Shitstorm

Ozpinhead

Shitstorm

EP1. I Have Come to Bring a Sword

Sandman

It was nearing dusk when Jürgen arrived in Mexico City. The SRE vouched for the flight, but nothing more. Jürgen did not complain. He was, in all senses of the word, a stranger here. The driver of his pink-striped taxi, initially baffled by Jürgen’s lack of luggage, soon found courage in his juvenile Spanish and circled the vicinity in the most insidious manner. Jürgen welcomed the professional vice. The prolonged drive and absence of conversation allowed him to review his report in peace. Jürgen worked best when alone. He would not have this privilege where he was going.

“Estamos aqui,” said the driver. Jürgen thanked him and exited the car. Juarez Avenue was well lit at this hour, and Jürgen soon made out the young officer who greeted his arrival with an experienced smile. “Good evening, Dr. Jürgen,” said Captain Herrera. “I do hope your flight from Munich was conveniently arranged.” “It was. Thank you.” Jürgen answered as he shook the Captain’s hand. Herrera looked taller in uniform, and by definition, composed. When the two first met a month ago, he had been in plain clothes. Jürgen mistook him for a graduate student and nearly shooed him out of his office before Herrera introduced himself as a Captain of the Mexican Navy. As Jürgen later learned, Herrera and his crew were the first to make contact with the CVN-83 aircraft carrier, steering from the eastern edge of Florida towards the Gulf of Mexico. And for their sins, they were endowed with the full responsibility to facilitate the ensuing cooperation between the Mexican Ministry of Foreign Affairs and what remained of the Federal government of the United States.

“Please excuse the absence of a proper escort thus far,” Herrera said. “As we’ve previously discussed, Minister Medina stresses the need to play this particular operation close to the chest.” “It’s completely all right,” Jürgen answered. He was beginning to think that perhaps Herrera was a man too polite for his own good. It’s not that he did not appreciate the cordiality, however. Since the Alabama Outbreak, goodwill had steadily become an infrequent virtue. It was the fear, as Jürgen saw it, not only of the cataclysmic magnitude of the brain-eater pandemic, but also of the sheer absurdity of the idea itself. Zombies, ha. A concept gnawed on with such a spineless persistence that it had been drained of all potential to terrify. After a good while, their role in pop culture boiled down to the butt of slapstick jokes. That was, at least, until some idiot lab coat from The Heart of Dixie decided to devise his own homemade vaccine in a self-dignified war against corporate monopoly. “My body, my choice,” said Richard Tucker, pre-med, as he triumphantly fired into his veins a half milliliter of jerry-built jungle juice. Henceforth, the joke was on him, then on the state of Alabama, then on the United States of America. And so the Alabama Outbreak represented a lingering fear even amongst those foreign to US soil. Tucker’s free will had flung open the Pandora’s Box of absurdity, and free will we have in abundance. What will we conjure up next? Werewolves? It was no wonder that people had lost faith in each other. They simply did not know what to believe anymore.

“I believe the conference is set to begin at 9 PM, CST.” Captain Herrera said as he held open the door. “Standard briefing procedures should take no less than thirty minutes. Then you will be called to speak.” “Right. I understand.” Jürgen answered. A guard gave a silent salute as they passed the security checkpoint. “Dr. Jürgen,” Herrera continued. “On behalf of the Ministry and the Mexican government, I express faith in your academic judgment. I believe that your proposition, when converted into practical means, may very well signal the end of America’s crisis.” Jürgen sensed a turn on the road. “But I must also advise you that the United States government’s prolonged quarantine has taken a toll on its leaders. I do not mean to downplay the dignity of your work, but…” “You would prefer a delicate approach.” Jürgen breached the pause. “Very good, sir,” Herrera said. “This is, after all, a diplomatic situation.”

— — — — —

The conference room had no windows and appeared smaller than it actually was. Around the U-shaped table in its center sat men and women, some in uniforms, some in suits, all in fatigued complexions. Captain Herrera saluted at the door and quietly led Jürgen to his seat. Heads turned and nodded. Jürgen nodded back. 

