Phi-Fic Chapter 934 The Plague
Chapter 934 The Plague
[Time]: Autumn 1956, morning
Location: The United States, Washington, D.C., Pentagon War Room
"Absurd! This is murder! This is treason!"
A silver-haired lieutenant general slammed his fist on the table and stood up abruptly, spitting almost onto the wall opposite the conference table.
His chest heaved violently, and his finger pointing at Allen Dulles trembled incessantly.
“Those aren’t lab rats! Those are 30,000 living, breathing American citizens! Taxpayers’ sons, husbands, and fathers! What do you expect us to do? Poison their water? And then watch them turn into… those man-eating monsters?!”
The lieutenant general's voice echoed in the well-soundproofed conference room, carrying a hysterical, distorted tone.
Allen Dulles remained seated in his high-backed leather chair, toying with the exquisite sterling silver lighter in his hand; the click-clack sound of it opening and closing became the only rhythm in the room at that moment.
He didn't look at the angry lieutenant general, but turned to look at the Secretary of State in the main seat, who had been silent and was constantly wiping the cold sweat from his forehead with a handkerchief.
"Murder? No, General. You've used the wrong words."
Dulles's voice was as calm as if he were discussing tomorrow's weather, without the slightest ripple.
"If we don't do this, how long can these 30,000 people hold out given the current situation? A week? Or half a month?"
"When the Cuban heavy artillery comes up, or when that damned 'divine punishment' shines again, they will die. They will turn into worthless mud and ashes."
"How will you explain this to the domestic situation? Will you say that we were wiped out by a bunch of peasants despite having overwhelming military superiority? Will you say that our Sixth Fleet couldn't even get ashore to evacuate?"
He stood up, placed his hands on the table, leaned forward, and a chilling light flashed in his gray-blue eyes.
"What we're giving them now is an opportunity. An opportunity that, even if it means death, will drag the enemy down to hell with it."
"and……"
Dulles paused, a strange smile curving his lips.
"If Cuba becomes a dead island, a forbidden zone overrun by ghouls, where even a bird can't fly over, then what use would it be for the Chinese to conquer it?"
"They won't get an outpost, they'll only get a huge biological and chemical quarantine zone."
"This is the strategic buffer we need."
“But…” another general in charge of logistics hesitated before speaking, his voice hoarse, “How can we keep this a secret? Thirty thousand men… If the news gets out, we’ll all be hanged.”
"Give way?"
Dulles chuckled softly, as if he had heard a joke.
"Who would leak it? The dead can't talk. As for those 30,000 people... the official report is very simple: Cuba has experienced an outbreak of some unknown, highly contagious tropical disease. In order to prevent the epidemic from spreading to the mainland, we have no choice but to... painfully seal off the area."
“We will honor them as heroes. Heroes who sacrificed their lives on the front lines of the fight against the epidemic to protect our country. The national flag will be flown at half-mast, and their compensation will be fully paid. Their families will be proud of them.”
A deathly silence fell over the conference room.
It was a suffocating feeling of something called "conscience" being slowly strangled by "interests".
Everyone was looking down at the documents in front of them or staring at the tips of their shoes; no one dared to respond to Dulles's words.
Dulles noticed their wavering.
He knew he still needed one last straw.
He slowly and deliberately took out a stack of blank letter paper and several expensive Parker gold pens from his black briefcase and gently placed them in the center of the table.
"Of course. I understand everyone's concerns."
His tone suddenly softened, carrying a devilish allure.
"After all, many of you here are former subordinates, old comrades-in-arms, or even... younger members of your families, who are suffering on that beach."
"To ensure the smooth operation of this 'special operation,' we need to eliminate some... unnecessary noise and preserve some seeds for the future."
He pushed the stack of letters forward.
"The transport plane formation will take off in three days. The outbound journey will carry supplies, and the return journey... will be empty."
"If any of you have someone particularly important who needs to come back to 'report for duty,' or if someone needs to be transferred back for treatment due to 'health reasons,'"
"Now, write down your name."
"I guarantee that before the 'supplies' are distributed, this plane will land safely in the Florida sun, carrying everyone on the list."
"Limit...500 people."
"Om-"
The air in the conference room seemed to freeze for a moment, then began to churn like boiling water.
The generals, who had previously been filled with righteous indignation and spouting moralistic rhetoric, changed their expressions.
That sense of "righteousness" regarding the lives of 30,000 soldiers crumbled completely at this moment, in the face of the opportunity to protect his own interests and save his own son.
