The Ebola Wall Read Free Page A

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.
    “I saw some activity on the horizon,” Norse replied, with an official sounding tone. “I deemed it interesting enough that a better vantage, such as the one afforded by standing on the deck, was prudent.”
    Both men knew it was bullshit, but not an entirely unbelievable story if someone should question why the captain was outside of his tank. “Of course, sir,” Crenshaw replied.
    Norse did indeed raise his binoculars, sweeping the horizon south of Havoc’s station. There was enough starlight and moon to discern vague shapes and shadows, but that was about it.
    After 30 minutes, the captain lowered his optic and checked his watch. Grunting at how slow their duty-shift was passing, he decided he’d