“Good evening. With all attendees present, we proceed to the relevant items regarding the ongoing outbreak across the United States of America. Please be aware that all discourse and decisions thereafter expressed in this room are classified as top secret information by authority of the United Mexican States.” Minister Medina was the first to speak. Her composure in speech and stature was a trait to behold – one that had long garnered credit from her followers and irritation from the Cabinet of the United States, which saw the boldness of its allies as a product of its incompetence. Now, of course, this was very much the case. “As the primary goal of this conference is to facilitate the restoration of federal order in the Continental United States, we are joined by the following personnel: John Downey, Acting President of the United States, General Landon Stanson of the Army, Admiral William Johnson of the Navy, and Colonel Frank Sanders of the Marine Forces. In consideration of their presence, this meeting will be conducted entirely in English.”

The screen adjacent to the table displayed a gridded assortment of faces. Men scarred by age and deprivation loomed at the center of their respective grids. Only Acting President Downey’s appeared blank, save a green dot flashing sporadically in the corner to indicate participation. “General Stanson, I believe President Downey is experiencing difficulties operating his video call.” Minister Medina pointed out. “Correct, ma’am.” General Stanson replied. “I’m afraid he is rather inexperienced with the technology, an old-timer as he is. However, for his protection against potential contamination or attempts on his life, Mr. President has recently ordered that he be quarantined in his chambers for the duration of his stay on this ship.” The General took a breath. “With no one but his Staff Secretary briefly permitted inside three times a day, there is simply no means to oversee his progress on the matter.” “But General Stanson, I understand that President Downey is deaf.” Minister Medina said. “He was famously the first hearing-impaired Prime Minister of the United States.” “Yes, ma’am. That is correct.” General Stanson replied. “Then how could he receive the contents of the conference in progress? “Well, he couldn’t, ma’am,” said General Stanson. “But protocol clearly states that the Commander in Chief must be present throughout all communications of diplomatic and martial relevance. For his convenience, the full contents of the discussion will be relayed to him via email afterwards. He isn’t blind, after all.” “I see.” Minister Medina said.

Despite the brief deferral, Minister Medina strode forth. “As we are nearing Day 48 since the outbreak, I believe a review of the current situation is in order. Lieutenant Colonel Aguilar of the Mexican Army will debrief.” “Thank you, Madame Minister.” Lieutenant Colonel Aguilar said. “Several Brigades of the Mexican Army and Marine Corps are in operation across the Fourth Military Region, focusing efforts on defense mainly around the Rio Grande. No breach detected so far. By order of the Secretary of National Defense, we have also secured small samples of infected individuals for research since Day 15…” “Are you positive that there are no breaches outside the Fourth Military Region, son?” General Stanson intruded. “General Stanson, with all due respect,” Minister Medina said. “Please note that Lieutenant Colonel Aguilar is an officer of a sovereign nation and not your subordinate.” “My apologies, ma’am.” General Stanson seemed flustered. “For the record, I do tend to call everyone son by habit. Even my daughter.” “Even so, addressing him by his name and title would be appropriate.” “Yes, ma’am.” General Stanson agreed. “Lieutenant Colonel Aguilar, are you positive that there are no breaches outside the Fourth Military Region?” “I am quite positive, sir.” Lieutenant Colonel Aguilar answered. “And how is that, Lieutenant Colonel Aguilar?” “Because the border wall goes both ways, sir.” “I see, Lieutenant Colonel Aguilar.” General Stanson gave a pensive nod, then fell silent.

“If anyone else has further questions regarding recent developments, I believe now would be an adequate time to comment.” Minister Medina said. Colonel Sanders raised his hand. “I’d like to know if any members of the US Marine Corps showed up in action on the mainland. I know them grunts wouldn’t go down without putting up a fair fight. Tough as beans, they are.” A balding man directly opposite Jürgen reached for his microphone. His plate read ‘Centro Nacional de Inteligencia.’ “To the best of our knowledge, no members of the Marine Corps have come in contact with Mexican troops yet. We have, on the other hand, reason to believe that multiple personnel of military description from the Pacific Northwest and Midwest regions have found asylum in Canada’s refugee program.” “God damn faggots.” said Colonel Sanders. “Colonel,” said Minister Medina. “Please excuse my French, Madame Ministress,” said Colonel Sanders. “But what’s a soldier if not displeased by acts of treason against his country?” “Soldiers follow orders, Colonel. At this time, they have none.” “I reckon,” said the Colonel. “But I bet true American patriots are still out there, waiting in the woods, in the trenches, waiting for the opportunity to strike back against those half-witted mongrels stealin’ our country away.” “I’m sure there are, Colonel,” said Minister Medina. “And I’m sure you miss being where you belong.” “You bet I do, Madame Ministress,” Colonel Sanders chuckled. “But frankly, what I miss most from being cooped up in this here vessel is the good, honest food our native soil has to offer. You know. Apple pies, fried chicken, Taco Bell…” Jürgen winced. “Taco Bell,” said Minister Medina. “Taco Bell,” whispered Captain Herrera. 