The lieutenant general who had first slammed his fist on the table swallowed hard. His hand trembled as he reached out and picked up the gold pen.
“My… my adjutant. He… he has a stomach ailment. It’s very serious.”
He muttered to himself, as if trying to convince himself, and quickly wrote a name on the paper—it was his illegitimate son.
With the first, there is the second.
“My nephew is in the General Staff… We need someone to come back and compile the battle reports.”
"The commander of the Third Regiment, he's a talented man, he can't die there..."
The scratching sound of pens gliding across paper echoed throughout the quiet conference room, like a swarm of greedy silkworms devouring mulberry leaves.
Dulles leaned back in his chair, watching the ugly farce unfold before him, his smile growing wider and wider.
he knows.
From this moment on.
The fate of those 30,000 soldiers was already sealed.
……
……
[Time]: Three days later, at dusk
*Location: Northern Cuba, Victory Beach, the main U.S. military camp.
The sea breeze still carried that lingering salty, fishy smell and the stench of corpses.
But today, the atmosphere at the camp was quite different.
The camp, which had been lifeless and where some soldiers were even contemplating mutiny out of despair, was now filled with long-lost cheers and whistles.
"Look! Look at the sky!"
Private Miller threw away the entrenching tool he used to dig for crabs to eat, pointed to the northern sky, and shouted excitedly.
In the afterglow of the setting sun.
A massive formation of transport planes, like a flock of giant birds returning to their nest, was skimming the sea at a low altitude with a roar.
The white five-pointed star emblem on the wing seemed so familiar and sacred at this moment.
"It's supplies! It's our plane!"
"God! These officials have finally remembered us!"
Countless ragged, unshaven soldiers emerged from foxholes and artillery shelters, waving their hats and rags, roaring and leaping wildly toward the sky.
Giant parachute flowers bloomed in the air.
Heavy wooden crates and iron barrels fell like rain into the designated airdrop area.
Before the crates even hit the ground, the thirsty soldiers swarmed forward.
"Bang! Click!"
The crowbar pried open the lid of the wooden crate.
The golden straw was pulled back, revealing neatly stacked bottles of Coca-Cola with red logos.
There were also cans of luncheon meat wrapped in oil paper, emitting an enticing aroma, and even cases and cases of whiskey and cigarettes.
"Meat! It's meat!"
A soldier grabbed a can of luncheon meat, and before he could even pull the tab, he bit open the metal with his teeth. Ignoring the sharp edges that cut his lips, he swallowed mouthfuls of the salty, savory minced meat inside, tears mixed with oil streaming down his face.
What drove them even crazier were those large iron barrels painted blue and labeled "drinking water".
In this camp, where the freshwater treatment plant had been destroyed by Cuban guerrillas and where people could only survive on small amounts of rainwater and bitter filtered water each day, clean freshwater was more precious than gold.
"The water's here! Everyone line up! There's enough for everyone!"
The quartermasters stood atop the high trucks, loudly maintaining order. But their eyes held an indescribable pity and evasiveness.
Miller managed to grab half a bottle of whiskey and two cans of beef. He stuffed the items into his coat like a miser, squeezed through the crowd, and ran back to his foxhole.
"Hey! Sergeant Kowalski! Look what I've got!"
He pulled out the item like a treasure and handed it to the old soldier who was sitting on a rock, silently smoking.
"Those officials said these were gifts from the country to comfort us! They said it was to commend our heroic act of holding our ground!"
Miller unscrewed the whiskey and took a big gulp; the spicy liquid brought a blush to his pale face.
"I knew it! The country wouldn't abandon us! Look, so many good things... Maybe the next plane will come to pick us up and take us home!"
Kowalski did not accept the bottle.
His cloudy eyes were fixed on the makeshift field runway in the distance.
There, several C-47 transport planes that had already unloaded their cargo did not take off immediately. Instead, they were waiting for something.
A group of officers in clean uniforms, carrying elegant leather suitcases, boarded the plane with their heads down, escorted by military police.
"go home?"
Kowalski sneered, threw the cigarette butt on the ground, and crushed it out with his muddy military boots.
"Yes. Someone is going home."
"But not us."
“Look over there.” He pointed to the plane whose cabin door was slowly closing. “The commander of the First Regiment, that pretty boy from the staff, and that logistics director who only knows how to brag all day…”
"They're gone."
"They even took their pet dog."
Miller was stunned. He looked in the direction the sergeant was pointing.
Just then, they saw the major who usually bossed them around looking back at the camp with a look of horror, before turning around and disappearing into the cabin without looking back, as if avoiding a plague.
