Breakout 2.0

Slinging low over the trees, the Bell V-s80 Valor helicopter angles in, a lethal locust descending in a joyless moon. Rotors tilting to hover configuration, she banks into the landing strip. General Huxley Longfellow, in fatigues, steps to the tarmac and salutes the two aids on the ground. Running low, they dash to a Quonset hut a hundred yards away. As they enter the room twenty men stand to attention while four civilians huddle at the end of a long conference table. 

The general, after a lifetime in the military, recognizes when tension is high. “At ease gentlemen,” he says. “Director Cavalli? Tell me, what’s going on?” 

Director Anthony Cavalli, MD, MPH, Director of the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention, the CDC, sits at the head of the table, vexed and focused on the data in front in him, leafing through piles of vanilla folders on the table. Three specialists lean in: an immunologist, a virologist, and an epidemiologist; the best in the world. The director scans his data and scratches his head. A young woman, the virologist, hands him a sheet, the summary of the sequence, the effects, and the bare truth.

Director Cavalli rises. “I can’t understand it general. We’ve had reports of flash-points around the country. We’re verifying the input from multiple sources.”

“Director Cavalli? Tell me? Don’t hold back.” The general collapses into a chair at the head of the table. Just when things were going well. The country, the people, accepting television monitors protecting every citizen, man, woman, child and pet from abuse, from violence, from each other; congress finally approving two-way feeds in the home; Sony, Samsung, LG., every manufacturer on earth, all coming on board, installations almost completed. With violence in the home closely watched, conversations closely monitored, why, no one, no one!, need worry any more. Safety was, is, and will always be—a human right.

A white screen drops from the ceiling and lights up. Director Cavalli holds a laser pointer, and a red dot vibrates on an image of the human brain. He fumbles with the laser. “I can’t quite…” 

A young woman, the virologist, steps in and takes the laser from Director Cavalli. She points the laser at the screen. “The virus causes a response in the frontal lobe, the amygdala—"

“The what? Get to it miss.”

"Bradbury general. Doctor Bradbury."

"Right. Doctor Bradbury, get to it."

“Of course general. Here, the area where aggression arises, here, right here, the back of the perimeter of the cortex seems to almost bend, if you will.” The red dot of the laser flashes on the areas of the brain the virologist has identified. “Yes, goes limp.” 

The general puts his hand to his chin. He fidgets. “Hmm... limp. Tell me director. Where is this headed?”

Director Cavalli, now sitting, his head down and lips quivering, says, “The result is an incapability to raise the aggressive, primordial impulses. The virus leeches out any aggression or violent behavior from the subject. They simply… I hesitate to say.

“What?”

Director Cavalli shakes his head. “I… I…” 

Doctor Bradbury speaks up. “The infectee simply ‘turns their cheek’ from aggressiveness. Both sexes, but particularly the male egomaniacal paleolithic DNA pattern, is well, stripped away; leaving an incapacity to attack, or defend. And not just physical. Even stealing would be abhorrent, and who knows what else.”

The room murmurs like penned chickens. The general stands up. “My God. What if this spreads? Has the president been informed?”

“Yes sir. We’ve been told he’s taken measures to isolate.”

“You said outbreaks? Where?”

“The Mexican border sir. We’ve had a breakout in El Lencia, the Rio Grande. A breach.”

The general glances to his aid. “How far? How long? Now. Tell me.”

“We can be there in one hour general.”

The general nods to Doctor Bradbury. “Thank you, pumpkin.”

He turns to his aide-de-camp. “Let’s go.”

#

Even before the helicopter swings over El Lencia, General Longfellow can see thousands of people on both sides of the Rio Grande, maybe tens of thousands. The helicopter puts down at Office of Border Control Headquarters, CBP. The general prepares to de-board. “Get me a mask!”

The head of border security, Major Phil Masterson, nicknamed ‘Bat’, a man with a well-tailored uniform, rides in the shot gun seat of a National Guard jeep and jumps out to meet the general. A quick salute, a quick introduction, and the general and Lieutenant Felix Wonderbuck climb into the back. Two armored personal carriers, APCs, escort from the rear. They’re off.