“Hyaaaang,” said Admiral Johnson. A crashing silence engulfed the room. The outcry was so blatantly hedonistic that everyone, even Colonel Sanders, froze in utter stillness. Jürgen glanced at Captain Herrera and noticed a drop of sweat trickling down his cheek. “Admiral Johnson, would you care to clarify the nature of your remark?” asked Minister Medina. Her composure stood its ground, although a bit staggered. The Admiral seemed baffled by her question. “My remark, ma’am?” He looked around the room, at his peers on screen, then downwards. “Oh, right, ha ha.” Admiral Johnson stooped under the camera and pulled up a plump calico cat. “This here is Twinky. He’s living with me in my quarters, and I guess he thought it would be cute to weigh in while his daddy’s working.” “I see, but must you be in his company while you work, Admiral Johnson?” asked Minister Medina. “Well, ever since my wife passed, Twinky’s been my rock. I can’t imagine life without him. He never really recovered from having his vocal cords snipped, but he’s a good boy.” “Hyaaaang,” Twinky moaned. “Aside from matters regarding Twinky, are there any comments that you would like to voice, Admiral Johnson?” “No, Madame Minister. Nothing at this point.” “Very well,” said Minister Medina. “In that case, I deem the briefing session concluded. We will now intercede for a short recess, then resume in 20 minutes.”

— — — — —

“Do you smoke, Dr. Jürgen?” asked Captain Herrera. “No, I just felt like getting some fresh air,” Jürgen answered. “I understand.” Juarez Avenue was darker now. Herrera leaned against a concrete pillar and smoked quietly. Jürgen sat on the steps and gazed at Plaza Juarez. Across the pond, small, reddish pyramids aligned upon the surface, half-submerged. “I hope the progress of the meeting hasn’t deterred your good intent.” Herrera flicked the light out with his finger. “Dr. Jürgen, you may always request that we postpone your presentation to a later date.” “No, no, that won’t be necessary,” Jürgen said. “It’s just…a lot’s happened in there that I hadn’t expected.” “I understand,” Herrera said again. “But I remind you that we are in the presence of dignified American statesmen. By nature, most are strangers to being estranged and destitute. It’s easy to lose morale in such circumstances.” Jürgen thought about this for a moment. “You are a compassionate man, Captain Herrera,” he said. “I guess I’ve had the advantage of longer exposure.” Herrera smiled. “Now, we’d better start heading in, doctor. The New World needs your help, and it needs it now.”

— — — — —

With all seats inhabited, Minister Medina resumed the conference. “Gentlemen, I’m sure you are all familiar with Captain Herrera of the Mexican Navy and his crew’s efforts to communicate the crux of our operations up to date. From Day 18, Captain Herrera has also been in contact with Scott Jürgen, Ph.D, in Systemic Neuroscience and a professor at Ludwig-Maximilians University, Munich. Administered on behalf of the Mexican Ministry of Foreign Affairs, this liaison was founded on Dr. Jürgen’s advanced knowledge in the field of applied neuroscience, as well as the evaluation of infected individuals detained by the Mexican Armed Forces. A week ago, the conjoined research yielded a notable outcome, which we believe may significantly turn the tide of our battle.” Murmurs of anticipation arose across the screen. Jürgen felt a slight quiver in his stomach. “However, be advised,” Minister Medina continued. “That while the following report is well-based and tested, its motifs may appear, at times, radical to untrained perception.” “With all due respect, Madame Ministress,” said Colonel Sanders. “I’m sure all of us have been through a fair share of radical already.” “That we have, Colonel Sanders,” said Minister Medina. “That we have.” She looked across the table and nodded gently. “You may proceed, Dr. Jürgen.”