"Then...why is that?"
Miller sobered up a bit, and a strange chill ran from the soles of his feet straight to the top of his head.
Why did they leave? And what about us?
"us?"
Kowalski picked up the can of beef from the ground, staring at the brightly colored wrapper with a look of desperate mockery.
"Let's stay and have a big meal."
"Kid, remember what I said."
"When those important people who never gave you a second glance suddenly start being generous to you, feeding you meat and giving you wine."
"There's usually only one possibility."
"That means... you're about to embark on your journey."
……
Night falls.
Countless huge bonfires were lit on the beach.
The unsuspecting soldiers were celebrating.
The long-suppressed fear and despair, stimulated by alcohol and a feeling of fullness, transformed into a near-manic pleasure.
They danced around the bonfire, sang folk songs from their hometown, ate sizzling steaks, and drank sweet water from blue tin buckets while holding up tin cups.
"For America!"
"To go home!"
"cheers!"
Cheers rose and fell, drowning out the sound of the waves and the roar of the transport planes taking off from the runway in the distance.
No one noticed how fast those planes were flying, like demons fleeing from hell.
No one noticed.
At the bottom of those blue iron buckets filled with water, there was a very thin layer of green powder that emitted a faint fluorescent glow.
As the water swayed, they silently merged into every drop, entered the throats of every laughing soldier, flowed into their blood, and seeped into their marrow.
Miller drank a lot of alcohol and a lot of water.
He slept soundly that night.
He had a dream.
He dreamt that he had become a wild beast, running across an endless wasteland. His teeth grew very long, and his claws became very sharp. He felt very hungry, extremely hungry.
Then, in his dream, he saw a huge, fresh piece of meat.
He pounced on it, tearing and biting into it with gusto. The meat tasted so delicious and satisfying.
Until he heard the piece of meat let out a scream.
That voice... sounds a bit like Sergeant Kowalski.
……
……
[Time]: Three days later, early morning
Location: U.S. Army Main Camp at Victory Beach
The Sun Also Rises.
But the reveille was no longer heard in the camp.
Instead, a chilling groaning sound filled the air.
"Water... water..."
Miller was awakened by thirst.
That thirst wasn't just ordinary thirst.
It was a sharp pain, as if all the moisture in my body had been drained, and my throat was filled with a handful of burning sand.
He struggled to climb out of the foxhole.
I felt burning up all over, like I had a high fever. My skin was itchy and throbbing.
"Damn it...did I drink fake alcohol last night...?"
He muttered to himself and reached up to scratch his neck.
"Fuck."
A soft tearing sound.
Miller froze. He stared at his hands.
The space under my fingernails was filled with a layer of grayish-white stuff.
That's... skin.
A large patch of skin on his neck was easily torn off by him, as if it were a soaked piece of paper.
It revealed the bright red, still-pulsating muscle fibers underneath.
No blood came out.
There is only one type of transparent mucus.
"Ah...ah!!!"
He screamed in terror.
But the sound that came out was a hoarse "hoho" sound, as if the vocal cords had rotted away.
He hurriedly raised his head and looked around.
The entire camp was like a giant leper colony.
Countless soldiers were staggering out of the tents.
They all looked just like him.
Some of their hair had fallen out completely, revealing scalps covered in blue veins.
Some were scratching their faces frantically, tearing off their skin to reveal their white gums underneath.
The light of reason that once belonged to humanity was rapidly fading from their eyes.
Instead, it was a murky yellow, filled with a primal, hungry, animalistic nature.
"Hungry……"
A figure crawled out of a nearby tent.
It was Sergeant Major Kowalski.
But at this moment, this respected veteran has completely changed.
His body swelled up as if it had been inflated, and his military uniform was stretched to shreds.
His fingernails became black and long, curved like hooks.
He was staring at Miller.
Or rather, staring at the bright red flesh of Miller's exposed neck.
Saliva dripped from his mouth like beads from a broken string.
"Meat……"
Kowalski let out a muffled groan, got down on all fours like a giant lizard, and lunged at Miller.
"No...no! Sergeant! It's me! It's Miller!"
Miller wanted to back away and reach for his gun.
But he found that his hands were also trembling, his finger bones were making a cracking sound, and they were getting longer and harder.
An irresistible urge to tear apart everything in front of him was growing wildly in his mind, overwhelming his final fear.
On this beach that the world has forgotten.
Thirty thousand betrayed souls.
It is undergoing its final transformation.
And this day.
This is only the beginning of hell's descent.