailing, hungry children, and abandoned hospitals went viral all across the Internet. Public sympathy began to swell for the forsaken Houstonians.

Within the barrier, block-long blazes raged out of control, the fire departments either unable or unwilling to respond. The electrical grid failed, some claiming the outage due to a lack of essential spare parts, others putting the blame on unresponsive repairmen who were frightened of catching the virus. Availability of city water was reported as being spotty at best. Average Americans from Maine to California began to get irate, realizing it could be their city that was sliding into the abyss.

Numerous local police departments claimed they didn’t have the fuel or manpower to maintain control. Those reports were soon replaced by images of roving gangs of armed men, their faces covered with paper masks and make-shift respirators.

By day 20 of the outbreak, Houston was said to be in complete anarchy. The mayor had been executed by an angry mob of demonstrators; most of the city council was thought to be in hiding. The last remnants of law enforcement, no doubt sensing the swelling tsunami of public rage, seemed to fade from sight.

Despite a crashed stock-market, free-falling economy, mass hysteria, and international scorn, the federal government heeded the cry to respond. America’s outrage over the treatment of her fellow citizens grew to the point of riots, vast demonstrations, and numerous calls to lynch all elected officials. So strong was the backlash, one U.S. Senator publically stated that the United States was teetering on the brink of collapse. 

Teams of CDC volunteers were marshalled along the wall, paired with military units assigned to provide security. They entered Houston via elongated convoys of trucks, intent on providing relief of one kind or another. Many were attacked, ambushed for their gasoline, haz-mat suits, or other equipment. Some assaults were motivated simply out of meanness and spite. The government had been too slow. It was too late. The effort was canceled, the wall reinforced.

American consumerism or the lack thereof was pulling the world into an economic depression unlike anything civilization had witnessed before. People were staying home, frightened, paranoid, or simply glued to their televisions, watching the disaster unfold.  A desperate act was needed to right the ship. The president ordered all communication from within the quarantined city be terminated. Phone lines were cut, cell service disabled, television and radio signals were jammed with military hardware.

Havoc continued to rumble down the pavement, each tenth of a mile bringing another military unit into view. Most were Abrams tanks, with the occasional Stryker holding a position along the picket line. Command favored the armored vehicles because of their CBRN (chemical, biological, radiation, and nuclear) protection systems. Basically, each wheeled or tracked unit was an air-tight, positive pressure haven that couldn’t be penetrated by nasty viruses.

Both the Stryker and Abrams were equipped with sophisticated sensors as well. Night vision, thermal imaging, satellite communications, and a host of other high-tech gadgets made them the near-perfect guardians of the wall.

For tonight, Havoc
’s
assigned position was at the pinnacle of the Exit 4 overpass. Captain Norse had spent many nights stationed on what was essentially a bridge passing over a two-lane surface road. The elevated vantage and clear fields of fire provided an excellent guard tower.

As Havoc approached the flyover, Norse lowered himself into the turret and sealed the system. There wasn’t any perceived danger; his action was merely standard procedure. The crew didn’t comment as their ears popped, assured that the over-pressure air filtration system had engaged.

Tonight’s duty-shift involved relieving the number five unit, “‘Bama Thunder.” Norse keyed his radio, “Five, this is Six, on station.”

“Ev’ning, Captain. Glad to see you,” came the response from Thunder’s commander.

Norse conjured up an image of Lieutenant Thompson’s toothy grin, the toe-headed southerner a former University of Alabama football player and his second-in-command.

“Any unusual activity to report, LT?” Norse asked.

“We had some odd thermal movement a few hours ago,” sounded the speaker. “But it was at extreme range. Other than that, just a typical afternoon on the wall, sir.”

“Copy that, Five. You’re relieved. Roll Tide!”

A warm chuckle came over the airwaves, Thunder’s commander obviously appreciating the reference to his college Alma mater. “Thank you, sir. Be safe.” 