Jürgen pulled forth his chair and cleared his throat. Just another seminar, he thought to himself. Breathe in, breathe out. “Good evening. Before I begin the report, may I ask if anyone is familiar with the theory of Abjection?” “Hyaaaang,” Twinky moaned. No further input was given. Jürgen carried on. “Well, developed by the scholar Julia Kristeva, Abjection refers to the visceral reaction against a ‘corporeal reality,’ or in other words, objects categorized as undesired to individual identity.” “As in what you hate?” Colonel Sanders asked. “Yes and no, Colonel,” Jürgen said. “The Abject is closer to what you are conditioned to hate in defining your symbolic self. Kristeva argued that the identification of the ‘subject,’ or oneself, depends on the constant categorization of the ‘object,’ or external elements. The Abject occupies a liminal space between those two brackets. It represents an internal truth we prefer not to associate with.” “Now that ain’t no explanation at all,” the Colonel complained. “Right. Let’s put it this way. Colonel Sanders, would you ever eat shit?” “I beg your pardon?” “Human feces. Would you ever eat it?” Colonel Sanders scowled. “No, sir, I ain’t eating no shit. Not in a million years.” “Why not?” “Because it’s disgusting, that’s why.” “That’s exactly the point here,” Jürgen said. “If you were eating your favorite food and accidentally spilled some of it, you would clean it up as garbage and not an object of consumption. It’s not in your mouth, but not on your plate either. As I’m sure you’re aware, the same food turns into feces in your body. We carry no less than 120 grams of feces every day, yet we are entirely unbothered by this fact. It is only after its excretion that we view feces as an Abject entity, to be flushed away immediately.” 

“That may be so,” said General Stanson. “But I don’t see how this is relevant to our circumstances, son.” “General,” said Minister Medina. “Excuse me, ma’am. How is this relevant to our circumstances, Dr. Jürgen?” “To that momentarily, General Stanson,” Jürgen answered. “Since my commission, Minister Medina has been kind enough to arrange routine updates regarding the Mexican Armed Forces’ research. So far, it has become clear that while the infected appear incapable of intellectual cognition, they can very acutely detect the presence of non-infected individuals in the vicinity. I understand this accounts for the sheer velocity of their distribution across the continental United States.” “Indeed, it does, Doctor,” said General Stanson. “The brutes act like they can see through walls.” “Quite literally so, General,” Jürgen continued. “We have discovered that the infected suffer a uniform, cerebral mutation that allows them to recognize the presence of certain human brain waves across a five-kilometer radius.” “And how far is that, Doctor?” General Stanson asked. “Oh, I…a little more than 3 miles, General,” Jürgen said. “God damn.” “Devastating, I know,” Jürgen admitted. “Additionally, the said mutation also causes brain waves to trigger an immense sensation of yearning and hunger in the infected, eventually leading them to indulge in their infamous mode of cannibalism. Victims who are not inflicted in such a way become nonetheless subject to airborne contamination.” 

“I see,” uttered General Stanson. A grave silence lingered across the screen. Jürgen turned off his microphone. He understood that what he announced meant there were no means of reversal for those who fell victim to the outbreak as yet. Despite the series of bewilderment he had experienced thus far, he could not help but feel pity for the men in uniform who, at this moment, were united in genuine despondency.

“Hyaaaang,” Twinky moaned. “You’re right, Twinky,” Admiral Johnson said. This was the first time he had spoken since the brief. “Dr. Jürgen, I believe you’ve mentioned that the infected react to a certain type of brain waves. Does this mean there may be exceptions?” Jürgen was taken aback by the astute inquiry. “Well, yes, Admiral. I’m glad you asked. In fact, this has very much to do with the proposition I’ve prepared.” “We’re listening, Dr. Jürgen,” said the Admiral. Once more, Jürgen pulled forth his chair and cleared his throat. “When discussing the infected and their condition, it is crucial to note their disinclination to attack their kin. Under no circumstances did a specimen exhibit any interest, let alone aggression, toward another. We now believe this is due to the lack, or to be exact, the displacement of a certain part of their brain by consequence of its mutation.” Jürgen held up a diagram of the human brain towards the camera. The frontal part of the diagram was colored in bright purple. 