In no time, the three vehicles move into place, awaiting orders. Major Masterson hands the general glass to take a look.

From this vantage point the general takes it all in. Aye Carumba! he thinks. Edward Livingston, you had it right; ‘odious reptile tribes’ indeed. Hundreds are now crossing the Rio Grande, wading their way through knee deep water to the south. West of him, thousands more are gathering in front of a stage and what looks like relief trucks are cueing in. Wait, a stage? He hands the glass to Wonderbuck. “What the hell’s going on? Get your men to take a position on the high ground,” gesturing to the APCs, then pointing to an overlook. “Train a 50-cal down on those people. I don’t see anyone checking anything. Holy bejeezus, the border is wide open!”

Lieutenant Wonderbuck raises his voice. “But sir.”

“No time lieutenant. Major, have your people lay down some fire in front of that group off to the south. That will get their attention; make their innards curl!”

“Yes Sir.”

The APC vehicle growls to the top of the hill, the smell of diesel, like victory, breaking wind. The gunner rises out of the cabin and flips the gun-belt around so the fifty-caliber bullets, the comeuppance, can feed through. He takes aim. 

The general glances back and forth between the gunner and the group to the south. “They’re crossing the border! What’s that?! Fire! Fire! You there, fire on that south bank!”

The gunner puts his head down and puts both hands on his face. “I just can’t. I can’t do it. Lord Mother of Mercy, help me.”

Major Masterson steps back, his mouth gulping, fear in his eyes. “That man’s infected sir. They all are.” The remaining men are getting out of the APCs and walking away. 

Lt. Wonderbuck steps forward, puts his hands on his hips, and takes charge. “You men, where you going? Get back here.”

One looks back. “This is stupid. See ya in the funny papers.”

The general observes the men strolling away, discarding their Kevlar vests, their sidearms, and their pure insanity as they make their way down the hill.

The general’s face gazes on the men, his eyes wide, nostrils dilating, in the ever-growing awareness of a society without discipline, the power to control the world through dominance slipping; otherwise, for the sake of goodness, for the sake of everything the general holds dear, society would, why, why, it was too horrid to think, just too much.

The general looks back to the border. Men, people, why, even babies held in mother’s arms wade across the river, rising on the far bank; without accountability, insidious, a dangerous migrating flock of bar-tailed godwits.

“Sir. I insist. You need to know.” Lt. Wonderbuck scans the terrain with his arm, his ‘Don’t think. Do’ band prominent on his upper arm. “Those people? They’re heading INTO Mexico sir, not the US.”

“Huh? No way son. Just can’t be. Can’t. Why?” 

“There are reports of peace sir. I think they just want to go home.”

“To Mexico?”

“Yes Sir. El Salvador, Guatemala, Honduras, others.”

The general’s eyes widen. A visceral reaction occurs in the general’s mind. They’re leaving! Why that’s worse than keeping them out. It’s a direct insult to the American way. Don't they desperately want the warm security of a two-way monitor in every room? Don't they have a jealous desire for a five-thousand square foot home, ad laden reality TV beaming from every nook and cranny? Don't they know the comfort of a dull mind is a safe mind—and don't they know without all this civilization won't last? “Get me out of here son.”

The helicopter lifts off. The general stares down at the thousands of people, many helping with distribution from the trucks, gathering en masse. “What’s that on that, on that stage son? I hear, um… music.”

Lt. Wonderbuck, standing in the bay of the helicopter, singing out of tune, raises his arms and nods his head to each side with the beat while making a motion side to side with his hips, his jellied stomach vibrating. “Don’t worry, be happy…Don’t worry, be happy… You know sir? A Bob Marley tune?”

The general puts his hand to his forehead, his eyes peer out at the Lieutenant. “No. I don’t know. I think son, we’re in real trouble. Get the president on the line. STAT.”