Havoc
’s
driver, Specialist Jones, pivoted the tracks perfectly, pulling the 70-ton machine into the appropriate overlook position at the edge of the bridge. The crew waited patiently until Thunder had rolled off and then began their sweep of the surrounding landscape using both thermal and light amplification sensors. After three minutes, Specialist Crenshaw made the announcement everyone was waiting for. “All clear on the perimeter, sir.”

“Unseal the tank,” Norse ordered.

Another round of popping ears, and then the driver’s and gunner’s hatches were opened, allowing somewhat fresh, almost-cool air to begin circulating inside the stagnant interior. Norse quickly added to the effect, pushing open the heavy commander’s opening at the top of the turret. It wasn’t much relief.

Despite the late hour, it was still over 90 degrees outside, the low afternoon sun continuing to pour heat on the tank’s metal skin. While it was against procedure to exit the vehicle while on station, the captain also thought it was a violation of protocol to bake his crew inside the oven-like interior. He made up his mind to periodically climb outside throughout the night and allow one of the crew to enjoy some cooler air via the hatch.
The Skinnies haven’t been active in weeks
, he thought, justifying the decision.
There’s no way they could sneak up on us.

The moon was high in the clear sky when Norse glanced at his watch. The constant monitoring of the surrounding terrain had become lackluster, mundane work. In the early days of the blockade, it wasn’t unusual for the local residents to make three or four attempts at crossing the wall per shift. Each attempted breach was given one warning via a loudspeaker, and if that verbal order was ignored, lethal force was used. Havoc was equipped with three machine guns that had been fired upon civilians.

Evidently, word had gotten around. Over time, fewer and fewer attempts were made to escape Houston. Speculation ran rampant regarding the reasons for the decline in activity, some of the captain’s cohorts believing most of the population within the barrier were dead, others assuming that people had simply realized the futility of attempting to violate the quarantine.

Recently, reports had come in from the wall’s other sectors that warned of sophisticated, almost coordinated activity by the incarcerated population. The colonel’s last brief included one such recounting, an effort near the Katy zone that had involved a diversion along with simultaneous probes at three separate points. “They’re getting creative,” the senior officer had declared. “They’re showing some level of command and control and upping their game. This isn’t a positive development as their clever resurgence occurs concurrently with the declining vigilance within our ranks. We need all officers and enlisted personnel at the highest levels of alertness. It only takes one contagious escapee making his way to Austin or Dallas to release the genie from the bottle.”

As Norse and his fellow officers exited the briefing, he overheard a senior NCO question, “What the hell does anyone expect? Those are Americans inside the wall, not some bunch of uneducated, third-world tribesmen. There are retired military leaders, police captains, college professors, and business executives – all desperately seeking their freedom. In a way, I’m surprised they haven’t kicked our asses by now.”

But the Tomball sector hadn’t witnessed any such activity, and after a few days, the guardians of the wall had fallen back into much the same routine.

Norse looked down into the tank’s “basket,” assessing the men below his position in the turret. Jonesy’s timing was spot-on, the driver wiping the perspiration from his brow. He had switched positions with Havoc’s loader, allowing the other man a few minutes of fresh air via the driver’s hatch. The gunner’s shirt was stained with sweat.

“Sweep 180, and if it’s clear, we can let Crenshaw come up here for a minute,” Norse said.

“Yes, sir,” came the smiling response.

Reaching for the gunner’s periscope, Clark flipped a switch that engaged Havoc’s FLIR, or “forward looking infrared,” sighting system. Originally designed to spot enemy armor, it detected the bands of energy generated by heat instead of light. Human bodies emitted a lot of heat.

“Nothing, sir. Not even a cow,” came the relieved voice.

“Come on up and take a breather, Specialist,” Norse said. “I’m going to stretch my legs on the deck.”

The captain lifted himself out of the hatch, swinging a leg onto the heavy armor plating that coated the tank’s exterior. Standing, Norse experienced a sense of liberation. While being a tanker definitely wasn’t for individuals with claustrophobia, even those who didn’t suffer from that condition gained a new respect for the wide-open spaces. Crenshaw’s head, and then upper body, appeared in the hatch a moment later. “Thank you, sir,” he said.