“The infected are not only distinctly susceptible to brain waves, but also express an exclusive preference to those emitted by a specific section of the human brain: the medial prefrontal cortex. We have concluded that only a minute incision performed by a skilled surgeon to this exact portion may…” “Render an uninfected individual entirely immune to detection.” Admiral Johnson beamed. “Hyaaaang.” “Twinky’s right. You’re a damned genius, Dr. Jürgen. This means that only with a handful of professionals under the knife, we could reclaim our territories state by state.” “Quite so, Admiral,” Jürgen said. “Good Lord, what I wouldn’t give to see that day,” Colonel Sanders exclaimed. “In good time, Colonel. However…” “However?” “I’m afraid the operation in question is not free of certain consequences.” “So there’s a catch,” said General Stanson. “I’m afraid so.” “Well, spit it out, son, I mean, Dr. Jürgen. If our finest might drool and piss their pants by the end of their mission, we need to know.” “It’s not that exactly. In fact, our trials show that the operation will not affect any mental or motor functions whatsoever.” “What’s your concern, then?” General Stanson asked, “You’ll recall that I’ve briefly discussed the theory of Abjection at the beginning of my report.” Jürgen said. “So you have, Dr. Jürgen.” “Admittedly, no specific part of the brain is wholly responsible for the establishment of this particular mechanism. However, the medial prefrontal cortex does manage a significant part of one’s self-identification, including the regulation of internal and external entities that ultimately determine the boundaries of the Abject. While it’s true that only a microscopic incision is required for the operation, and that no alternate functions of the brain would be impaired, the participant will experience a distinct alteration to one’s definition of the Abject.” “Meaning?” “All individuals who undergo the operation will display an avid and permanent determination to consume human feces.”

— — — — —

Jürgen stood at the edge of Juarez Avenue, waiting for his taxi. He wished he had brought an umbrella. Golden drops of rain intersected under the streetlamps, then frantically dissipated into pools. Behind him, he heard the door open. “Leaving so soon, Dr. Jürgen?” asked Captain Herrera. “Yes, well, since the conference had concluded, I thought I’d see myself out,” Jürgen answered. “Taxis at this hour take forever to arrive. Might as well have company while you wait, doctor.” Herrera lit a cigarette. For a moment, the two stood in silence. “How do you think the United States government will take my report, Captain?” Jürgen asked. “Not a lot’s been said after it, that’s for sure.” “I understand your concern, sir,” Herrera said. “For now, let me just say that ‘adjourned for further discussion’ could mean many different things, but it certainly doesn’t mean your proposition was inconsequential. To be honest, it probably means that they’ll accept it.” “I don’t understand,” Jürgen said. “Well, your idea is brilliant, but controversial at the least,” Herrera said. “Brilliance they need, controversial they don’t. I expect that in a few weeks, a well-trained group of American soldiers will land somewhere in Florida and start clearing up the infected. In half a year, the federal government will be reinstated. But nobody will know who did it. In all possibility, the involvement of the Mexican government, or yours, will be denied.” “Would they do that?” Jürgen asked. “They would have it no other way, Dr. Jürgen,” Herrera said. “This is, after all, a diplomatic situation.” Herrera flicked out his cigarette, then pulled two more from the pack. Jürgen took one, put it to his mouth, and coughed. Herrera laughed. Jürgen laughed with him. Amidst the battering of raindrops on the sidewalk, the two laughed until their ears rang.

— — — — —

Dusk drew on as SEAL Team 18 found their camp for the night. The day was long, but ripe with victory. Over the CNR, reports of yields across South Carolina and Georgia rang on. The men, giddy with spirit, whistled and scatted as they heated up their well-deserved supper. In a month’s time, vehicles from the CVN would ground the mainland, and they would ride straight up to Virginia. A little treat was to be expected. With their rations boiling in the pan, the men stacked the boxes for disposal. The cover read: UGR-E DOP 5160. HUMAN EXCREMENT 100%.

Author: AlfredRichard

AlfredRichard