#

The Situation Room, deep within the White House, is packed with military, political, and support people. Live monitors surround the walls. The conference table team is riveted on one screen. 

On the monitor? A reporter in Memphis, Tennessee, live, on the street, ‘Breaking News’ scrolling. Personal Security Monitors, PSMs, are strewn on the curb behind him, piled like junk, abandoned. He speaks into the camera. “We don’t have an explanation Morty. People are simply throwing their PSM’s into the street. I’ve asked this woman to step up.” A middle-aged woman appears on the screen, her hair in curlers. “Mrs. Doomichael? What’s your take on all this? How do you feel about what’s happening?”

Mrs. Doomichael takes gum out of her mouth and holds it in her hand. “Just don’t need the damn things. It’s that simple. Plus the GD ads, if you don’t mind my sayin’”

A uniformed orderly saddles up to the general. “Sir. You’ve been called to the president. He’s in the aquatic center. His bubble sir.”

Yes. The bubble. All presidents lose touch with the common man, thinks the general. And that’s why I’m called: to spark and light and bring the bright day of reality to the sheltered deceptions of the Oval Office. 

#

The aquatic center, deep within the bowels of the White House, admits the general. And there he is, President Burgess. A clear round viscous type material surrounds the man floating in the pool. The president, inside the round vessel, is striding forward confidently, and as he does his weight turns the bubble. It rotates. 

“General!” The president calls out. “At last, an uninfected man. I need you general.”

“Anything sir.” The general marches to the side of the pool. Steam rises.

The president’s eyes narrow, eyebrows twitching. “Watch it general. The last man who said ‘hamster’ is in Guantanamo.”

“I wasn’t thinking that sir”, he lies.

“This is your mission general. You must step up.”

“Yes sir.”

“Peace general. Peace is the greatest threat the world has ever known. Just think general. What will happen to Lockheed, Boeing, Northrop, all the rest? Wall street will collapse. Collapse!" The president glances to either side and lowers his voice. “So I need you general.” He picks up a black briefcase in the bubble. “This, general, is the football, the launch codes, the red button, the savior of humanity. But it takes two and I can’t do it alone.” The bubble spins faster; the president breaks into a run, his face flushes. “I need your code general. Get to the Pentagon. Get your code! We need to launch!”

“Yes Sir!” The general rushes through the corridors of power and exits the bowels into the bright dawn of day, in what he knows will soon be a brave new world, and heads to the Pentagon.

#

The security entry of the Pentagon is in disarray. Lord, the metal detectors are down, desks abandoned. And this is the Pentagon for goodness sakes! What must the rest of the country be like? The general makes his way through the hallowed halls, the big stick, the one last hope on earth to draw a red line in the sand.

“Ms. Mckilicutty! Betty! You’re still here. I need to get in my office. It’s the highest security, national emergency.”

“I was just packing up. Getting my personals, sir. Your office is open.”

“Thank you, Betty.”

The general sits at his desk and scans the room for what could be the last time: the West Point diploma, the citation letters, the photos, the memories of standing with world leaders throughout the globe. His eyes glisten.

He opens his bottom drawer. There, under TOP SECURITY documents and empty Snickers candy wrappers, is a half-empty pint bottle of Jack Daniels, the source of strength, fortitude, and courage all these years. Underneath the bottle? A yellow sticky. On the sticky? The codes.  

Thomas Paine flashes into his mind. 'These are the times that try men’s souls.' The general leaps from his desk, launch codes tucked away, and flies down the hall. And there’s private what’s-his-name standing in his way. He goes right, the private goes right, left, the private goes left. “Excuse me sir.”

The man needs a good thrashing. But the general, getting ready to give the private his just do, a backhand across the mouth, reaches and… can’t swing his arm... just can’t do it... doesn’t have it in him. This can only mean, yes, infected. Infected! But who’s to say you can’t help SOMEONE ELSE be violent. President Burgess. Yes! I have to get to the president. Unless his bubble, well it just, it just might … I can’t think about that. I have to get to the president.